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.

Eating everything

Joy of joys Henry has now joined us at the dinner table (in his brand spanking new highchair that met the exacting specifications of my wife and simply could not be purchased from eBay - much like our pram, which she now hates.  Not that I'm bitter, you understand) for his evening meal.

The magical six month mark has been reached, so the kitchen is now open and he is joining the world of proper food.  Which has been slightly pureed and cooked without salt or any spices that might be too hot.  (Or dried chickpeas that are two years out of date and have been included because his dad is too tight to throw anything away and thought they would be ok.  You might want to read my previous post for the likely fall out of this.)  But apart from these slight stipulations, he is now enjoying a range of foods.

This is absolutely amazing.

I cannot describe how awesome (and I mean that in the dictionary sense) I find feeding my son food that I have cooked for the family and he appears to be enjoying.  Food is important to me and, thus, it is important to me that he enjoys it.  And boy does he enjoy it!  I love it.  We often have breakfast together to try and give mummy a little bit of a lie in and it is the most special moment of my day.

However...

I am finding the mess somewhat difficult to deal with.  Weaning has coincided with a streak of independence and developing hand-eye co-ordination that can whip food off a casually wielded spoon in a blink of an eye.  Does that food make it to his mouth?

Of course not.  It makes it just about everywhere but, smearing across whatever he is wearing, his chair, the table, his face, bits squeezed between his fingers, down his legs, on the floor.  Daddy struggles with this.  A lot.  Mummy does not appear to have a problem with it.

Daddy also struggles with occasional lumps.  Mummy, again, is considerably better at this.  I have, occasionally, needed to leave the room as he chews something a bit troublesome as my instinct is to whip him out of his chair and perform a paediatric heimlich manoeuvre on him.  Not wanting to communicate this sphincter-tightening anxiety to him and develop a fussy eater I instead extricate myself from the situation when it becomes too much to bear.  Henry, thankfully, remains oblivious to this and has happily gobbled up anything he can get his sticky little mitts on.  Daddy, meanwhile, has bought shares in antibacterial wipes.