Parents Eat Like Prisoners

First, I have to say that I'm moving over from my old blog, Pink Cereal and Raspberries. 

Farewell, old friend, you and I went through my single life and my budding relationship with my husband, but now it's time to move on. 

Feel free to take a look if you're curious about the path that led me here. 

That said...

I am not a convicted felon. I have never been to prison. The closest I ever got was when I had to go with my dad to juvenile hall to pick up his paychecks back in the day.  The slamming metal door behind me and the threat of having go sleep on straw (straw, I tell you!) was more than enough to assure my goody-two-shoes-ness for all time.

I also watched Orange is the New Black. So, you know, I know things.

I have realized that, as the parents of a toddler, my husband and I eat like prisoners, as quickly as we can to get out of the way before trouble starts.

As the parents of an infant, we had TIME.  Everyone wanted to hold our snuggly baby, and we had free hands and time to savor a meal. At six months, we started introducing new foods. He loved sampling sweet potatoes and playing with some small toys on his highchair. Aww, look at us, with our sweet baby eating at the table.

And then.

Wham.

Toddler-hood.

We tag-team it through dinner preparation.  My husband serves it. I grab a bib and work on getting our son into the highchair, though he has abandoned the decorative, fashionable, adjustable one in favor of the plain, plastic portable one I bought for trips (or course).  He sits in his chair, on the floor.  He will get seated, then scream when we buckle him and calm down once he realizes what's happening.

"Eat!"

I start to feed him the beans he loves.

"No no!"

"Hot!"

"Hummy!"

We set him up with some hummus and a spoon, and we are good for 10 minutes, 15 max.

Then it begins.

Prison eating.

I shovel food in my face like I'm about to get shanked.  I taste something. Is that garlic? Who cares? There is no time to taste food.

(sidenote: I used to think my 30 minute lunches at work were too short....jeez, childless self, you were a greedy little thing, weren't you?)

I swallow enough protein and carbs to get through the hour before bedtime. This is survival eating, people.

"Done!"

"Are you done, sweetie?"

"No."

I take a couple more bites.

"Down!"

"Are you all done?"

(shakes his head)

I swallow some water, or, maybe, just maybe, a sip of wine.

"Mommeeeeeeee"

"Are you all done?"

He responds with the ONE baby sign he knows, shaking both hands to show he's done. Which means I'm done, too.

Now, it's time to clean him.  By this point, he is more hummus than child.  I run for the baby wipes. My husband picks up the stray food on the floor.

"No no!" My son says as I wipe the globs of hummus off of his chin and his sticky little hands.

Finally, he's free.

And he turns right back around to play with the the buckles of the highchair, the instrument of his toruture.

Maybe, since he's playing, we can shovel the last bits of food in our mouths?

I sit back down.

"Mommy? Up?" He grabs my hand and drags me into the living room.

Dinner is over. It's time for group exercise.