My feeding chair is bright and yellow with cute white chickens with red beaks. It was more expensive than the Ikea one you considered buying, remember Mother? You had high hopes for this high chair _ visions of slightly messy but wholesome meal times, filled with giggles and the occasional meltdown.
You should have known better.
It is from this seemingly sunny spot that I rule over you and teach you one or two things about how life works. I bet you won’t ever look at chickens the same way again.
The thing is, this is going to be a bumpy ride and it will change just as you think you’re getting a grip on it. I expect entertainment. News, sports and films do not fall into this category. If that TV is not on Baby TV we’re not going to make much progress, I’m afraid.
I should also let you know that I reserve the right to pick up food with my hands, lift it to my lips and then make it go elsewhere. I like it on my hair but it works just as well on my t-shirt or on your floor.
As far as cutlery is concerned, although I can master it, most of the time I see it as something to use to bang on surfaces or throw food at you if I feel things aren’t going according to plan. Also, Mother, because cutlery, mostly spoons, will be in use by me during the banging exercise, I don’t think it would be advisable for you to try and feed me with another, say, spoon. I expect you to feed me all foods with your fingers, regardless of whether it is bechamel or soup. Consider this as self-improvement. You can always hashtag it as #skillz on your Instagram.
I don’t do fruit. I do fruit pots but don’t try and mash real fruit and pass it off as Hipp Organic Apple and Strawberry puree. Sorry, but your fresh fruit can’t match the vintage flavours of the stuff that’s been in that pot since 2005.
I’m not going to do this in half an hour. Or an hour. Or an hour and a half. In case you’re wondering, that’s not soup slipping through your fingers. It’s your life.
I know where the peas that I dropped went. But I’m not going to tell you and I’m pretty sure you’ll never find them. At least not until I pick them off the floor and use them as gum massaging material or put them up my nose two weeks later.
If I pick up my plate and drop it over my head you will find this cute or call it a milestone. I am developing and I’m pretty sure you’re not to thwart my creativity.
Why are you giving me fruit pots? That stuff is so last Wednesday.
Your food is my food. If my food becomes your food after I’ve refused it I now want it back. I want it on the couch. Don’t be foolish enough to think I will eat it if you put me back on the high chair. And don’t be too happy or smug that I am actually eating what you want me to eat. This can end as quickly as it started.
My nursery report will say that I polished it all off and that I am one of their best eaters. It will add that melon and grapes are two of my favourites. You will never know why.
I am legally entitled to eat 7 bananas a day, one of them while you’re trying to put me to bed and after you have brushed my teeth, or tried to, for 27 minutes. Unless, of course, you want to spend four hours singing twinkle-twatting-twinkle-little-star. Your choice. I’m pretty good at staying awake and I can say the word banana in three different languages.
I hope we are clear on things but if not I can always demonstrate again using that plate of spaghetti bolognese you’re about to put in front of me.
Now, where is my fruit pot?
London, 21 June 2016
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