Food is a big deal to me. Love the stuff. Adore cooking. Giant foodie. The works. In the early days of mommy-hood, I actually would cook. People assumed that was because I was trying to kill myself being a good host to the tons of people who visited. Nope. Not in the least. Cooking is just my idea of down time. God knows you need that in the beginning.
More often than not, when you put that much of your soul into something, it tends to be good. And people tend to like ‘good’.
Well normal people.
Not 8 month old, have a mind of their own people!
*Sigh* where do I start?
I’ve had my fair share of compliments (And they make me happy). I might even be slightly complacent about my cooking on occasion. I’ve dreamt about making a living doing that for ages. And I will one day. So when my baby girl was approaching the 5-month mark I got quite excited about the fact that in about a month from then I’d get to give her real food. Not just this nasty smelling formula cr*p (BTW what's with that? Smells awful. Like unpleasant seaweed. I remember when we were young, the formula our younger cousins drank was so yum you could eat it straight out of the can).
Thought up all the yummy, baby friendly things I could cook up. Did loads of research about balancing things. Bought Annabel Karmel (kiddie food guru to you novices). I’d give her tastes from around the world, I said. She’d be a global kiddie foodie I also said; many flavours, just like the city she’s born in.
Yeah… No! She had a different plan apparently. The plan is called spitting. Which, she does with remarkable finesse. Opens her mouth on occasion, takes a spoonful, scrunches her face, puffs up her cheeks and… there it is! All over my shirtfront. All my carefully chosen, lovingly prepared ingredients. This has gone on for months. I’ve tried offering regularly. I’ve tried cutting off for a week and reintroducing. I’ve tried feeding her hungry. I’ve tried feeding her full. Nope. Same drill. Eat a few bites. Then spit!
To add further insult to injury, on occasion, she’ll slurp up a ton of jarred cr*p. Oh well.
I’ve done it all. Various combos. Sweetening things up with fruit. Exotic. Bland. Basic. Carefully carved batons of little finger food for her to hold and try. None of it for Princess Pooh Pooh.
So after an impressive stint of making up batches of exciting things, I’ve given up and brought the offending jars to the party. Just in case you haven’t picked it up by now… that to me is like asking people over and ordering from…. Ummm Pizza Hut. Nothing wrong with it, but just so blah.
Oh well. Having minds of their own is a good thing right?
Yup, that’s what I’m telling myself for now. Until she’s a teen, and we have wardrobe issues I’m guessing. At which point I’ll pull out the my-roof-my-rules card that my mom played so often ;).
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