I have a ten-month old boy, and he’s utterly disgusting. He’s tolerable straight out of the bath, but this baby-fresh loveliness only lasts as long as his first drool. It gets steadily worse from there.
If Bruce is exclusively in my charge I make sure he’s squeaky clean at all times – especially during mealtimes. I put on his full-body bib (the best baby gadget I’ve come across) and clean up after each spoonful. A full pack of baby-wipes is nearby, along with a face cloth and a roll of paper towels. I do not give him finger food or allow him to feed himself. No toast, no biscuits, and especially no bananas.
But it still doesn’t matter. Even what looks like a perfect open-mouth opportunity goes awry: he’ll swat the spoon away at the last second, spraying both us and the general area with gunk. And when my wife is feeding him – forget it. I won’t touch either one of them until they’ve both been in the bath and changed their clothes. I’ve actually seen her spoon up bits of food dribbling down his chin and then put that spoon into her own mouth. It’s horrifying.
Sometimes, for “fun”, she’ll even allow him to feed himself. This is thoroughly revolting. I can’t say how much it grosses me out. He grabs handfuls of this nasty-looking creamed vegetable puree and just squeezes it through his grubby little paws for awhile, before finally spreading it all about the general area of his mouth. What little makes it in gets spit out in a disgusting trickle down his chin, neck, and into the inside of his vest. Beautiful.
Bruce likes his toast. He takes a soldier and squeezes it through his fingers, then forces an end into his mouth, leaving the bulk of it hanging out. He then proceeds to “blah blah bah bah mah mah mah”, chewing and babbling and spitting all at the same time. The highchair tray is soon covered with half-masticated goo, as is his face and nasty little fingers. He then gets this purposeful look on his disgusting little face and starts hurling foul bits of half-chewed toast onto everything.
His high chair is permanently covered with a shiny sheen of dried-up goo, mottled with petrified bits of banana and assorted slimy lumps. Between mealtimes he likes to crawl around under it, picking up left-over crumbs and solidified bits of fruit and munching on them. I’m feeling sick just thinking about it.
We try and share mealtimes together, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult. It’s hard to eat when you’re struggling not to throw up.
I’ve taken to carrying around some extra paper towels in my back pocket, just in case. I get panicky when I run out.
It’s not just that he’s inherently messy: it’s also his mother. She seems to think it will help him develop naturally if we allow him to eat how he wants. Sometimes she’ll just leave us, right in the middle of his dinner. My anxiety rises as I notice he’s fully soaked in some kind of nasty green puree. Bib-less, and not a wipe to be seen. And I’m still trying to eat my own meal. And, right on cue, he starts screaming, done with his high chair and demanding to be let out, and now I have to be the one to do it. I love this boy dearly, but the thought of touching him in this state makes me nauseous, so I yell out to my wife, “HONEY DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS REVOLTING BOY!”
The mess is not just confined to the house. I went to roll down the window in the car the other day. The window switch was covered in some kind of half-dried mucous-like grunge. Fucken hell. Probably yoghurt with live banana chunks. My old self would have just kept going – and going, and going, as fast and as far away from this gooey nightmare as I could get. But instead I just sighed and wiped my finger on my jeans. Fucken gross, but what are you going to do?
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