Pulling out my computer at the Novel Cafe (the new Novel, which used to be Mani’s, not the old Novel where I used to spend my time) and it’s covered with splattered crap. God knows what, it could be anything. Yesterday boo whacked his spoon out of my hand spreading kale and apple sauce upon my poor, unsuspecting MacBook. He’s had a cold all week, so I’ve experienced snot on the boob many times, doesn’t even phase me anymore.
And the many other joys. The poop which has become progressively more pungent. And while he’s been squirming around on the changing table since he was a little thing, his latest is waiting for me to get the poopy diaper off to sit down splat on the clean changing pad with his dirty filthy bottom. I won’t go into the results of that behavior. The other night I was changing him before putting him into PJ’s and he sat that poopy butt right down on his foot. So it was back off to the bath with him.
Not to mention all the chewed up rice cakes I’ve picked out of my hair, off the rug, off the furniture. The pureed peas and sweet potatoes that get ground into his clothes. The food that he spits out that I end up eating because it’s easier than getting up to throw it away when he’s demanding my attention and another bite. And then there’s all the food I chew first before feeding to him, because it’s too hard or too hot or too big a piece. And who knew I could achieve such intimacy with earwax. This behavior comes naturally. I don’t think twice about it. I don’t even flinch. My husband’s snot grosses me out. My own snot grosses me out. (The snot belonging to this boy on the playground who wiped his snotty nose on the ball boo was playing with really grosses me out.) But Aidan’s snot attaches his nose to my nipple like rubber cement and I say, Oh baby boy, I’m so sorry you’re sick. Feel better, angel baby. Mama loves you, mama loves you, mama loves you.