Jack positively inhales food. I don’t know where it goes, as he’s the scrawniest little shrimp in our Thursday group - a puny, 20-pound weakling in a land of giant 30-pounders – but he wolfs down vast quantities of anything, anytime, anywhere. And he’ll do whatever it takes to get it. In fact, I love watching him pimp himself out, sidling up with a gappy-toothed smile to any mom trying to feed her hapless infant: Jack will be upon her in no time, both fists plunged into the proffered Tupperware, quite literally stuffing himself. Lately, however, his palate is becoming more discerning. While the quantities remain the same, he has taken to rejecting previously enjoyed food with the heartless discernment of a gourmet food critic. He sits in lofty splendor perched on his high chair, grimly flinging cherries out of his way, all the better to stuff down the cubed string cheese. Or, he moves his mouth away from my advancing spoon with all the imperial demeanor of an eastern princling. ‘Our of my way, wench!’ I imagine him saying. Or, in modern parlance: ‘Fuck that cherry, bitch!’
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Hi Victoria, I do enjoy your writing skills! Your description reminded me of your husband many years ago, sitting in his high chair....like the king. I would humbly and hopefully put something before him and wait to see if he'd eat it or look at me defiantly while he dropped it over the side.
ReplyDelete