This is not the missing post. The post that Firefox threw away for me. This is a feel-good post. You see, everyone feels good when they see a baby eat. I believe that this is for
1. Empathy: When we see someone having a good time, we feel good. And babies who are eating are most assuredly having a good time, unless they are not.
2. Entertainment: It is fun to watch a baby eat. Even when I am the one who has to hose the baby off afterwards, it is fun to watch.
3. Self-satisfaction: It is almost always satisfying to watch someone else struggle with a skill which we have mastered. Unless, of course, you have not yet mastered eating without getting food all over yourself.
As my wife (and my shirts) testify, I only enjoy these pictures for the first two reasons.
A few days ago I made pasta with tomato sauce. It was quite good, and I thought that Maxine would enjoy it. I made sure to put a bib on her, to avoid making a mess.
She loved it, but the only part of her body and clothing that didn't have spaghetti sauce all over it was that little patch under the bib. Next time I feed her spaghetti, she's wearing nothing but a diaper. And with a smile like that, I guarantee that I will give her another chance at it.
Maxine, if you are reading this 10 years from now and feeling a bit embarrassed, don't worry. There's much worse to come.
A few days later, Horyon's friend from back in her high school days came to visit around lunch time. Her friend's son wanted pizza, so we ordered pizza. Horyon was worried about what to feed Maxine, and I suggested that I could feed her pizza.
It was hardly a smashing success. Do you like the pizza, Maxine?
"Well, I don't know. Let me take three little bites then start crying, and you can just guess whether it's because I don't like pizza or because Mommy's in the other room. OK?"
Sometimes taking care of a baby reminds me of being married. But I digress.
This morning I found a happy compromise: a food that Maxine enjoys that doesn't require 20 minutes of bathing to clean up afterwords: french toast. (Freedom toast, if you are an idiot.)
I've given her french toast before, and she has enjoyed it. But this morning I thought that she might like a condiment, since there's no way I'm going to pour syrup on it and put it within her grasp.
My friend Jon VanHoose once told me that french fries were nothing but a vehicle for ketchup. Apparently some sort of rift in time and space opened when he said that, and delivered the message to Maxine. Usually she eats about half a piece; Today she ate all but two bites! (Daddy-sized bites, not baby-sized bites.) And tell me, does she not look happy? I had heard that the Brits not only eat their french toast with ketchup, but call it "eggy bread". Weird, huh.
On a more serious note, I find myself... concerned about our upcoming move. I've moved to new homes more times than I can remember off hand, and across the ocean three or four times, depending on how you count. I've never given any of it a second thought: where exactly I would live, my job, friends, keeping in touch with family. I've always been pretty laid back that way.
But this time is different. More later.