Weapon

We used to write a lot more about bodily functions 'round these parts. You become pretty desensitized to it all after awhile and you lose your fascination with being peed on and spit up on and so forth. Also, Max is basically past all that: unless we disco too hard too soon after meals, most everything stays down. Also, Max was never a puker. Spit up? Suuurre: he's a baby!

This new one (and, ok, in his favor, this has happened once) weeelll.

He's just been fed. Katie hands me the kid and gets up. It's me and the baby on the couch. Bonding time.

"Hello, new son, how are you?"

No response

"Did Momma give you a good breakfast?"

Funny gurgling noise. In horror movies, this would be the cue for the busty teen to lean even closer to that odd meteorite she finds in near her boyfriend's pool. "Go back to making out! That's an alien!", we yell at the screen. Well, really TV screen, HBO.

"Oh, are you going to burp up a little bit?"

At this point, you need to look at the picture. Now imagine the ice cream treat, the Push-Up. Now imagine, instead of a Push-Up made of sherbet, let's say it's made of breast milk. Imagine you've left this breast milk Push-Up on your counter top until it's good and melted. You forget how long it's been on your counter, you pick it up and push. But you push pretty hard 'cause you're pumped about this Push-Up.

"Woah. Woah. Woah! WOAH!!! Uh, Katie, we need some paper towels in here."

Miles gets very content look on his face. And he didn't even have to lay on the cool, cool bathroom floor.