Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Snot Prints on My Window

You wouldn't be able to tell that less than a week ago I had a sparkling clean door on both sides. It is difficult to capture how dirty this door really is with my point and shoot and lack of photography skills. But, I think you get the idea. This door is covered with hand prints dipped in dirt, in food, in boogies and who knows what else. In real life, it pretty much looks like a rabid animal ran into my sliding glass door with a snotty nose 100 times:
Those of you who are friends with me on facebook got to see this gem yesterday. I brought my bag of Semolina flour into my bedroom yesterday to snap a picture for my blog post about ravioli-making. I left the flour on my nightstand, and Lincoln found it shortly after his nap:
Constantly, we sweep up bits of food that Lincoln drops carelessly from his high chair onto the ground. We find bits of bread and snacks scattered throughout every corner of our home. Lincoln holds onto one toy or book just long enough to drop it off where it doesn't belong, in favor of another, and another, and another . . .  The battle to keep my house feeling tidy is a constant and usually losing one.

But, as I looked at these two little hand prints on my fridge today, I was reminded of a poem we read in my creative writing class over a year ago. The poem was about this woman who had cleaned and scrubbed and disinfected the brushes and the sheets of her daughter who had lice. You discover by the end of the poem that her daughter had passed away in some sort of tragic accident shortly after this disinfecting had taken place. And now, there was no scent, no hint that her daughter had ever been there. None of her hairs on the brush, no bed sheets with her smell, or the little bugs that had been a nuisance to her just previous to her untimely death. There was nothing left of her daughter there at all.

I don't share this story to be depressing! I share it, because the hand prints on my sliding glass door, and the food crumbs under Lincoln's high chair, and the flour he spills on my carpet, and the hand prints on my fridge overwhelm me at times. But today, they were just sweet. Just innocent hands that tell me I have someone to love in my life. A little someone with a lot of energy and a big smile, and little busy hands.

Yeah. I think I'll leave these ones here for a while longer.

1 comment:

  1. I have a theory. MAYBE Lincoln is secretly training to be a chef when you guys are out of the room?



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