masking & unveiling

Back when my husband was still my fiancé, and we were in college and in young, sweet love, we took a class together called Psychology of the Family. We were darling, thinking that we'd actually learn something from a book that would help us not want to stab each other three days after our honeymoon ended. Which is just so silly, because only real life can teach you that the way to make a marriage last is separate televisions. And mild emotional blackmail.

I remember only two things from that class: 1) Creating a family genogram, in which we mapped both of our ancestors'* bad habits into one giant family tree of sin, and concluded that we were genetically fated to become drunken, estranged chain smokers who got pregnant out of wedlock and stayed married for the kids, and 2) the fact that our professor referred to the early years of motherhood as "the wiping phase."

*For the record here I would like to say that my mother has never drunk alcohol or smoked in her life, nor was she with child before marriage. There are some comments you just don't want on your blog.

Our professor might not have been right about our future, but she was dead on about the wiping. And since she skipped some important lessons on How Careful Family Planning Might Keep You from Having Children Living Under Your Roof Till the End of Time, we ended up with three surprise babies over 12 long years, and I have been in this "wiping phase" for longer than I care to think about.

Here, for instance, are some things I have wiped today:

sticky fingers
sandy feet
dirt from a nose
ketchup from a chin
milk from a chin
two different kid-bottoms
spit
spit-up
tomato off my shirt (okay, so that one's my fault)
sunscreen off a swimsuit
water off a chair
fingerprints off electronic screens
fingerprints off the mirror
fingerprints off the counter
crumbs off the counter
juice off the counter
juice off the floor
shampoo off the floor
blood off a knee
and almost, just almost, my son's mouth out with soap.

I'm thinking of having the doctors surgically replace my hand with a rag. Or maybe I'll just calm my wearied nerves by taking up chain smoking. It's my destiny, after all.