Bibz

This evening we started making piles of what we have received and purchased in anticipation of our little arrival. Topping the list of items that we have in unending supply are bibs. Bibs giving shout-outs to Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Aunties and Uncles, who all love him. Love him so much that they are willing to see their message of adoration covered in pureed peas and sweet potatoes.

In addition to bibs is an item that we have registered for but have not yet received: the splat mat. In a respectful nod to our year-old cherry wood floors, these plastic tarps go under the highchair to collect the 78% of food that does not end up in our baby's mouth.

We put it on the registry for me.

In what Michael calls "an endearing trait," I am notorious to wear whatever I'm eating. A common question posed to me might be something like, "how on earth did you get hot fudge on your ear?" Michael has now learned that he will get a small smack on the arm if he licks his finger and aims it towards my face in an attempt to clear a smudge or two. "You are not my Grandmother!" I say with annoyance. "And even if you were, she doesn't even do that, anyway!" Now my dear hubby has taken to a quiet snicker and shake of his head, which cues me to mop up my face. In an even more subtle and respectful move last week, we climbed into the car after indulging in a Caribou, and Michael handed me two napkins, one moistened with bottled water and one dry.

The absent-mindedness of pregnancy has of course only exacerbated the problem. Today I wiped a tear away forgetting that I was in the middle of creating thank-you cards, and plastered glue on my face. The tear, by the way, had been from frustration in a recurrence of stomach illness which plauged me all day and required rice for my main meal of the day. I proceeded to pick up the spoon, scoop up a heap of rice, and serve it right onto my shirt. I stood up after dinner and looked at the rice-coated chair and floor. I'm just breaking it in, is all.

Please, someone buy us that splat mat.