We should have named him "Chuck". Or "Ralph."

Vomit. Barf. Spew. Biff. Puke. Ralph. Boot. The eskimos have 99 words for snow, but we have at least that many for the act of regurgitation. Spud upchucks an average of 5 or so times per day. What mystifies me is the fact that he does it in such a casual, relaxed way. He doesn't even seem to notice the milky (ok, it's not "milky", it's milk) substance dribbling out of his mouth and onto: whatever is nearby (usually Mommy or Daddy).



If you look carefully, you can see the lady on the TV is also disgusted about the puke on my shirt.



Now when I throw up, it's a different story. It's a major, traumatic event. There are all sorts of natural and unnatural sounds, followed by whimpering. I can vividly remember the last three times that I vomited: 1) March, 2007, camping atop the Chilean Andes at 13,000 ft., I suffered from either altitude sickness and/or food poisoning. I managed to unzip my tent and clamber out before making cookies all over the southern hemisphere; 2) May, 1991, I got hold of some tainted potato salad in Arizona; and 3) Spring Break, Fort Lauderdale, 1988. No explanation is needed.

So Spud's relaxed biffing is remarkeable. He just seems to...overflow.