"No, really, I've had enough..."

Baby C will not stop eating.

Seriously. The kid can eat. But there's a catch.

He also doesn't let us know when he's done.

Yesterday, I called Chris on my way home from work to ask him to please Google Map or Mapquest our new polling location. I wanted to vote and didn't know where the new polling place was, so I needed his help. Only, when he answered the phone, he casually informed me that he had just finished getting Baby C's and his soiled duds in the washer because the baby threw up after Chris got him out of the car.

"Threw up or spit up?" I asked for clarification.

"It might have been spit up. It didn't smell like vomit. Anyway, there was a lot of it and it was green and had chunks in it and it got all over me, all over him, and onto the sidewalk, too."

Knowing that I sent the baby to school with a container of green beans mixed with pasta, one of apples, and one of avocadoes, I wasn't too alarmed by the green vomit. Or the chunks. But I still asked, "Is he feverish?"

"No," Chris replied. "He doesn't feel hot. He's playing now." Pause. "What did you want me to do?"

"Well, I was going to ask you to Mapquest the new polling place, but since he's spewing stuff, maybe I'll just go straight home."

So, straight home I went. And when I got home, I looked for the green vomit on the sidewalk. There, near the front door, on the plants and on the pavers, were tell-tale pieces of avocado. And some white stuff that could only be milk. I had to keep from laughing.

Sure enough, the baby was fine. Chris was fine. The two of them were playing on the floor together. Chris related the rest of the story to me, and we were both thankful that Baby C waited until he was outside of the car to spit up his late afternoon snack.

"I think he was just overfed," I said.

Chris agreed. "I think so, too. They just finished feeding him when I got there."

Around 5:45, I offered to nurse Baby C (as is my custom, after coming home from work), and the baby greedily latched on. The way he was nursing, you'd think the poor kid had been deprived food for a week. Afterwards, I plopped him back onto the floor to play. Around 6:15, he started behaving like he was hungry. So, like any good mother, I prepared his dinner: corn, with apples for dessert.

He quickly ate the corn, protesting whenever I paused longer than he expected. After finishing the corn, I picked him up and let him stand so that I could feel his tummy. It wasn't very tight, but it certainly wasn't concave. Since he was still trying to chew on his hand, I decided to go ahead and let him have the apples he brought home from school.

Now, Baby C used to turn his head when he was finished, or put his head down, or, at the very least, not willingly open his mouth when he was full. But every time the spoon came near his face, he opened his mouth wide, expecting another bite. And, again, if I dallied too long with the apples, he protested. So, I kept feeding him.

I think you know where this is going.

It didn't happen right away. And there wasn't nearly as much as there was earlier that day when he covered the plants with milk and avocadoes. And it was very obviously applesauce. But I did need to change his pajamas and the protective mat on the changing pad, and he didn't get to nurse one last time after reading Goodnight, Moon.

So, this morning, while feeding him breakfast, I felt his tummy after every few bites to see if he was getting full and just not telling me. He had about 10 bites of banana left when I decided he'd had enough and proceeded to eat the remainder myself.

To which he objected. Loudly.

But after I took him out of the high chair, I knew I had done the right thing. Just as I propped him up, his chin on my shoulder, he let out one very big, very satisfied, "BRAAAAAAAP."