Mess

"Beginnings are always messy. " -John Galsworthy

As my daughter inches closer to being a toddler, I try to encourage in myself a willingness to get messy.

This is ironic, because I'm not a neatnik.  I am, by nature, disorganized, and have been perfectly happy, on occasion, to live in piles of laundry up to my knees.  Living with a tidy husband has grown my appreciation for a clean house and a made bed, but on my own I think I'd most likely revert to my "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" method of housecleaning.

But what's challenging me right now are the messes.  Sticky fingers, cookie goo on my clothes and skin, cheerios on every surface, sticking to my feet, ground into the carpet.  I know it's important that Maeve gets to feed herself, to participate in her meals, but my soul goes ugh every time I give her something sticky, saucy, or crumbly to eat.  Because I know it will end up on the bottoms of my feet or all over my hands and chest or both.

I've taken to wearing tan quite a bit - it masks the cookie goo.

So despite my misgivings, I gave Maeve spaghetti last night.  She ate some of it, she threw some of it, she dropped a great deal of it on her lap.  Like you do.  Luckily, Dad came home just in time to give her a bath and give me a chance to scrub the sticky pasta goo off my hands.

I know it's going to be 2 more years of big messes and another 16 of other kinds of mess, so I'd better adjust.  It's like at Halloween parties where people would blindfold you and tell you to guess what you were feeling - spaghetti and peeled grapes masquerading as eyeballs, brains, etc. Only I can see what I'm touching, and it doesn't help.  Still feels like brains.

More squish, please!