Watch how quickly I can rock this thought out.
Sticky. The left behind of whatever substances making contact with the Small People. I wipe, wash, and scrub, but that shit never goes away. Part of me suspects (hopes) that what’s left behind is not grossness, but what happens to wood after 6 years of wiping. Of course, that doesn’t explain the sink now does it.
Could I use the remnants of morning oatmeal as a replacement for modge podge? Furthermore, they are 4 and 6– why the daily pile of oatmeal on the table?
Or perhaps a use as the Unsung Decorative Texture: if I embrace Sticky’s presence in my home will it be become less disgusting to peel my bare thighs off a dining room chair?
Could I combine these two realities into a living social art experiment? Where I modge podge our life onto, well, the surfaces of our life?
Can you imagine the layers upon layers of fundraising documents, announcements, credit card offers, art work, and take out napkins? That almost sounds really cool, yeah?
I understand, and accept, that my future life won’t be full of glamorous intrigue. Alright, no bullshit, I can’t really blame that on kids.
Of all the little moments of parenting that common sense forced me to anticipate, and that years of parenting finally made me accept (the 12 steps, if you will), the constant assault on my person from the sticky residue still manages to surprise me.