Second child syndrome

In the past week Toby has eaten pizza, oven chips and cake.  A couple of weeks ago he had custard.  A little time before that he had a jar of baby food despite us never having given Henry anything (until completely weaned) that we had not prepared ourselves from scratch.

My mother-in-law told me often when we were controlling what Henry ate "it's so much harder with the next one, they see what their older sibling is eating and they want it".

Oooo...it pisses me off when she is right.

Toby will now sit in his highchair like some toothless despot screaming at us if we have the temerity to have something on our plate that he does not also have smeared across his tray.  Tonight's source of fury?

Some lettuce.  Lettuce!

So I tore a leaf off and threw it at him.  Perhaps with more force than was strictly necessary but luckily it was only lettuce.  Good job I wasn't eating a baked potato.  Or a pie.  Or the plate.

Once dinner was finished, and we had completed the ritual of letting him mash whatever is in his bowl into a pulp, then spoon whatever we can scrape from between his fingers/down the side of his chair/off the carpet into his mouth because he has now realised he is hungry and cannot actually feed himself, I had some cake.

ROAR!

(which I believe is baby-speak for "excuse me, father, would you be so kind as to share a morsel of that simply delicious looking baked delicacy that you appear to be consuming with some gusto?")

It was some homemade banana and chocolate loaf that had been made by Em.  Henry did not have chocolate until his first birthday.  So I picked out all the visible chunks of chocolate and lobbed a mouthful of cake at him.  Again, perhaps with a little more enthusiasm that many would have deemed necessary but I was enjoying it and had been looking forward to finishing it!

There really is a difference in what becomes acceptable for the second child.  Toby has been exposed to television (we didn't even own one until Henry was two), to some questionable dietary choices (I still feel a bit guilty about the pizza), to hand-me-downs, to Henry (a thoroughly adoring but somewhat exuberant big brother) and to loud music (he now regularly falls asleep in the middle of our bed to whichever awful pop-playlist Em is tidying up to).

I do wonder if we are going to make it until May before we sell our souls completely and stick him in a chocolate fountain.  And whether or not I should just stick some whisky in his beaker and get a good night's sleep.