Food


Picking up any Cheerios that have fallen on the floor during breakfast (and, believe me, many Cheerios end up on the floor) with his toes. And then eating them.

I kid you not.

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I guess I need to keep a closer eye on the cream cheese, especially when it’s almost dinner time . . .

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Yes, that’s a tub of cream cheese and, yes, those holes were made by the pointer finger of a hungry toddler.

Why bother with cereal when you have goldfish crackers? I mean, really . . .

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For the record, yes, he did eat it. With his hands. Because we’re all about messes around here.

I guess we’re in the mischief phase now. That phase where the innocent boy morphs into one who looks for trouble at every turn. A boy who hunts for the most unsteady item on which to climb. And then stands — tippy toes — on said item while reaching for the one thing he is not supposed to touch.

A boy who has decided that the best thing about dinner is finding creative ways to eat his food, like using his sippy cup as a fork or his cracker as a spoon. A boy who, if given the chance, would head-butt everyone and everything. A boy who surreptitiously collects his mom’s or dad’s things (anything, doesn’t matter) and then hides them under, on or behind the sofa; in the trash can; on the basement stairs.

A boy who screams all the time. OK, scratch that: We’ve been there for a long time.

But the other stuff is fairly new or, at least, new in its frequency and delight. And it doesn’t stop. It’s all mischief, all the time around here. You may think I am kidding. I am not. You may think I am exaggerating. I am not.

OK, maybe just a little. But only a little.

And now a quick shift: We’re heading to Long Island this afternoon. With any luck, we’ll miss the bulk of the traffic and Conal will sleep for most of the trip. That’s what I’m hoping for. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Monday. Lots of messy, oozy diapers. Worry: Is he sick? Is he teething? Grocery shopping. Post office. Laundry. Work. Ambitious dinner: Delicious tsatziki, not so great falafel.

Tuesday. More icky diapers. No fever. Diagnosis: Teething. Playdate. More laundry. Terrific run in the evening. Not-so-ambitious dinner: Farfalle with ham, capers, peas, scallions and fresh mozzarella.

Wednesday. Still more icky diapers. Wish: To be done with teething. Baby Bookworms. Errands. Sucky run in the afternoon. Volleyball game. Injury: Aunt Claire. Severely un-ambitious dinner: Subs.

Today. Unknown. Schedule: Playdate. Prepping for weekend guests.

I figured you were wondering. And if you weren’t, now you won’t have to.

  • I can’t get this song out of my head:
  • Now that the Yankees are out of the playoff race, Conal wants to wear his Yankees cap all the time.
  • He has two big boy birthday parties to go this weekend. He will probably beg to wear his Yankees cap to both.
  • Did you know it is International Talk Like a Pirate Day today? Aaaaar!
  • I posted the Vegetarian 100 over at my other site, if you are interested.
  • The screaming has not abated. If anything, it has picked up. In both volume and frequency.
  • I’m hoping it’s, “Feed a cold, starve a fever” because Conal has been shoveling it in, Michael Phelps-style.
  • Um, I have nothing else. So, we’re done. Have a nice weekend!

Unless you have a cleaning service. And you are smart enough to remember to put a bib on your child. But I’ll leave that up to you.

What did I try? Self-feeding. With a spoon. Self spoon feeding, I guess you could call it.

Conal fed himself cottage cheese tonight. Around here, self-feeding has been reserved for finger foods — a category that cottage cheese doesn’t easily fit into. The results? Well, he ate the cottage cheese.

He also wore it:

I ended up wearing a bit of it, too.

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