I might have failed to mention one thing in my last post. One minor thing. Hardly worth talking about.

See, I have this problem. This aversion, you might say, to making a mess. Or more specifically, to touching messy things. I hate it. It makes me cringe. So you can imagine how fun it is to watch a baby smear food all over face and floor. And worse, to be the one responsible for cleaning it up. If you were you to take a representative snapshot of my face at any given moment around Declan, it would be an unflattering mix of wide-eyed wonder and total disgust.

I wipe his hands and face for me, not for him. We take baths for me not for him.

Diapers? Ewwww. Thank God Colleen was on duty (tee hee hee) for Poop-mageddon. I have a hard enough time with the routine deuce.

Now that he’s crawling, dirty feet are apparently going to become an issue. Gross. That’s why I wear shoes everywhere. My feet are more tender than a Teddy Pendergrass ballad. You think babies’ butts are soft? You haven’t felt my feet.

And now, suddenly, I have to play the game where I pretend to eat toes….and those toes are filthy, stubby germ magnets? Ewwww.

I never pretended to be the most masculine guy in the world. I’m pretty sure I hated dirt as much as a kid as I do now. Tree branches were too scratchy. Lakes and rivers too muddy. My hands are not meant for manual labor.

And up until now, that was pretty easy to avoid. Then the baby came along. And now my mornings are spent in a near-constant state of wrinkled-up nose, furrowed brow, and internal dialogue straight out of a 12-step book for clean freaks that I neither believe nor want to accept as reality.

If I have my way, Declan will be using a napkin long before he learns to walk. Because, you know, priorities.

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