Sticky

One of my fears in having children was that everything in my life would become sticky. I have tactile issues and I really cannot stand stickiness; it bothers me unduly.

One year into having a baby, my house is like a giant glue trap. This is partly because of all the fruit. When I feed Edith, I hover over her with a damp cloth, wiping up every crumblet and splash, and if she starts to crawl off, I take her food away until she comes back. Edith’s nanny, though, not being a neurotic Type A weirdo, regularly gives her apple slices or whatever and lets her enjoy them as she plays. After work each day, I get a damp cloth and go to work spot-cleaning the floors, but the baby herself is also perennially sticky, as are tables, chairs, books, toys, walls. I mean, it’s astonishing how fast this has escalated and become a completely futile battle. Yesterday I was dismayed to see a pineapple join us (arguably the juiciest of fruits).

So back when I lived with roommates, I was fine as long as I had a room to myself that I controlled. I was able to just pretend the rest of the apartment wasn’t my space. I am trying to do something similar now, but I don’t have any area I control. Even my own face has a small sticky hand slapping at it most of the time. Although I’ve washed my own hands several times this morning, my fingers are sticking to the keys as I type this (the keyboard is also covered in some sort of juice somehow).

Which means, I guess, that I have to learn to embrace stickiness or at least tolerate it. I’ll get to work on that.