I came across an unpublished draft from August of 2012. The draft contained the title “Food Related.” and the following body text: The Bowl. Mmmmm. Moo. Breakfast. 

Amazingly, I remember the stories associated with three out of the four, so approximately a year on, here we go…

The Bowl.

I made dinner and served it up like I did every other night, or at least I thought I did. The minute the bowl touched the tray of his high chair, Jack started crying. We went through the usual laundry list of questions — too hot? need milk? want a fork? a spoon? water instead? — but nothing stopped the crying. Instead, he moved to shrieking. In true parenting genius, we dug in our heels and made him sit there and cry his snot into his food until he ate at least a bite of it. We thought we were strong. 20 agonizing minutes later, Bill grabbed the bowl of food and dumped it in another bowl. Silence. He wiped away the tears and started eating. It was the bowl. The bowl!?!? Turns out he didn’t want to eat out of the “big boy” bowl but his own plastic bowl. Sigh.

Mmmmmm.

Every time a commercial with a hamburger comes on, preferably Hardees or Rallys, you know the messier the better, little man smacks his lips and says “mmmmmm”. Sorry marketers, it doesn’t work on his mama. Gag.

Moo.

Bill and I decided we needed some food, and we weren’t going to cook it and we wanted it fast. Enter Penn Station. I don’t know about the Penn Station’s by your house, but the one by us seems to be the slowest sandwich-making shop ever. As a result, we called our order in. With Bill on the telephone, and in mid-sentence of ordering the Philly Cheesesteak, Jack starts mooing. And doesn’t stop. Yes, thanks child, point taken. Hush.

Breakfast.

I’m not sure what I was going to write about breakfast. He likes it. He has a bowl of oatmeal with molasses and wheat germ every day. And he doesn’t complain one bit. Bless.