The Man in the Highchair

A couple of weeks ago, Oliver was introduced to real food. Okay - "real food" may be a stretch. We're talking minuscule portions of fruits and vegetables pureed into oblivion and then combined with breast milk. You can't exactly Grubhub that shit. But whatever, he sorta likes it. It will have to do until cheese becomes an option, and his entire world gets blown up.

I was really looking forward to this part. I had pictured him sitting there in his highchair, eagerly and happily ingesting all forms of new deliciousness, while he rewarded my generosity with calm and composure as he awaited each bite.

Try to feed someone who's never chewed before. I dare you. And try putting greens into the mouth of a person who does not like greens, doesn't comprehend their nutritional value, and can't understand why he should force himself to swallow them. And try getting anything past the mass of flailing limbs that make it seem as if he's trying to helicopter his avocado-hating ass straight out of there.

Attempting to get a spoonful of food into an infant is akin to trying to thread a needle through whirring propellor blades. You know the climactic scene of Star Wars, where Luke has to fire a torpedo into the Death Star's thermal exhaust port? Yeah. It's like that. But I don't have the Force. I just have two hands, dwindling patience, and a limited supply of mashed sweet potatoes.

You'll take his fingers when you pry them
from his cold, slimy mouth. 

To be fair, he actually likes the sweet potatoes. Bananas are also a hit. And he thinks peaches are peachy keen. But apparently, peas and avocados can go fuck themselves. Basically, if it's sweet, he likes it. And the stuff he's going to hate to eat when he gets older - he already hates it. So that's an encouraging trajectory. 

On the menu for the coming week: pear, green beans, spinach, and apple. One may reasonably predict that the pear and apple will be tolerated, while the green beans and spinach will be fiercely knocked ceilingward. 

But hey - whatever gets him to stop sucking on his fingers for a few minutes. He seriously cannot get enough of his own flesh. 

Welcome to Flavortown

It's been a big week for Oliver, with a lot of firsts. First time eating (semi-)solid food. First time sleeping in a big boy crib. First time getting to witness a sex offender being confirmed to the U.S. Supreme Court. It's all very exciting.

Some of his firsts came about by happenstance. Rolling over from his back to his stomach, for example. That just happened, like two hours ago. He looked truly shocked that he had accomplished the feat. It opens up a whole new world for him. It's thrilling to think that now my son has no limitations; he can roll wherever he wants to go and no one can stop him.

Some of his other firsts are intentional, and were thanks to his (four month!) check-up with the pediatrician. She advised us that we can now move him from the basinet to the crib, and can also begin initiating CIO (Cry It Out, for the layman). Which sounds great, in theory, because it means we no longer have to stay up for extended periods of time in the middle of the night feeding him, but in reality, involves waking up for seconds at a time at five-minute intervals for roughly forever, as we try to calm him without removing him from his crib, while reminding him that we haven't abandoned him. Seriously, the kid has issues.

But by far the most exciting development has been the introduction of non-milk, aka real food. We tried him on oatmeal baby cereal to start, but he acted like we were trying to feed him wet paper (which, to be fair, is what it looks like). He spit it out immediately and started crying. We gave it another couple of tries, but it may be a lost cause. Imagine my son being a picky eater.

When he tried banana, however...well, we have a winner. Now he sits there contentedly noshing on his mashed banana/breast milk mixture, entirely oblivious that there is a world with cheese and pulled pork and sourdough bread bowls all around him. He will learn in time. But for now, banana milk is the shiznit.

He also met his Grandpa Rob and Auntie Kim for the first time, as they came out with Nonnie (my mom) to get their fix of baby snuggles. We all took him to his first pumpkin patch, where he petted his first goat, went through his first corn maze, and posed for his first ever head-stuck-through-a-hole photograph.

As always, he didn't totally appear to know what the hell was going on, but all in all, he seemed to have a good time. 

Oh, and one other major first - his first time sleeping for a nine-hour chunk! It's still not the norm, but it was a pretty great feeling to wake up, look at the time, and wonder fleetingly if my son had been kidnapped. That came out wrong. You get it. 

Meanwhile, I'm suffering more and more each day from my growing Dad Jokes affliction. Things were bad enough before Oliver came along, but my condition - or pundition - is steadily worsening. Now, in addition to simply naming his stuffed animals, I've started anthropomorphizing inanimate objects that don't even offer the illusion of consciousness, as shown below: 

From left to right: Row 1: Mirror Sorvino, Angela Basinet, Wesley Wipes, Row 2: Formula K. Le Guin, Harvey Pacifierstein, Diaper Laurie, Row 3: Playmat LeBlanc, Aribottle, Boppy Montgomery

Please send help before it's too late.