When you are an infant or a toddler you live in the moment. The moments are not sullied by details. Your vision of things is painted with a broad brush. And that is why a little one is more than content (even giddy, perhaps) to sit comfortably in greased and crusted high chairs marred by weeks, months and years of splatterings, pukings (I hope not, but yeah, probably), and wild feastings.
My own casual scientific analysis of high chairs has yielded a wide range of findings: dried noodles, crumbs of all shapes and sizes, grease (I hope that's grease), red sauce (I hope that's red sauce), dried eggs (yeah, that's dry eggs, I force my mind to believe), etc.
Restaurants, I'm begging you (90% of you -- yes, I'm probably talking to you. Yes I am. Go look. Rub your hands all over that bad boy and then suck on your fingers.), please clean (and scrape, if necessary) your high chairs. Rarely am I not at least a little disappointed when you plop down a high chair for my daughter, and as you dash away, force me to stop you and say, "Um, Ma'am, could you bring a rag over and wipe this down? It's a little (I'm thinking, 'TOTALLY') dirty (I'm thinking 'DISGUSTING')."
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