A few months ago, Seth and I picked out a charming high chair for Molly. So bright and white and made out of wood, it was - at the time - a satisfying purchase. A picturesque backdrop for making food memories with the little one.
Then we actually started using it.
It might be strange to name an inanimate object as one's enemy, but so it goes. What makes the chair aesthetically pleasing has become its Achille's heel of function. The white paint on the wood holds - nay, wears - all manner of food that finds it way to it like a coat of armor. And all the food does find its way, of course. The foods mix and mingle, residues and juices coming together to make a protective barrier on the chair.
A protective barrier from what? Me, of course! Along with my weapons of cleaning bottles, rags, and sponges. The high chair wants no part of these cleaning shenanigans.
Just when I think I have rubbed away all the filth and grime, a new nook or cranny (and this chair has a never-ending supply of these, it is as though the chair is an MC Escher drawing come to life) reveals itself, boastfully instigating a new battle. We repeat these antics until I finally look at the time and realize that I have spend 45 minutes cleaning the chair! Just the chair - there are still dishes and floors to clean as well! And it isn't finished. Nor can it ever be truly finished.
So I admit defeat and tend to the dirty dishes and floor. At least these make for an easier task.
The high chair may have won many, many battles. But I have won the war. For the chair has been made redundant by an ugly plastic chair from Ikea.