If I were a visitor to my house, I would hesitate before touching anything. There, I've said it. I've openly admitted that things aren't as sanitary as I would like (although the dried cumblike crust covering everything from couch to table is a dead giveaway). And the reason for this state of affairs? Leya, of course.
My daughter has given new meaning to the phrase 'eating on the go'. She has brought a sort of artistry to it. I don't think this is particularly surprising: after all, her paternal grandmother is an artist. But, while Jill has selected oil paints as her favourite medium, Leya's is tuna pasta. She creates her masterpieces by dipping one stubby fingerlet into her bowl, in the manner of someone hesitatingly trying out the water of a swimming pool, and making a dirty little print on the surface of her choice (her options range from the curtains to the TV screen). Then, having satisfied herself that this is, indeed, a delightful activity, she scoops a handful and smears it all over, using bold, exuberant strokes and splashes.
And what do I do while this is going on? I sit next to her, plaintive and pleading (yet entirely ineffective), trying desperately to dodge her flailing hands whilst simultaneously striving to poke a spoon into her mouth. My goal is to catch her unawares, as she seems to take more joy out of turning down my culinary offerings than eating them.
Eventually, though, she tires of this and we proceed to Stage two of mealtimes: The conga line. At this time, she starts weaving in and out of the legs of the diningroom chairs, occasionally taking a seat underneath the dining table itself. My role at this time is to try catch her: a task made a little tricky by our significant height disparity. Nonetheless, because I am a Jewish mother, and by definition intent on getting food into my daughter's stomach, I find the strength and flexibility somehow to crouch cross-legged underneath there with her. At this point things become crowded, because the dogs have joined us. Like me, they are focused on Leya's food - except that their objective is to get it into their own mouths. This is not a clean enterprise. Inevitably, we all start to sport large patches of food.
After a brief second's respite, the baby en croute emerges from under the table and her surprisingly speedy meanderings start again, with the conga train of us (me, Sherpa, Lucy) following her (me crawling on our hands and knees) hot pursuit. Every so often, she pauses to take a handful of food, and my heart leaps - only to sink again when she feeds it to the dogs. They're smug and happy, she's smug and happy, and I have pains in my knees and shredded beef on my cheek.
My last word on the subject: this is usually the only time Leya is affectionate with me. I don't believe this is true affection: I believe it is, in fact, her cruel sense of humour, as she knows I am so desperate for kisses and hugs from her that I will take them, even when she is wearing a coat of hake and pasta and has an Abraham-Lincoln style goatee fashioned entirely from couscous grains. She also regularly charms me with her generosity, taking the food out of her own mouth to place it lovingly against my lips. She has also used the opportunity to demonstrate her persistence, as if I refuse to eat said morsels, she mushes them into my mouth, grunting and kicking with the effort. I suppose she is merely mirroring the behaviour she has just seen me display.
Sigh. On the bright side, I don't feel the need to go to gym. Running after my little miss is exercise enough, thank you.
My daughter has given new meaning to the phrase 'eating on the go'. She has brought a sort of artistry to it. I don't think this is particularly surprising: after all, her paternal grandmother is an artist. But, while Jill has selected oil paints as her favourite medium, Leya's is tuna pasta. She creates her masterpieces by dipping one stubby fingerlet into her bowl, in the manner of someone hesitatingly trying out the water of a swimming pool, and making a dirty little print on the surface of her choice (her options range from the curtains to the TV screen). Then, having satisfied herself that this is, indeed, a delightful activity, she scoops a handful and smears it all over, using bold, exuberant strokes and splashes.
And what do I do while this is going on? I sit next to her, plaintive and pleading (yet entirely ineffective), trying desperately to dodge her flailing hands whilst simultaneously striving to poke a spoon into her mouth. My goal is to catch her unawares, as she seems to take more joy out of turning down my culinary offerings than eating them.
Eventually, though, she tires of this and we proceed to Stage two of mealtimes: The conga line. At this time, she starts weaving in and out of the legs of the diningroom chairs, occasionally taking a seat underneath the dining table itself. My role at this time is to try catch her: a task made a little tricky by our significant height disparity. Nonetheless, because I am a Jewish mother, and by definition intent on getting food into my daughter's stomach, I find the strength and flexibility somehow to crouch cross-legged underneath there with her. At this point things become crowded, because the dogs have joined us. Like me, they are focused on Leya's food - except that their objective is to get it into their own mouths. This is not a clean enterprise. Inevitably, we all start to sport large patches of food.
After a brief second's respite, the baby en croute emerges from under the table and her surprisingly speedy meanderings start again, with the conga train of us (me, Sherpa, Lucy) following her (me crawling on our hands and knees) hot pursuit. Every so often, she pauses to take a handful of food, and my heart leaps - only to sink again when she feeds it to the dogs. They're smug and happy, she's smug and happy, and I have pains in my knees and shredded beef on my cheek.
My last word on the subject: this is usually the only time Leya is affectionate with me. I don't believe this is true affection: I believe it is, in fact, her cruel sense of humour, as she knows I am so desperate for kisses and hugs from her that I will take them, even when she is wearing a coat of hake and pasta and has an Abraham-Lincoln style goatee fashioned entirely from couscous grains. She also regularly charms me with her generosity, taking the food out of her own mouth to place it lovingly against my lips. She has also used the opportunity to demonstrate her persistence, as if I refuse to eat said morsels, she mushes them into my mouth, grunting and kicking with the effort. I suppose she is merely mirroring the behaviour she has just seen me display.
Sigh. On the bright side, I don't feel the need to go to gym. Running after my little miss is exercise enough, thank you.
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