I have a confession to make.
I love the smell of baby puke.
(And I suspect I'm not alone!)
Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.
I'm not talking monster throw-up here, I'm talking about that little bit of spit up that ends up on your shoulder after burping.
Because you couldn't be bothered with a burp cloth. Or secretly didn't want one.
It stays there, invading your senses all day long.
Catching a whiff of it causes you to smile.
Sniffing it causes you to reach for your baby, if you're not holding him already.
A good hearty inhale may be enough to cause your milk to let down.
It reminds of me of those hours spent nursing. The neck nuzzling that goes with the burping. The moments that I get to spend playing with the REALLY long hair at the back of my baby's head, that I hardly ever see. It reminds me what my body is capable of - not only growing this miracle, but making enough for him to eat, for him to sustain life, and not just sustain - to grow and to thrive.
It really is a bit of a miracle if you think about it.
And I do think about it, as often as I can.
Every time I smell that smell, that glorious sweet and ever-so-slightly sour smell, I think about it then. What a miracle it is that this little baby boy is ours, and part of our family. Ours to nurture, to care for, (to launder,) and to love.