I would be a terrible mother

It's Ad rant day. Normally I get up pretty early and start perusing the yootoobs for TV commercials to send me over the edge, but this morning I overslept a bit, having a close call with a migraine last night.

At 8am, my sister tapped on the door.

"Is J. staying here with you this morning?"

I let out a low uncertain moan, and then remembered that I had volunteered to watch J. so my sister could run a couple of errands.

"Uuuuuuummmmm, yeah..."

"Are you okay?"

"Uuuuuuummmmm, yeah..."

She walked away, and I could see J.'s diapered shadow in the doorway.

So, it's been J. and me this morning. Poor kid, enduring Aunt -j-j- and her shuffling, rheumy attempts at sitting on the baby.

For the most part we've had a lovely time...or at least he has, talking with the Beatles. There was one moment of distress over the Woody doll "slapping" him on the arm. At least, I think that's what happened. Really, all I could make out from J. was a sense of pain and blame directed at Woody.

After a few moments of relative calm, I heard his voice from the kitchen.

"Dg-Dg (-j-j-)? Dg-Dg??"

I looked up from my computer to see J. idling by the fridge.

"What do you want, baby?"

He pointed to the fridge.

It is important to point out that this kid does not like to eat. One is lucky to get so much as three frozen peas and a two mostocioli noodles down his gullet, and this is after a good hour of the airplane-coming-into-the-hanger-singing-and-dancing-please-kid-just-eat-ONE-fucking-bite business.

So when he points to the fridge, I say "How High?"

I headed to the kitchen and stood before him. "What is it, baby? Do you want something?"

"Chz."

"Hm?"

"Chz...dg-dg."

"Cheese? Okay." I open the fridge. I know what he wants. He want that brick of Parmesan cheese he was taking surreptitious bites out of during dinner two nights ago (He would leave the table and return, moments later, from the kitchen, chewing. Later we discovered his tell tale one-tooth bite marks all over yellow brick of cheese.). We are out of that cheese.

"Well, sweetheart...here's what we got." I pulled four different bags of shredded cheese, 2 Cheddar, 1 Parmesan, 1 Mozzarella. I lay them out on the floor before him. "You get to choose one." I hold up a finger. "Only one."

He squats and surveys the embarrassment of cheese before him. J. points to the cheddar.

"Cheddar?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" (I ask this because I have fallen in to this super galactic freak out trap before, where a choice has been made, but the child did not understand fully the finality of that choice. Always best to make certain.)

"Yes...dg-dg."

The unwanted cheeses go back into the fridge. I open up the cheddar and dump some in a bowl. J. grabs a spoon from the clean dishes in the dishwasher.

So now, we are sitting together at the dining room table, while J. shoves spoon fulls of shredded cheese into his mouth, many of the orange pieces sticking to his chest and legs.

(Looking over)

Ah....now we have foregone the spoon and are just pouring the cheese into our mouths direct from the bowl.

On the scale of harmful things I could let J. eat (with Oatmeal being a 1 and CLR being a 10), I'd say a bowl of shredded cheese hits about a 1.5 . Still, I'm not doing any interviews with Chicago Parent anytime soon.



If you want me to babysit your kids, my going rate is $15/hr. I'll bring my own cheese.