(The older brother who could eat a horse. Not the one who refused to eat for the first 26 months of his life.)
From the moment the first fork is pulled from the drawer (or the dishwasher...let's be honest), or the first sippy cup of milk is poured, Levi is frantic.
"Dinner is coming! Dinner is coming!" I hear him chanting as he runs through the kitchen.
(He's crawling, actually. But briskly. And the words are really more plaintive wails than anything else.)
He clings to my legs. He reaches for the milk on the counter. He screams each time the refrigerator is opened and no one hands him a snack.
He is hungry, for crying out loud! And we're all ignoring him!
No, Levi. We're not ignoring you. Your big brother Caleb used to pull this same nonsense when he was your age. Still does, sometimes, now that I think about it. And I'll tell you the same thing I told him.
When dinner is ready, I will put it on the table. And you will be fed. Rest assured, we will not let you miss a meal. Now go play, before I trip over you.
We've come to an agreement, the one-year-old and me. I will put dinner in the bottom oven, and he will be permitted to stand there and watch it cook. He can even slobber on the window, if it will keep him quiet.
This arrangement seems to be working out nicely for everyone.
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