Gabe is a stain magnet. I look at him sometimes & wonder when the hell he’s found time to dirty himself up so quickly. And is that lipstick on your collar, young man?!
But seriously. It’s like he rolls out of bed, and BOOM!, stain city. In just mere seconds. It’s madness. The other morning I got him up and fed… stain free, at first. I look over (he was having banana pancakes, FYI) and he’s got syrup from head to toe… which I half expected would happen. But ketchup too?! WTF?! Where the hell’d you get ketchup at?! It’s eight in the morning! But he found it. And then I became concerned. Am I so unobservant that I left possibly several day old ketchup on his high chair? Probably not. It would have congealed and become a flat, sticky mess on the tray, but not something he could smear across his forehead. It then occurred to me that my son is, in fact, Houdini, and somehow he managed to squeeze the ketchup bottle (that was in the fridge) onto his forehead. That was the only (il)logical explanation. And I’m sticking to it.
I’m getting better at deciphering stains, though. At one time I couldn’t tell the difference between grass stains and a marker streak. Now, with the flick of a wrist and sometimes a sniff (or ten) I can tell what is: a) poop, b) chocolate, or c) something questionable that doesn’t just have to have an answer. If my answer is ever “c” I spray the shit out of it with Shout and dump it immediately in the washer. If the stain waves at me, it goes in the garbage.
It’s only gonna go down hill from here, folks. Like I really have to tell you that. I know several men in their twenties who still can’t make it through the day without planting at least one stain somewhere on themselves. The people at Tide love me. The people at Shout are in talks for making me their spokesperson. I say bring it on. I’ll
roll in mustard let Gabe roll around in mustard all day long if it means for a good paycheck. Or at least a lifetime supply of stain remover.