A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: child food

Food and Thought

My son is a good eater…not a perfect one. Often he will engage in random tantrums because he can’t have more tomatoes, broccoli, or some other food that has me mentally fist bumping and busting a finely choreographed move. The only way I was able to get Little Man to stop pilfering all of the bananas…sort of…is by driving into his expanding brain that too many bananas will interfere with his ability to poop, which is funny. Mr. Man has absolutely no trouble in that department. Bananas might actually do him (and me) some good. I try to remember these primary food preferences when I allow him to stuff himself with chocolate, nuggets, and fries. Warrior Queen demonstrates the same food preferences thus far, so maybe I can consider this piece a parenting win?

Warrior Queen is passionate about blueberries, delicately lifting each one to her mouth, concentrating on the tray before her. Periodically, she’ll notice my stare, rewarding me with a newly toothy grin before continuing on her berry mission. Fierce Girl also enjoys strawberries, even if they pale in comparison to the blue counterpart. I cubed six reasonably sized strawberries today for her enjoyment. She finished her serving, and indicated she wanted more; but I decided to give her some previously prepared chicken in the fridge. She warily looked at it and selected a piece. But, as soon as the small bit of poultry lands on her tongue, Warrior Queen looks up at me with a finely tuned stink eye, and a general expression on her face that I can only describe as resembling the look if I had taken a dump in her mouth. Immediately, she began crying, tilted her head down so the chicken could fall onto her high chair tray. I get it. I feel the same way about baked chicken.

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(Retired–Now What? has a similar disdain.)

In general, my daughter has a flare for the dramatic. It was an evening about a week or so ago. I was in our office completing some work when I hear the resident ten-monthish-old screaming quite passionately. My husband was with her, so I remained assuming she pooped…or was sat on or something by her big brother. Even though the predictable responses for her various crying fits did not occur, it wasn’t my problem. My husband did not ask for my help, so I let it go. When I ventured into the room holding my family, my husband informed me that the screaming was due to Warrior Queen finishing her serving of ice cream. I get it. I feel the same way about…most food terrible for me.

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(The Angriest Babies in the Whole World knows what it looks like when you are about to be smite by a baby.)

Shaking my head, I refill my small plate of chocolate. I swear I didn’t make even the slightest crinkle in the plastic, but Mr. Man honed in, and descended upon me, leaping and skipping the way he does when he is all abuzz with happiness and excitement. He already had his evening treats, but, of course, I cave and give him a share of mine. I justify the indulgence as this the only time of day he has sweets at all…most of the time. He did eat a good dinner after all (sigh). As I remove myself from the room to return to the office a single thought occurs to me: What am I gonna do once Warrior Queen is old enough to stake dibs on my chocolate stash?

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Waste Deep and Without a Paddle

Little Man is a prolific pooper…like I feed this kid, and I have no idea how he relieves his body weight in manure on a daily basis. I regularly berate myself for not working some type of deal with a local farm or something because sheep, cows, and goats have nothin’ on Mr. Man.

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(World Animal Foundation Animals: “So, you say your poops are more stupendous…Thems fightin’ words…”)

If my son only blesses me three times a day, I consider it a win. And, I’m not talking the cute and sparse deer pebble ones that stink up an entire room before you’ve registered what happened. Each diaper fugitive is substantial enough to give my son the appearance of a banana hammock stretching down to the knees of his exceptionally long legs.

His timing is impeccable too, and I have to admit I’m kinda in awe. My son could have pooped three of his remarkably substantial loads before his nap, but still manage to trot into the hallway stating in a surprisingly accurate Brooklyn accent, “I made stinkers,” within ten minutes of me leaving him upstairs to his own devises. Today he even managed to poop five minutes before I took him upstairs, and once again within his designated time frame. When that happened, I knew he did it just to mess with me.

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(The Great Gatsby understands how he uses his personal biohazard as an intimidation tactic.)

The exclusively formula fed Warrior Queen is constipated…because she is formula fed. And, let me tell you the production that occurs every time she relieves herself. Every other day she will suddenly start screaming so loudly the neighbors likely hear. Some of it seemed so painful we began dosing her with prunes every other day…that helped soften things, but not the screaming. She generally likes making an equally big deal out of life’s big and small displeasures alike. I guess pooping can be added to the tally.

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(A screaming poop face like this emphatically communicates she means business!)

We don’t really use baby food; both kids went right to the table food we were eating in increasing sized bites as the they grew. What began as morseled tastes for my daughter is now an impressive quantity…I’m not sure where she puts it. Today for lunch she ate an entire peanut butter sandwich, some apple, and mashed potatoes and gravy. She still polished off half an eight ounce bottle shortly after…must be from my side of the family…Little Man has the same storage capacity with his daddy’s tall, lean build.

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(This is kinda how I see mealtime in my house. Thank you, Pandora’s box Wikipedia.)

Warrior Queen is up to consistently eating two solid meals a day, which means more poop…like a lot more. A few days ago they were annoying shart type messes spaced within ten minutes of each other. There was barely enough to clean, but is certainly wasn’t gas; and I was befuddled that a streak of nothing could smell as bad as it did. Things took a turn today, however, when the children committed to a truly unnecessary competition of who can provide the most dumps in a 12 hour period. Warrior Queen started strong, but she ultimately had to relinquish the title promise to the reigning shit champion…It was thrilling to experience. In anticipation I waited to see who would come out the winner. Sadly it was not the underdog this time…I’ve always liked an underdog.

At the end of a day that I could have easily done without, I’m left to consider: How would one manage to work this skill into a resume? Certainly both children show an propensity for politics.

 

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