My nine month old child is a really great eater.
Of course now that I’ve thrown that out into the universe, she’s going to reject all foods and go on a nursing strike, which is par for the parenting course. It smacks you upside the head when you least expect it.
Parenting, at least in the early months (I can’t speak for the rest yet), is a roller coaster ride with as many peaks as valleys. It’s exhilarating, exhausting and it leaves you feeling hung over without actually drinking. Then again, maybe I did have a glass of wine. Who can remember these days?
In any event, my child has pushed every button, hit every nerve, fatigued ever muscle including my mental prowess and brought me to the brink of insanity more times than I can count. It’s possible I’m being a bit dramatic, although only slightly.
Each time, exactly when I’m at my limit and ready to break, she sleeps through the night, calms her cries, or gives me a great big toothless grin. She mumbles “momma,” nestles her head into my breast or snuggles into my side. Those little moments give me power and propel me forward. Sleep returns and with it my sanity. After a couple of good days, maybe even weeks if I’m lucky, I find myself saying, “I’ve got this,” and then the next storm hits. Teething is in her near future.
In order to survive, you need a great sense of humor, a strong support system, coffee, all the coffee, chocolate, did I mention coffee, booze and Zoloft, but we’re not here to talk about my needs and eats today.
First Breakfast (multiple breakfasts is a baby after my own heart): milk, specifically cultivated by me and from me for her. Yes, the tiny human and I are still nursing, which I never would have thought possible given our rocky start and yet, here we are.