In six days, Michael will be six months old. You know what that means: it’s time for the first meal.
I was determined to make it all the way to six months on breast alone this time, but like his brothers, he had other ideas. Ideas that involve wailing if left on the floor during a meal, lunging for wine goblets, pulling Mommy’s plate toward him, and grabbing my hand and when he saw a cookie in it and trying to get it in his mouth. (Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, he was much more insistent about that one than the others.) It’s bittersweet, passing this milestone this time. And I am really not looking forward to the pain in the neck that is having to prepare and feed and carry food with us wherever we go. Sigh.
But his godparents were in town this weekend, so we let them do the honors. I think I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves today.
And perhaps that last picture gives you the idea that all is not bliss in the era of new solid-food-eater. All the other kids have done quite nicely learning to, I don’t know, SWALLOW. Not this one. He pretty much lets it all come sliding back out the front, nicely juiced up with saliva. For the first three days I’m not at all sure he actually ate anything. On day four, I saw him eat the last three bites. On day five, I learned that I have to put a finger on his chin and close his mouth on the food, and then he’ll actually swallow. Sometimes.
Good thing I’m wanting to take it slow anyway.