This is my life now, says Séamas O’Reilly, territorially marked by a baby who produces snot as if he’s stockpiling for Brexit
On those rare occasions when I do leave the house for social interactions, I’ve been bringing little mementos from home with me. Having sat down for a drink or the first bite of a nice meal, my conversational partner will point at my clothes and ask, innocently, what ‘that’ is. I don’t have to look as the answer is always the same. That silvery snail trail on my shoulder is not hair gel or fallen rain, it is the snot of my sputum-rich son.
This is my life now; territorially marked by a baby who produces snot as if he’s stockpiling for Brexit. I’m sure I could get loads of laughs by here describing the horror of each variety, from crunchy dust to oleaginous slime. I could sing winsome country ballads about the mess of thin, clear gel which seeps like fig jam, if it were secreted by a hagfish. Then there’s the emerald sawdust that sets into his face, congealing into a hard film on contact. Removing this is like scraping a bowl of cornflakes you neglected at breakfast, requiring you to place one foot on the highchair for greater purchase as you chisel it off. I could even shock and delight you with a grotesque dissertation on all the many and varied things he does with all this snot once he gets his hands on it. Luckily, I find the topic so distasteful I’ll refrain from such detail.
Continue reading...from The Guardian https://ift.tt/30ptHhO
via
0 Comments