I love my child. I don’t necessarily love that she’s a light-sleeper and a chronic cat-napper to boot. Nor that she is hard to entertain in the car and likes to express her disdain loudly. Nor do I love it when she poops in the bath. But I love her. Her personality. Her smiles. Her quirks. Everything that makes her, her.
Most parents will tell you that when you have a child, your cleanliness radar adapts. When bubba was a baby, we sterilised her bottles, her pacifiers, her utensils, everything within a 5km radius of her. Then we decided that cleaning her things in hot, soapy water was enough. Later, I thought, if she’s licking our hardwood floor anyway, why do we bother?!? It’s a slippery slope.
Lately, I’ve taken to wiping her mouthful of porridge with my fingers and eating it myself (hey it’s much quicker this way and I don’t like things to go to waste). That is until this morning. There was a dollop of porridge on her chin. I swiped it off with my index finger with a flourish. And put it in my mouth. It tasted salty. I realised it was her booger. I’m coming close to the outer limits of my affection 😉