I like clean hands. Strike that -- I LOVE clean hands.
Clean means yes, you can tickle, hold, and squeeze our perfectly fatty baby. You can cuddle her and relieve memories of nights you spent rocking your own in nurseries that now exist only in your memory. I don't mind sharing my child.
I love to watch Ava Leigh learn to respond joyfully to people who love her. Daddy and I are grateful there are so many on this list. We want her to learn that her world is a friendly place and that her hugs and smiles will open doors for her and might even break the hearts of those who might not initially be so accepting.
But please, PLEASE, I beg to plead my case on behalf of wee ones everywhere: if you've been the least bit wheezy, barfy, stuffy, achy, or explosively incontinent, I politely demand that you keep your love safely bottled up in your heart until the hour you are no longer so.
I don't want to turn into one of those parents who feels compelled to carry Lysol in a hip holster and leave jet trails of the stuff two steps before my child at all times.
Just give the Ivory some love, and under NO circumstances try to snuggle with my infant daughter if you've recently spewed anything from any of your unsanitary escape hatches.
Don't make me crazy. You can't afford my therapy.
Playing with the octagon toy. Not my health. Peas and thank you.
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