I found him standing over the kitchen sink, holding the offending piece of footwear like you’d hold a dog hair. Pinched between his forefinger and thumb, at a distance from his body. “What the hell is that?” He was staring a blob of yellow gloop on the side of his trainer. “Scrambled egg”, I said.
You are prepared for the lack of sleep, you’re given a heads up about the hit that your social life will take, and your Mam will tell you that you won’t drink a hot cup of tea for the first six months. But I don’t think we were prepared for the amount of food we would be finding mashed and mauled into our furniture, floors, clothes, hair, you name it. Babies are messy eaters.
This morning before I left for work I found carrot and grated cheese down the side of the high chair, crumbs of mushy rice cake on the living room rug, and I had to change before I went out the door because of an incident involving Ready Brek.
The organised chaos that is feeding an eight month old is bittersweet. We are blessed that our little man loves his food. He inhales his warm breakfast, you won’t get the spoon replenished with yogurt quickly enough for him, and he is now eating what we’re eating bar the sauces. He doesn’t discriminate against meat or veg, and will even drink water on top of his 3 bottles during the day. It’s wonderful to watch his interest in food. He’ll examine a piece of toast on his table top and grab it with gusto. What follows should be on YouTube. Into the mouth, a gummy chew, out of the mouth, into the hand, rubbed onto the face, falls onto his lap, into the hand again and back into the mouth. At that point he’ll either chew and swallow or spit it out and reach for the next, dry piece of toast. The withered clump of what now looks like soft rubber could end up anywhere. Maybe on Daddy’s shoe.
You can’t keep the place clean, and much as I find it a nuisance (if hilarious), my big man is a bit of a Monica, and can’t quite handle it. To find scrambled egg on his trainer is to him what finding permanent marker on my Kurt Geiger’s would be to me. I’m sure the abandon with which Séimí explores his food is but a sign of things to come. When he starts moving properly, pulling and dragging, I can only imagine the damage he’ll do with more offensive tools than Liga. Crayons and Mála spring to mind! (I’ve just had a ten minute discussion with my colleagues about the spelling of that plasticine stuff).
That said, I can’t get enough of watching my wee man’s eating habits. In fact all of his habits keep me enthralled on my days off. He has started to explore with the sounds, “Ba”, “Da” and “Peh, (too much Peppa Pig). My guess is that he’ll say “Dada” anyday now, and all will be forgiven for the srcambled egg-gate. Clever boy knows which side his toast soilders are buttered!
