Anyway, back to baby food. Michael asked if we could cut Henry's six-jar-a-day habit. It was wreaking havoc on our grocery budget. I complied and spent all this time and put forth this incredible effort (chopping, pureeing, cleaning, storing) to feed my baby some fresh, less expensive food and well, he hates it. And the hatred runs deep. He sees it coming in the ice cube tray and he turns his tight-lipped mouth away from me and stares. It's showdown time. I stare back at him wide-eyed, willing him to blink first, because then his defeat in our staring contest would guarantee my dominance, his submission and subsequent healthy food eating, right? Isn't that how it goes? You blink, you lose, sucka. Seriously. Who does this? I hope you. I hope I'm not the only one.
Well, that's never how it goes here. I have staring contests with all of my kids and they almost always win. And even when their bright blues can't keep their lids open for one moment longer, they still don't admit defeat and do what I command. Henry is just following suit, I guess. So, we've tried changing it up. They say 50 percent of eating is visual. I wouldn't want my dinner served from an ice cube tray. Now we sneak the food out of the fridge and pour it in a baby food jar. What's more attractive about a glass jar than the tray? I don't know. But even after our craftiness, he still knows. Can you believe it? He still knows the difference. How?
Here is where I'd like to take a moment to dedicate a song to my dear, sweet Henry.
Despite Henry's eery and frequent displays of omniscience, I'm still not convinced he's a deity (I don't think someone with superhuman powers would sit content with poop seeping up their back or snot dribbling into their mouth. They'd take care of business.).
So how does he know? Why does he prefer the jar? I'm wondering if I've stumbled on to something big here. I didn't know this was genetic. That perhaps I have a special gene that has now been passed on to him. A gift I have that will keep on giving for generations now. And what is that gift, gene, more likely? I don't know it's official name. But I'm thinking it's something like the "I crave processed food, lather me in high fructose corn syrup and shoot trans fat in my veins" gene. It can't be helped. It's genetic. I can't blame Henry. He's at the mercy of the gene pool. I was/am, too.Spaghettios (Chef Boyardee)? Check. Mac and Cheese (Kraft, not Annie's). Yes, please. Twinkies? Mmmm. Donuts (Fresh or in Little Debbie bag) Whatev. Corned Beef Hash (Not the Real Food Cafe kind, IHOP kind.) For sure.
While I have had years to curb my outlandish – some say unhealthy, I'll say genetic – cravings and can now drink green smoothies without gagging (Thank you, Amanda), poor Henry has only been fighting this genome battle for a few months. (Did I mention he's also refusing the boob right now?) Formula it is. He takes his convictions (genes) seriously. He's all in. Except for the fact that his formula is organic. Take that, little man.
Today for lunch? Peas and carrots ... in the jar. But wait, they're organic, too. Mom 2, Henry 0.
