Parent of a toddler? Good luck

You know you’re the parent of a toddler when you stop seeing the glass as half-empty or half-full, but as how close to the edge of the table it is. Especially when the table is situated over white carpet.

I find that a number of parenting milestones change depending on how clean you want to keep your house.

When my first child started transitioning from being spoon-fed green mush to picking up cereal and jamming it in her mouth, I was ecstatic. Finally, I thought, I don’t have to sit here with this spoon for 20 minutes waiting for a chance to eat my own dinner. I can just dump some safe-looking bits of various food groups on the high-chair tray and observe gleefully while I remember the sensation of eating my pork chop before it hits room temperature.

Now, the apartment I had at that time contained a variegated beige, cream and brown carpet that concealed almost every possible stain. I was so happy to be done with the high maintenance feed-the-baby-every-single- bite routine that I just smiled and nodded as my daughter flung green beans and yams onto the floor. I knew that if I just smushed it all into the rug, it would never show. Besides, I was too busy chewing to really care.

My second child recently sprouted four little teeth, and overnight decided he was done with baby food. No transitioning. No time to phase out the baby food jars and slowly work in the finger foods. He’s just done with the spoon, and I’m out $20 worth of baby food.

But this time around, I live in a nicer home with an expanse of white carpet. So as I set down his high-chair tray, I cringe. All I can think about is my carpet after he’s banged his fists hard enough to rattle every little round pea onto the ground and my daughter has run by in her Cinderella dress and ruby slippers, finding each one of those tiny green bombs and popping them beneath her heels.

And I know what’s going to become of those teething biscuits. The gummy tail ends hidden in the death grip of his baby fingers will soon be smeared in a trail behind him after I release him from the relative safety of the chair. Spaghetti? Don’t make me laugh. Only a fool would give a child tomato sauce. His noodles will be plain and dry. And rice? It seems innocuous enough, until you have to individually pluck each sticky grain from every square inch of the child.

With the first baby, I delighted in all the firsts. I innocently encouraged her to learn to talk, not realizing how much I would regret it later. I don’t think a family newspaper could print what she once announced in the waiting room of the pediatrician’s office.

I recall worrying that the other babies her age were crawling before she was. Imagine that. Worried that she wasn’t crawling. Now I’m biting my nails in anticipation of her baby brother becoming mobile. I’m almost thankful that he’s still getting his club feet fixed, just to slow him down a little.

So where is my maternal thrill at this culinary evidence of my baby becoming a toddler? It’s at the rental store, picking up a steam cleaner.