Eyes in the back of my head? Check.With all the books out there on parenting, you'd think someone would have tackled this problem already. I discovered this morning another skill I'll need to hone in order to successfully parent this child: sneeze prediction. I'm going to need to find some way to look into the future and intuitively know when Abby is about to sneeze. Armed with that knowledge, I'll be able to prevent incidents like this morning's pear shower. Since you weren't there, I'll fill you in.
Ability to complete normal household tasks one-handed while balancing a baby on my hip? Check.
Diaper changes in under 20 seconds? Check.
Preventing catastrophic collisions with painful furniture? Check.
Having just swallowed a bite of delicious pear (freshly mashed through a mesh strainer for maximum messiness) Abby lunged forward in her high chair and opened her mouth for another bite like a baby bird anticipating a delicious red wriggler. I scooped the perfect amount of pear mush onto the pink spoon, wiped the bottom along the rim of the bowl to prevent unnecessary dripping, and had the spoon poised at her lips, when suddenly:
aaaaaaacccchoooooo!
Knowing Abby's sneezes always come in pairs, I quickly removed the spoon, and the little remaining pear, from the line of fire just in time for another...
aaaaaaacccchooooooo!
(Here I have to pause to fill you in on a little background. Abby never got to meet my grandpa, but I believe his sneezes have been reincarnated in our little one. These are show-stopping sneezes that start in her toes and rattle her entire body. It's powerful stuff, these little nose episodes of hers, and they take me back to dinners with my grandparents that were often interrupted by grandpa's equally mighty sneezes. Adding ammo to these sneezes is not a good thing.)
So there I was, waiting for the dust...er, pear...to settle so that I could survey the damage. Freshly mashed pear apparently travels well. My shirt, the wall behind me, the table, the floor, the tray on her high chair and the front of Abby's pajamas were covered in pear. It seemed nothing in the vicinity was spared from the force of the sneeze. I knew it would be fruitless to attempt a clean up this early in the game. There was, after all, still more than half a bowl of pear left to eat. So I dove back in, prepared another spoonful of pear, and offered it to my daughter.
But now, new obstacles presented themselves. The shower of food that settled on Abby's tray and pajamas had created fascinating patterns of pear that were just within her reach. And the excitement at finding she could not only touch these exciting new particles in front of her, but could spread them to her hands, her hair, her face, and all sides of the high chair, proved to be too much. It seemed my window of opportunity was gone. Hunger was no longer the prevailing need. I could see in her eyes that Abby was determined to discover just how far she could spread this gooey mess.
But I forged ahead. With a spoon in one hand and a damp paper towel in the other, I alternately scooped, fed, and wiped until I had declared myself the victor on both fronts: the breakfast was eaten, and the baby was clean again.
Having overcome my daughter's breakfast attention deficit disorder, I celebrated by wearing my pear-covered shirt with pride as I proceeded to clean the rest of the war zone.
Lessons learned:
(Here I have to pause to fill you in on a little background. Abby never got to meet my grandpa, but I believe his sneezes have been reincarnated in our little one. These are show-stopping sneezes that start in her toes and rattle her entire body. It's powerful stuff, these little nose episodes of hers, and they take me back to dinners with my grandparents that were often interrupted by grandpa's equally mighty sneezes. Adding ammo to these sneezes is not a good thing.)
So there I was, waiting for the dust...er, pear...to settle so that I could survey the damage. Freshly mashed pear apparently travels well. My shirt, the wall behind me, the table, the floor, the tray on her high chair and the front of Abby's pajamas were covered in pear. It seemed nothing in the vicinity was spared from the force of the sneeze. I knew it would be fruitless to attempt a clean up this early in the game. There was, after all, still more than half a bowl of pear left to eat. So I dove back in, prepared another spoonful of pear, and offered it to my daughter.
But now, new obstacles presented themselves. The shower of food that settled on Abby's tray and pajamas had created fascinating patterns of pear that were just within her reach. And the excitement at finding she could not only touch these exciting new particles in front of her, but could spread them to her hands, her hair, her face, and all sides of the high chair, proved to be too much. It seemed my window of opportunity was gone. Hunger was no longer the prevailing need. I could see in her eyes that Abby was determined to discover just how far she could spread this gooey mess.
But I forged ahead. With a spoon in one hand and a damp paper towel in the other, I alternately scooped, fed, and wiped until I had declared myself the victor on both fronts: the breakfast was eaten, and the baby was clean again.
Having overcome my daughter's breakfast attention deficit disorder, I celebrated by wearing my pear-covered shirt with pride as I proceeded to clean the rest of the war zone.
Lessons learned:
- Pear is very aerodynamic.
- Wearing pajamas at breakfast is a good idea--for mom and baby.
- Bibs only catch messes that adhere to the laws of gravity.
This is looking like a series... "being a mom." Thanks for the laugh this morning. Great way to start off a week. Hope you guys are pear free now. :)
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