Feeding times are, more often than not these days, fierce battles. There are grueling efforts and innocent victims. There are heroes and conquests. I wouldn’t say there was a good and an evil, but I do have your best interests in mind when I try to feed you peas. It has always (in your 4 short months of eating foods) been hard to tell whether you had swallowed a mouthful or not, and now, you have honed your stealth swallow skills. You can hold onto several bites at a time before they come cascading down your chin—rejected by you, sir Oliver, defender of eleven-month-old tastebuds and tummy. I am pretty sure you do it because you like the texture of the food as it oozes back out. Sometimes I think you’re bored. Other times, defiant and still others, displeased with what your lowly servants have delivered to you as a meal. “Unacceptable,” you spit. Daddy and I—protectors of nutrition and weight gain—have sword, I mean spoon, at the ready to catch and return all exiting food. Sometimes it takes two or three rebites for you to accept the mouthful. I feel certain at that point you thought it tasted better the first go-around. Sometimes I feel like I am paté-fattening you; other times I am confident that it is better in than out. You are a formidable and worthy opponent, and I am sure this epic battle of wills will continue far into our future, sir Oliver.
