Children are notorious for having sticky little fingers. The idea of holding hands with a tiny human is enough to fend off the toughest, and if your arch nemesis is a germaphobe, just send them a little one after a popsicle! My least favorite thing in the world is watching a small child eat ribs. It’s as if they fear that if they don’t keep the saucy bone in a full vice grip between both palms it’ll disappear. And don’t get me started on chocolate ice cream! Despite it being nasty, it’s fuzzy brown smears down the leg of your favorite sundress waiting to happen!
I spent this past summer going back and forth to Maui (not to brag, but I did hit the jackpot of career choices—shout out to Cynthia and mom for the suggestion). While it was for work, I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to walk the beach of my favorite island with a double scoop of Kona coffee and Kauai Pie ice cream on a waffle cone from Lappert’s!
Let me set the scene for you: I, in my favorite layover sundress walking along under the beautiful summer sun, breathing in the salty ocean breeze, listening to a cheesy romance novel in one ear and the sound of the waves crashing in the other. Truly a perfect moment.
Until the unthinkable happened.
Panic stuck as tiny beads of sweat formed on my upper lip in place of my freshly Naired mustache. The sun who was just gently kissing my shoulders, turned up its rays like a hell fire and began a laser assault on my ice cream. I hurriedly began scarfing down my scoops, devouring the crispy, sweet cone, bits of napkin and all, trying desperately to avoid the inevitable trail of sad stickiness that was already streaming down my wrist.
It’s amazing really how quickly a beautiful woman, gorgeous sundress flowing gracefully in the wind, skin glistening under the island sun, could turn into the animal I did, slurping and chomping through a quickly melting ice cream, one eye watering in pain with each time the cold cream touched my bottom teeth, the other eye involuntarily squeezed shut futilely fighting brain freeze.
I wandered the beach after lightly rinsing my hands in the public restroom wishing I could’ve savored the ice cream I’d been waiting for all summer—well all week, I’d definitely been to Lappert’s on my previous trip the week before, and it hit me like the brain freeze I’d just fought through. I get it. Sticky fingers aren’t just a matter of poor motor skills and a desire to ruin my favorite clothes. Children have mastered the art of savoring that which they truly enjoy. They aren’t crunching through lollipops and needlessly twirling spaghetti against a spoon to avoid making a mess, they’re diving in with both hands and relishing every bit of the experience that is getting to have your most favorite thing. They’ve learned that messes can be cleaned up. Hands can be washed, faces can be wiped, stains can be pre-treated with Oxy-clean and tumble dried on low. For these sticky fingered humans, it’s not about avoiding the mess, it’s about truly experiencing and enjoying the good things life has to offer.
My niece, Syd is one of my favorite tiny humans. So imagine the horror I experienced when she, as the sweet little girl I’d adored since the first day I laid eyes on her (which just so happened to be her first day of life on earth), walked a circle around a living room full of family offering each person her Funyuns. What’s so awful about that, you ask? She, a small child, wouldn’t let anyone pick out his or her own Funyun. She, with her small child hands had to gently place one into your palm as she stared intently into your soul until you ate it.
Still not the worst thing? You’re right, it wasn’t. Each time she placed a Funyun in my hand, it was wet. At first thought I naively assumed that perhaps she’d washed her hands like a decent human and they were just a bit damp; but on her fourth round around the living room I realized with terror and despair that her hands were not in fact damp with consideration; rather she was licking off the garlicky Funyun dust before handing away the now soggy, flavorless rings.
I’ve always taken this as evidence of children doing weird, icky things. But that moment on the beach, I realized Syd, wasn’t being icky at all, she was enjoying the best parts of snack time. She could happily share her snack with the people she loves while also getting to savor the flavor of this wonderful snacking experience.
As we grow older and make our ways through this beautiful adventure of life, we’re tasked with thinking of the future, preparing ourselves for possible outcomes of each choice we make, mitigating risks, and avoiding messes, so much so that we often forget to truly savor the beautifully tasty moments. It’s okay if our fingers get a little sticky, life’s experiences have taught us how to wash our hands and clean up our messes.