May 19, 2010

January 14, 2010

When you were a newborn, you smelled like cookies to me.  A little bit spicy, a lot sweet.  Like an oatmeal cookie.  Or like a snickerdoodle.

You still smell like that sometimes, when we’ve washed all the food and dirt off but haven’t used much soap. The rest of the time though, you are all dirt and fruit and pasta sauce and oatmeal. You are river rocks and leather baseball gloves and rubber bouncy balls. You are cat fur and carpet fiber.

(Not Kitten’s fur though — that’s all skunk these days. Stupid cat. I hope he doesn’t forget that lesson.)

Pasta and blueberries

March 13, 2010, Pasta and marinara, blueberries

This week you are rain and snot. Today you stole half my sandwich and are mustard and rye, ham and havarti. Tomato.

(I wish I had tomatoes growing in our yard for you. Both your brothers spent their youngest summers eating tomatoes off the vine.)

Sam eating chili

March 15, 2010, Chili and Broccoli

This summer you’ll be thimbleberries and blackberries.  River water and sand.  Sunscreen and potato chips.

You have eight teeth. No molars yet.  I’m both thrilled and annoyed.  On one hand, that’s less time for cavities to form in those precious first year molars.  But it means your food choices are limited.

Isn’t that annoying?  You really like corn chips, and it frustrates you that we don’t give them to you.  Well, sometimes we do.  And then they get caught in your throat and you throw up on us.

(I love food, but desperately fall short in my abilities to keep the fridge full.  Your dad has no problem with that though.  I’ve become embarrassingly dependent on him, to the point that I barely know what’s in the cupboards most of the time.  He feeds us.  It’s lovely.)

It must be the salt that you like.  When Max was three, if I offered to salt his food, he would try new things.  Almost anything.  “Here,” I’d say to him, before he accused me of poisoning him with bland food, “do you want a little salt on that?”  And then he’d gobble it up.  Not meat though.  He’s never been a meat eater.  Just vegetables, really.  That’s all he likes.  And tofu.  Cereal.  Potato chips.  French fries.  Macaroni and cheese.  Applesauce sandwiches.  (Yeah, I know.  Matthew went through that phase too.  He’ll outgrow it.)

Matthew’s the meat eater.  He’ll eat the whole plate of BBQ if you don’t guard it carefully.

When you were a baby, you smelled like a snickerdoodle.


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