“What are you doing?” my wife said, me hastily wiping bread crumbs off my lips.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“You know he spit that out, right?”
Hmm, that would explain the texture discrepancy. I didn’t think wheat bread was supposed to squish, but it was a new brand, so maybe? Maybe not. Ewwww.
This has happened more than I’d like to admit. I’ve adopted some really poor eating habits. The reasons are many, the results appalling. I think you may be able to recognize you have problem when you actually hit upon that gummed-up piece of what-have-you and not only finish it, but go back in for more.
Hey, I’m not proud. I’m a parent. How does this happen, you might ask? The slovenly habits, not the becoming a parent part. I’ve been asking myself the same question. All part of the healing process.
I trace it back to Bub being such a picky eater. I like to blame my kids for as much as possible. Honestly, though, he’d leave heaps of untouched, perfectly good pasta or buttered peas or scrambled eggs (that I had cooked especially for him, no less) just lying there, staring at me. Cold, lonely.
I can’t lie, this did make me mildly spiteful sometimes (“What’s wrong with Daddy’s cheesy tuna surprise?!”). Sometimes I was just bored. But in most cases I was genuinely hungry. In the hubbub to get his plate ready, there was hardly time to arrange a hot meal for myself. It’s always hardest on the parents.
It also made sense to me in some fashion. Why bother going out of my way to cook something else if he was going to leave a perfectly good meal behind for me? It was like ordering in, only I still had to cook, make something absurdly bland for my taste, drool on it for a half hour and then eat it cold.
Okay, well, I was saving it from the garbage. I had that. Recycling at its finest. It would be almost rude not to eat it, right? Buttered peas have feelings, too.
And it’s not like I was taking food off his plate—he was clearly done. Nor did I do it in front of him (though I have been known to use his cutlery). Is this what’s commonly referred to as rationalization?
Luckily for both of us, things have taken a turn for the better. I have a support system. Bub, a well-known yogurtarian, has suddenly become a veritable Jacques Cousteau of the three-slotted food plate, exploring all kinds of culinary nooks and crannies. He now voluntarily plunks his tiny fork into new species of foods, gathers and assimilates all sorts of data. He actually eats.
The downside to all of Bub’s painstaking research is that Daddy is, once again, hungry. It’s going to be a few months before HP is on any sort of enticing solids, so I’m digging in for a long fast here. Or maybe I’ll just order a pizza.