A Very Sticky Situation

This is embarrassing. The other day, I went Keystone Cops with P.B. In the space of a few minutes, our quiet morning exploded into absolute anarchy. Funny what happens when sleep deprivation meets fast-acting adhesives.

It started like any other day. As anyone with a newborn can attest, night is the hardest. Regan and I tackle the nighttime hours in shifts. In the evening, I turn in while Regan feeds and coaxes P.B. towards sleep. Then Regan sleeps, and I’m on point when the baby rises. 

I pride myself on owning the morning shift. My goals? Enjoy as much bonding time as possible with baby, and give Regan long stretches of uninterrupted rest. When P.B. wakes Regan with his cries, I urge her back to bed. I push myself to find new ways to keep the little guy engaged. When the morning goes well, I feel like Superman. But not this morning.

As usual, P.B. woke up hangry and attacked his bottle like a shark on chum. Once the milk was gone, I moved him to the crib, where I’d arranged some patterned cards for his perusal. This rarely holds his attention for long, and I was already planning our next activity as I lowered him to the crib. So I was stunned to watch him close his eyes and begin to snore.

I poured a bowl of Cheerios and wondered what to do with my unexpected free time. Several household chores needed my attention. A cat nap also sounded nice. Strangely, though, my brain fixated on an unlikely item: a broken decorative tile in our bathroom. The tile is nothing special—a cheap memento from our prior residence in New Orleans. It’s the size of a plate and resembles a Crescent City manhole cover. Months ago, it fell from its hanging place and broke in two. This barely registered at the time, and I hadn’t even bothered to remove the shards. But as I munched my cereal I felt a powerful urge to restore the trinket.

A quick search of the junk drawer yielded the necessary implement: a crumpled tube of super glue from an earlier project. I grabbed the glue and the tile pieces, checked on the baby—still snoring in his crib—and set up by the kitchen sink. 

Crust blocked the nozzle, but a firm squeeze got the liquid flowing. I pressed the tile pieces together. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. When I hit twenty, I tested the bond. The pieces wouldn’t budge. A good sign. But neither, I found, would my left hand. 

Turning the tile, I recognized the problem: excess glue had run down the back and pooled around the middle fingers of my left hand. The fingers were one with the ceramic. Shit.

Sweat dampened my collar, but I was determined to keep my head. Regan was still sleeping; the baby was quiet. If I freed myself, I could finish the job, and Regan would be none the wiser. This would be just another successful morning shift—with a home repair to boot. I grabbed my iPhone with my free hand and typed a search into Google: “How to remove super glue from skin.” Autofill handled most of the text, which felt like a good sign. 

The first webpage described several unsticking strategies. I chose the simplest: soak the area in soapy water, then use a rolling motion to peel skin and object apart. The tile’s size made soaking a challenge, but I improvised by running my fingers under the faucet. I grasped the wet tile with my right hand and began to roll it away from my left. 

Solid plan, terrible execution. In my haste, I failed to notice that runoff from the tile joint had pooled on the outer rim, in the exact spot where I’d placed my free right hand. The adhesive soaked my palm, pulling flesh and tile into a second, unyielding bond. 

Now I was really in trouble. I gripped the tile like a teenager on a driving permit—knuckles white, stomach churning, hands fixed permanently at 10-and-2.

My eyes bulged as I scanned for anything that might save me. My iPhone on the counter. If I could just run another Google search, maybe I could salvage this situation. I nudged the phone, illuminating its lock screen, and cursed my office’s IT Department for mandating six-digit passcodes on work devices. I tapped with my elbow but kept hitting the wrong numbers. Sweat poured down my forearm and left little puddles on the glass.

Time to change tactics. Bending at the waist, I lowered my face to the counter, hoping my nose would be a more dextrous instrument. Tap, tap, tap—wrong passcode. Tap tap—wrong passcode. As I bent for a third attempt, P.B. began to stir. From his crib came the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Soon, full-throated wailing would shatter the morning silence. The thought raised hairs on my scalp. Cold fear trickled down my spine.

Panicked, I jerked up and away from the countertop, clipping the box of Cheerios. Cereal spilled in every direction, summoning the family dog. Like Noah parting the Red Sea, the dachshund T-Rex helpfully waded into the cereal ocean, lapping up sweet rings as he went. Puddles of sugary drool marked his progress across the kitchen floor. 

Out of options, I threw in the towel, and went to my sleeping wife. Even Super Dad should admit when he’s defeated.

“Sorry, babe,” I began, pressing my elbow into her side. I had hoped to offer some explanation, a bit of context that might make the situation seem less ridiculous. Nothing came to mind. As Regan rubbed sleep from her eyes, I just nodded towards the tile and mumbled “glue.” The bemusement in her face told me she had no problem connecting the dots.

Minutes later, Regan was comforting P.B., while I fumbled with lemon wedges she’d sliced and placed for my use. Using my chin, I pressed the wedges against my fingers, squeezing citric acid into the gap between skin and ceramic. Gradually, the adhesive released its grip, and I was free. Physically free. It will be a long time before I live this one down at home.

* * *

They say that in life there are no mistakes, only lessons. So what did I learn from this episode? 

A few things come to mind. Be careful with super glue. Obvious, but important. Lemon juice can unstick super glue from fingers. Oddly specific, but okay. 

And then there’s this: set realistic goals. When parenthood leaves you somnambulistic and mentally drained, you don’t need to race off to make home repairs the moment the baby nods off. Watch TV, read a book. Better yet, heed his baby wisdom and catch some Zs yourself. It’s hard to make a human glue trap when you’re snoozing on the sofa.

An unattributed quote about raising a newborn captures this notion perfectly: “You’ll learn to lower your expectations about what you can accomplish in a day. Some days, it will be all you can do to keep baby safe, warm, and fed. And that will be enough.” Amen.

Written by Trevor