“You’re so lucky.”

“I wish that were the least of my problems.”

“It could be worse, you know.”

Those are just a few of the statements I’ve heard over the past couple of days and I really can’t argue with them.   The statements nor their authors irritates me even slightly.   I am fortunate, but I still can’t help but shake my head sometimes.  

For the first week and a half of Davey’s life, he lost weight.   It was never dramatic and on occasion his weight remained steady.  We attributed it to a lot of things, first being that my milk hadn’t come in yet.  Second, that Davey wasn’t latching on appropriately and frankly I was getting tired with him constantly stuck to my boob.  And then there was the fact that he would fall asleep as well.  Flash forward about 8 months and it’s a completely different story.

Davey loves food.   For this, I know he’s definitely a product of me and my husband.  My mother told me that I could go through large baby jars of food faster than the average baby would go through a small one.   I never turned up my nose at food, although that has since changed in my adulthood.

My husband, if he had his wish, would be a chef of his own restaurant.   This man’s palate is indescribable.   I have yet to meet someone who can turn eating food and dissecting its ingredients into a hobby.  Alas, my palate isn’t that aggressive.  

I can only imagine what Davey’s palate is like, and food does not seem to be his enemy, something that I hear other mothers have an occasion to contend with.

My child is a combination of a bird and a pig.   His mouth is constantly open and when he gets a bowl of food, he’s a hot mess, sloughing around in it.  

Last night, my husband and I sat down in the family room, with our own separate bowls of ice cream.   Davey had already enjoyed his dinner and his dessert.   As a matter of fact, he was oblivious to my husband and me, as he sat in the floor and played with his toys, his back towards us.   It wasn’t until he heard a spoon scrape against a bowl, that his ears perked up.  He turned around and looked at both of us, eyes volleying back forth as if watching a match at Wimbledon.   His little nose crinkled and he sniffed a couple of times, before dropping his toys and crawling over to me and my husband.

He quickly pulled himself up, holding on to the edge of the couch.   He opened his mouth wide and let out a whine of disapproval that we were trying to smuggle food without him.   He bounced up and down and continued with his mouth open wide, the incessant droning of his whine spilling out.   And at that point, my boy, my little piggy, had resorted to becoming like our dog…begging for food.  

Again, I suppose it could be worse.   I don’t forsee dinner time becoming an issue in our house.   Actually, I don’t forsee breakfast or lunch or snacktimes becoming an issue.   Yes, I know, there are worse things my child could be doing.