Saliva

Saliva. I’m 26 years old and my life is dictated by saliva. Gwynnie stares up at me with glazed eyes, gurgling as a mix of spit and formula sneaks out of the corner of her mouth. I know I’m supposed to be doting, but I cringe all the same. Nobody ever tells you what it’s going to be like. Not really.

Sure they might clue you in on the late night feedings, the irregular sleeping patterns, carting around an arsenal of diapers, bottles, wipes, clothes and god knows what other technology this three pound amoeba needs to survive, but that’s just a dim silhouette. They forget the details.

They don’t tell you about the layer of film that covers everything. Bodily fluids cake onto every exposed surface of your life and you can’t scrub it off. Vomit. Urine. Saliva. Eventually you’re so used to the grime that the term ‘clean’ gets replaced with ‘clean enough’ and in your complacency, it spreads. That coating covers your house, your car, your husband. Looking at Peter through the mass of baby goop, instead of seeing the man who opened doors for me, made my toes curl with just a flick of his tongue, and held my hand at my father’s funeral, I see the blurry outline of an anchor, tugging me back down into the deepest levels of domestic insanity. I don’t see his face because it’s drenched in Gwynnie’s warm spit.

Saliva. I’m 26 years old and my life is dictated by saliva.