Sticky Fingers

by admin

Sticky Fingers

One would certainly think from my title that I’m going to write about stealing. Nothing so risqué I’m afraid, unless you count the thieving my two year old does from my purse, nightstand, and refrigerator … anything she can get into really. No I’m going to write about the biggest hazard of being a single mother of a two year old little girl. I’m always sticky. Paint, candy, Peanut Butter, bubbles, jelly, applesauce, juice, unidentified sticky stuff on her hands when I pick her up from daycare (do they really let the kids play with glue? Are they crazy??), it’s always something. It starts out as a normal substance used daily (how do they get sticky from water? I just don’t understand!), gets on my adorable little girl, and ends up on me. 

This may not sound like a big deal but trust me, once you’ve gone to work one day with an entire clump of your hair stuck together, and had it pointed out by the boss who sent you home to “please wash your hair and come back when you’re better prepared,” you would be exasperated too. 

I think the show Gilmore Girls had it right when one of the male characters, Luke Danes, says he can’t have kids around because “they always have jam on their hands, even if there’s no jam in the house. I can’t deal with jam hands!” I agree, Luke. Dealing with jam hands is a parental hazard.

Single parenting has a lot of downsides, it’s true. When you are the only one who is around, you have to be mom, dad, bread winner (and bread crust cutter offer), Santa Clause, librarian, professional party planner, a master accountant, a fort architect, chef, housekeeper … the list goes on … and you don’t get paid for most of it. So certainly sticky hands (feet … legs … hair …) is low on the list of daunting tasks faced in a day. 

Of course, it’s easier sometimes to focus on small woes. Otherwise you could lose your mind. So I choose this. I don’t get upset when I have to call out of work because my precious baby bit another child at daycare. My free time is nonexistent and I’m okay with that. I work hard to support a child I rarely get to spend time with. So my complaint is that on the days when she isn’t screaming, or I’m not working, or we don’t have a million stupid errands to run, I STILL always end up sticky.            

As I type my daughter is sitting next to me, looking entirely too innocent as she peels apart the two pieces of bread containing the most dangerous substance in this house- peanut butter. Within seconds it will be all over her, the chair, the rug, and of course, me. Two year olds don’t like to be wiped and guaranteed the fight will end in peanut buttery death for my black shirt. 

She’s coming over to hug me now. It will be a good hug, as she’s in a good mood today. I’ll revel in the sweet affections of the single most important person in my life, and thank whatever higher power around that I have her. Then I will go to the bathroom and check my back for peanut butter prints.