Break Out The Biohazard Suit
Today Mr. C dropped a piece of his half-eaten sandwich into the bowl of communal cashews at his grandparents' house. You should have seen the shudders from the adults present.
Last week, at the ex-in-laws', he touched a deviled egg from the serving dish, but didn't take it. You could hear the cries of anguish from the next room, and I had to quickly and loudly assure all adults present that -- not to worry -- I would eat the offensive egg in question.
I want to call these people pussies, except I have a feeling that might get me barred from any future family activities, and then where would I eat on Thanksgiving?
I try to remember what it's like not to have a child around. I vaguely recall being able to wear nice clothes and not having to share everything I just brought out from the kitchen. There may even have been no looks of disdain at the end of dinner parties, as I never had a reason to nonchalantly finish the last few bites of spaghetti from a plastic Finding Nemo plate. I think I never used the double-syllable 'pee-pee'; certainly not in public.
In fact, as I recall, I even once had a Christmas party and was absolutely revolted when a friend's six-year-old touched a couple of brownies before finally selecting one. I remember the look of boredom my friend fixed upon her child as she calmly told him not to do that again, then returned to the conversation she was having with her neighbor. I, meanwhile, was incensed that my friend hadn't the common decency to clear off the entire plate of brownies, dump them into a biohazard bag, and steam-sanitize the dish.
But now I understand. Now I cringe only a little when Mr. C grabs a dusty Cheerio off the floor and pops it into his mouth. Now I think nothing of him shoving his half-eaten cracker into my mouth. Now I'm only slightly disgusted when he sneezes in my face. Now I want to huff, "Geeze, don't get your panties into a twist," when he touches food on a communal platter. After all, he washed his hands within the last hour. I think.
Having kids changes things, obviously. When I was pregnant, I shuddered to think of becoming just what I have become. Now that I've become it, however, it's just not that big a deal. Sometimes, in fact, I feel kind of sorry for the unenlightened: those with no small children at home. It must be sort of sad, I think, to have to be so clean. I mean, not only are they so on guard against germs, but they have no excuse for a messy house. Those of us with children are given a grace card, as visitors understandingly (though waveringly) smile at our trashed living rooms as we quickly wipe a spot of spit-up off the couch and invite them to sit.
Really, kids are a great excuse not to try too hard.
Last week, at the ex-in-laws', he touched a deviled egg from the serving dish, but didn't take it. You could hear the cries of anguish from the next room, and I had to quickly and loudly assure all adults present that -- not to worry -- I would eat the offensive egg in question.
I want to call these people pussies, except I have a feeling that might get me barred from any future family activities, and then where would I eat on Thanksgiving?
I try to remember what it's like not to have a child around. I vaguely recall being able to wear nice clothes and not having to share everything I just brought out from the kitchen. There may even have been no looks of disdain at the end of dinner parties, as I never had a reason to nonchalantly finish the last few bites of spaghetti from a plastic Finding Nemo plate. I think I never used the double-syllable 'pee-pee'; certainly not in public.
In fact, as I recall, I even once had a Christmas party and was absolutely revolted when a friend's six-year-old touched a couple of brownies before finally selecting one. I remember the look of boredom my friend fixed upon her child as she calmly told him not to do that again, then returned to the conversation she was having with her neighbor. I, meanwhile, was incensed that my friend hadn't the common decency to clear off the entire plate of brownies, dump them into a biohazard bag, and steam-sanitize the dish.
But now I understand. Now I cringe only a little when Mr. C grabs a dusty Cheerio off the floor and pops it into his mouth. Now I think nothing of him shoving his half-eaten cracker into my mouth. Now I'm only slightly disgusted when he sneezes in my face. Now I want to huff, "Geeze, don't get your panties into a twist," when he touches food on a communal platter. After all, he washed his hands within the last hour. I think.
Having kids changes things, obviously. When I was pregnant, I shuddered to think of becoming just what I have become. Now that I've become it, however, it's just not that big a deal. Sometimes, in fact, I feel kind of sorry for the unenlightened: those with no small children at home. It must be sort of sad, I think, to have to be so clean. I mean, not only are they so on guard against germs, but they have no excuse for a messy house. Those of us with children are given a grace card, as visitors understandingly (though waveringly) smile at our trashed living rooms as we quickly wipe a spot of spit-up off the couch and invite them to sit.
Really, kids are a great excuse not to try too hard.
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