A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: eating

Faulty Negotiations

Fifteen-month-old Warrior Queen started requesting stories about a week ago. It’s mostly the same three that she will remain rapt and smiling. One particular morning Mr. Man was enjoying Tar Beach on my applesauce legs, despite frequent sisterly interruptions to desist and read Moo, Baa, Lalala. Big Brother was good about it. He fully understands the lure of a good story. Warrior Queen doesn’t have an iota of patience, so my compromise was every couple of pages of his story, I stopped to read her much shorter ones…She’s quite a convincing advocate for her needs, and Little Man, thankfully, was a good sport. My hunch is that as long as he was able to remain encased in his mommy cocoon, Warrior Queen could demand anything she wanted. But, I also think her occasional protector loved her giddy smiles and occasional attempts at “lalala,” laughing when the book reveals that fancily clad pigs don’t actually carry canes and sing in a kick line.

I abruptly finished reading to eat my perfectly cooled grilled cheese sandwich breakfast. I started fixing two, as my breakfast of champions is consistently pilfered by Warrior Queen. Naturally my son insists on partaking so not be left in breakfast dust. But, this morning I almost managed to eat the entirety on my plate.

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(CinemaBlend must have seen what I look like hangry.)

It didn’t matter I’d read her story twice, Warrior Queen was immediately disgruntled that I left to care for the needs of my empty tummy. Squeals and a scrunched toddler face prompted Little Man’s intervention. He subsequently lifted the book and began “reading,” attempting the same page inflections as I. As a three-year-old he’s a convincing reader…His story recites parallel my utterances with impressive exactitude. But, despite his ardent effort to entertain his sister, she decided she wanted no part in his oration. He attempted to hold her in place and pleaded with her to remain listening. Warrior Queen whined her shrill shriek in the way that has become all too familiar, crawling past and over her brother while simultaneously attempting to kick him off her leg.

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(If there wasn’t a grilled cheese involved, you’d be thinking it was nap time too, right?)

She managed a few paces before Mr. Man tackled her flat, yielding a impassioned wail even though she wasn’t hurt. Big brother can be very persuasive when he puts forth the full force of his effort, but sometimes the art of the deal is destined to fail.

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Eyes on the Prize

My little man at twenty months is becoming independent.  My husband and I have been talking about my son’s emerging preference to sit in a regular chair, foregoing his high chair.  Naturally, we are reluctant to do so.  But, today as I’m holding my son and preparing to feed him his lunch of chicken, orange, and milk (all elements he chose, by the way), he once again refused to sit in the high chair, and no amount of touting how special his chair was would change his mind.  At first I assumed that he wanted to dine on my lap once again.  After the last several meals conducted in such a fashion I stated that he was well enough to eat on his own.  His response was a determined pointer finger at my chair.  I inquired if he wanted to sit on the chair by himself and eat, and after he confirmed such a desire with his assertion of, “Dah,” I figure, why not?

This was not an easy decision, but it was unavoidable.  I could either suffer through a tantrum with a sleeping husband upstairs or suck it up and embrace cleaning the contents of his mean off the floor within seconds of Little Man’s upgraded dining experience.  And, just to make sure to nurture this likely catastrophe, I kept his chicken on one of our regular plates.  I know it’s Corelle, and therefore pretty hearty, but what are the chances of the dishware surviving in my son’s hands after a minute into his meal…tops?

But, as he was sitting so nicely on my chair, barely seeing over the top of the table, it was too late to switch to one of his smaller, plastic plates.  I placed his meal before him, realizing that he still needed  his milk, orange, and fork.  As my content Big Man began eating appropriately, I took a deep breath and quietly rushed to the fridge to retrieve one remaining article at a time.

I never became fully confident that my son wouldn’t toss the plate, but I could see the swell of pride as I served him.  He pointed to the placemat I forgot to drag in front of him, and he looked up at me and smiled in between sips from his cup once he was able to carefully replace his drink on the mat…just like Mommy and Daddy.

He didn’t want much of his orange, but he sat there quietly concentrating on his meal, using his fork as he has been in increasing frequency as of late.  I sat around the corner from him not wanting a perfectly good orange to go to waste.  As I began eating, Big Man looks at me and offers me his fork when he sees me dining with my hands.

His lunch didn’t last all that long, but he looked up at me when he was finished and raised his arms for me to pick him up.  Well done, my love.  Growing up so fast…

I don’t always drink from a bottle, but when I do, it’s a Nalgene…

Clearly my toddler is ready for the big leagues.  He has mastered the fine art of persuasive discourse; perhaps he should be a lawyer, pointing his way in court in an effort to convince a jury of his peers who hopefully know how to use a toilet.  When that effort does not work, he will roll out the big guns…incessant whining and shrieks until anyone within a five mile radius acquiesces to, ideally, something more benign than world domination.

While I am fully aware my son is plotting something that will likely be posted on uTube as an embarrassing twist of fate that earns significant advertising endorsements, but for the time being he is manipulating his way into drinking from my water bottle.  However, it isn’t just the adult-like act of utilizing my hydration apparatus; he also must take off the cap each time before replacing it between sips…obviously Harvard awaits?

My son has even more sophisticated sensibilities, or at least tries to.  Eating leftover asparagus tonight that will never be tasty no matter how much I kid myself.  In raw determination my son trails in my wake as I retrieve my plate of limp vegetables from the microwave.  Using his aggressive pointer finger, he insists on a sample despite my insistence that he will not like it.  I can only refuse so long before cutting a piece with great stringy difficulty.  He takes the bite, and his fingers immediately take-up the task of spelunking in their recovery deployment.  Mr. Man unceremoniously drops the barely chewed asparagus to the floor amid a chorus of “I told you sos.”  I hold out my palm in an effort to have the vegetable taken off the floor without me having to actually bend over (Don’t judge, it’s been a long day…).  My son picks it up instantly, but shoves the piece back in his mouth with another valiant effort to swallow his vegetable road kill.  The next phase begins; he spends the next few minutes chewing and removing this now fairly grotesque and vaguely recognizable mass of green.  Eventually he swallows, but imagine my surprise upon viewing his determined pointer at my plate of wilted greens.  Oh yeah, he earned his ice cream tonight; the spoils of war…

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