I am not sure why The Boss decides she is done eating, mid-bite. I am staring at tight lips that keep those last morsels hidden between teeth and tongue. I am waiting it out. I am getting antsy because she cannot be put down for a nap with a gluey mound of mastication hanging out in her maw. I am telling her to chew, or spit, or do something. I am seeing the stubborn set of her father's jaw in her face. I am thinking about the day before yesterday, when two hours elapsed, but a spoonful of peas and carrots remained. I am watching the line of her lips, which sometimes creases into a v of pink baby flesh, but never parts. I am finally squeezing her cheeks. I am covered in dinner vegetable broken down by saliva into a runny cream of corn. I am sopping it off her body and mine. I am holding her hysterical head. I am singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I am moo-ing and cluck-ing and wondering why she must horde food like that. I am asking myself what she's waiting for.
Today's post is brought to you courtesy of the "I am" meme as sent my way by Slouching Mom.