simple things

Pasta: spaghetti, mostaccioli, ravioli, you name it. If it’s served with marinara, Ben has worn it on his face. Like his silky soft creamy white baby boy cheeks are some powerful tomato paste magnet.

Because it’s just too darn difficult for mom and dad to stab those slippery little noodles with those blunt little baby-forks in time to meet our hungry little dude’s demands, we’ve taken to letting Ben, well, attempt to feed himself. And I’m not going to say that he doesn’t do a good job of it. He does (insofar as the pasta eventually makes it into his stomach). But he also does a mighty fine job of feeding his hair, his shirt, his pants, the high-chair, the paint on the ceiling, and once in a while the poor cat just trying to sneak silently out of the room.

But it’s not just that he turns his high-chair into a model of performance art, it’s that he eats his pasta with an expression on his face implying that eating pasta with your fingers is perfectly normal. Like we should expect to find that this is the way they’ve been doing it for centuries back in Napoli. Like those two fools over there with their forks and what not, how are they supposed to realize the full flavor of mozzarella without first feeling it ooze between their clenched fingers?


When he’s finished, bare splotches of war paint surround his eyes leaving his face muddled something like an orange raccoon or a cute Hannibal Lecter. Anna and I don’t even bother with the pre-bath wipe down in these instances - just turn him around, pick him up at arms length, and drop-kick his naked butt into the tub. The last time I just left his clothes on as I plopped him into the water. No sense in chancing it. And because he’s getting so damn big so damn fast, you have to race him through the hallway and past the bathroom door before he has a chance to reach out and pinstripe something.

I suppose if we had a dog we could just let him clean the baby right there on the floor. That’s how the Italians do it.