31 May

I’ll be honest.  I was unprepared.

Unprepared for the ungodly mess that feeding this child makes.  He eats mush.  Actually, I should say, he eats mush, paints with mush, styles his hair with mush, throws mush at me, offers mush to Tali, lotions his skin with mush, wards off diaper rash with mush … you get the idea?

I totally thought those classic baby pictures — the ones with the kid, the bowl of spaghetti, the red, spaghetti face and pasta in the hair — were fakes.  Not fakes in the sense that they didn’t happen.  Fakes in the sense that the parents allowed their kid to “live it up” that night and really self-feed a messy dinner for the sole purpose of taking the classic baby shot.

I had no idea that this would be a nightly occurrence.  Or, maybe it is a fake for other people and Luke is just using his baby jedi powers to screw with my head.  I can’t be sure.  But, I do know that each spoon full of mush that I push towards his mouth runs the risk of being knocked out of my hand, jammed into the highchair, splattered to the floor, redirected at his eye or jammed into his hand.

That ‘every other night’ bathtime thing we were doing.  I miss that.


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