"This means something, this is important."
If television is to be believed, and it’s never lied to me before, the hardest part about feeding young children is getting the food in their mouths. If they don’t like what’s on the spoon, they’ll keep their mouths shut, maybe even turning away, forcing the feeder to do an airplane imitation to insert the spoon. But once food enters the mouth, there are no more problems besides its inevitable emergence out the other end, or the projectile spit if you’re watching a comedy.
Ian doesn’t watch enough television, because he’s found a new way to be a pain at mealtime. He insists on grabbing his food. When the spoon is headed for his mouth, he’ll focus his attention on the spoon, attempting to grab the gruel on the end with his fingers with the intent of, well, mostly to see what happens when he grabs semi-solid food. At this point I’m not so much an airplane, but something much more evasive, like a Viper from Battlestar Galactica, especially in that one episode where Apollo had to fly his Viper through the Cylon transport passageway to destroy their tylium mine.* Even when I do deliver my payload into the intended target, i.e. his mouth, Ian is still desperate enough to handle his food that he’ll insert his fingers into his mouth to see what happens as the food swishes through his maw. The main result is he makes a mess.
I remember Abbie had her eating idiosyncrasies. She would periodically become insolent or distracted and refuse to eat the food I offered. I coped with it by holding the spoon out until she changed her mind. On her less cooperative days, I could read half the newspaper while I waited for her to grab the spoon.
That’s not an option today. When Abbie was an only child, the only person who suffered while waiting for her to eat was me. If mankind has gleaned anything from millennia of childrearing it’s that the desires of the caregiver are immaterial compared to the whim of the child. Now that we have three children, any uncooperative children have competition from two other demanding siblings, and millennia of childrearing have also taught that the whiniest child wins.
If I sit and wait for Ian to eat properly, I can send two hungry children into a fit while he happily gropes his applesauce. I can effectively ignore Abbie by sending a couple Goldfish her way, or if I’m too slow, she usually runs into her room, slamming the door shut behind her to finish her fit.
Tory isn’t so easy to ignore, and not just because he’s restrained a couple feet away from Ian. Tory has no qualms about ingesting food, and few qualms about ingesting non-food products. If it fits down his gullet, he’s willing to try it. When he sees a known food substance loitering a couple feet from his mouth, he wants it, and he’s willing to throw a tantrum to get it.
If I stare at Ian waiting for him to swallow what isn’t all over his fingers, Tory suffers a meltdown. While Ian plays with his food, I can slip a spoonful into Tory’s mouth, but I don’t like to do that. Tory already has about a couple pound lead on his brother; he doesn’t need any extra help. A few extra spoonfuls a day, and they’ll turn into one of those oddly mismatched sit-com couples in a couple decades.
* That was sweet.
Ian doesn’t watch enough television, because he’s found a new way to be a pain at mealtime. He insists on grabbing his food. When the spoon is headed for his mouth, he’ll focus his attention on the spoon, attempting to grab the gruel on the end with his fingers with the intent of, well, mostly to see what happens when he grabs semi-solid food. At this point I’m not so much an airplane, but something much more evasive, like a Viper from Battlestar Galactica, especially in that one episode where Apollo had to fly his Viper through the Cylon transport passageway to destroy their tylium mine.* Even when I do deliver my payload into the intended target, i.e. his mouth, Ian is still desperate enough to handle his food that he’ll insert his fingers into his mouth to see what happens as the food swishes through his maw. The main result is he makes a mess.
I remember Abbie had her eating idiosyncrasies. She would periodically become insolent or distracted and refuse to eat the food I offered. I coped with it by holding the spoon out until she changed her mind. On her less cooperative days, I could read half the newspaper while I waited for her to grab the spoon.
That’s not an option today. When Abbie was an only child, the only person who suffered while waiting for her to eat was me. If mankind has gleaned anything from millennia of childrearing it’s that the desires of the caregiver are immaterial compared to the whim of the child. Now that we have three children, any uncooperative children have competition from two other demanding siblings, and millennia of childrearing have also taught that the whiniest child wins.
If I sit and wait for Ian to eat properly, I can send two hungry children into a fit while he happily gropes his applesauce. I can effectively ignore Abbie by sending a couple Goldfish her way, or if I’m too slow, she usually runs into her room, slamming the door shut behind her to finish her fit.
Tory isn’t so easy to ignore, and not just because he’s restrained a couple feet away from Ian. Tory has no qualms about ingesting food, and few qualms about ingesting non-food products. If it fits down his gullet, he’s willing to try it. When he sees a known food substance loitering a couple feet from his mouth, he wants it, and he’s willing to throw a tantrum to get it.
If I stare at Ian waiting for him to swallow what isn’t all over his fingers, Tory suffers a meltdown. While Ian plays with his food, I can slip a spoonful into Tory’s mouth, but I don’t like to do that. Tory already has about a couple pound lead on his brother; he doesn’t need any extra help. A few extra spoonfuls a day, and they’ll turn into one of those oddly mismatched sit-com couples in a couple decades.
* That was sweet.
posted by Matt at
11:22 PM
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