“I give up” that’s what she said. “You win” She reached over the high chair tray. Its contents resembling the aftermath of a tornado having a heyday in a trailer park.
She tried two types of baby food
She tried hot dogs
She tried cooking fresh vegetables
She gave up
Nothing he would take.
He would protest… shuddering, shaking his head, flailing his arms.
Anything within reach flies through the air, crashing to the ground with a big splat.
I’m convinced plastic was invented by a parent.
She carefully places her feet precariously between landmines to keep balance and lifts a gooey mess out of the chair and sits him on her lap.
Quietly now, he confidently he picks up the spoon.
He dips it in the bowl and expertly puts it in his mouth.
It wasn’t about food.
It was a battle of wills.
Asserting his independence
Today he won.
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