Mealtime mania

I love to eat.  My husband loves to eat.  Our progeny seems to have inherited his eating habits from the crazy chimps in our genetic ancestry.  

There are some days (rare and infrequent, unexpected tidings of joy) when Dylan will happily and calmly sit in his little high-chair throne, gleefully accepting whatever food I offer, eagerly concentrating on picking up each morsel of food on his tray and neatly transporting it into his smiling mouth.  We are a picture-perfect family, enjoying a meal gathered around the kitchen table, conversing and babbling cheerfully.

Then there are the usual days that go something like this:

I scramble around the kitchen like a sweaty, disheveled Iron Chef contestant, frantically throwing things around trying to pull together an edible meal for myself and my hungry hippo husband, while simultaneously collecting random, pseudo-nutritious baby food items and snacks to provide Prince Dylan with an assorted buffet, in hopes that he'll eat even one thing I present to his highness during his evening banquet (have I mentioned that he's a finicky eater??).  

When we finally all manage to get seated at the table, with Prince Dylan tucked into his throne and fitted with his mealtime armor (god bless BabyBjorn pocket bibs!), I begin my court jester juggling act, attempting to entertain and feed the prince and shovel food into my own mouth in between acts.  I present an assortment of delicious foods, being mindful of including some of his usual favorites (mac and cheese please), while also trying (and failing miserably) to introduce him to new foods and flavors.  

The high prince would much rather play with his food than eat it.  On any given day there is an impressive display of his crazy chimp genetic ancestral traits-- smashing, squishing, throwing, rubbing, squeezing, squirting, crushing, squealing, pounding--90% of the food that started on his tray ends up on the floor, in his chair, down his onesie, up his nose, in his ears or hair, and the remaining 10% lands safely inside the catch pocket of his bib.  Digested foods = 0%.  Parental frustration and frazzle factor = 110%.

We could sustain a small country with the amount of rejected and physically abused food we throw away on a weekly basis.  It's beyond aggravating, not to mention, personally concerning because I constantly wonder if Dylan is getting enough nutrition or nourishment.  Although he's still on formula, he's approaching the 1-year milestone when he'll be weaned off bottles, and at that point, we the parents have full responsibility for making sure that he receives a healthy variety of nutrients and foods so he continues to grow and mature into a real person. :)  Can a child flourish on a daily diet of goldfish crackers, mac and cheese and gogurt??  Only time will tell, I suppose.  I console myself by rationalizing that at least I buy whole grain goldfish, organic  mac and cheese (made with supposed hidden veggies) and organic gogurt, so it's not all crap junk food.  Mentally rationalizing and justifying each decision is a critical survival skill of motherhood, and I am a master of this technique. 

Happy family eating manic moms!

Claire