Imagined Rivalry and a Little Bit of Bragging

One day I will find myself telling my son, “Yes, son, it’s true. We do let her do more than you at that age.” I already know this because I’m already doing it.

We let baby E whine a few seconds longer when we know it’s not critical. We let her chew on brother’s cars as long as we’re close enough to perform the baby Heimlich. When she pulls herself up to standing, we let her play on the edge of the rocking chair until she falls and hurts her lip, even when we know that is the inevitable end to the fun.

When E told me, “Mommy, baby food is not food!” it sounded kind of like, “Thppthhhppthhp. Blaaaaaaaaah. Blaaaaaaaah. Zbwwww.”

G’s transition to table food followed the usual progression: flakey white stuff dissolved in warm mommy milk, smushed up yellow stuff in a jar mixed with flakey white stuff and warm mommy milk, smushed up orange stuff in a jar, smushed up green stuff in a jar, and then not-so-smushed up brown, orange, yellow and green stuff that looks pretty much the same in the diaper as it does in the jar. Then, practice table food. And then real table food, only in very small pieces.

E has begun her transition to table food a little earlier than her brother at 7 months. However, she refuses to eat anything from a jar. Her progression began with a dive into my banana. Then she ravaged an avocado. Saltines were next. She choked a little, but nothing serious. At dinner with Pops, she delighted in a scoop from my sweet potato, complete with butter and molasses—Annie will be proud. Yesterday, she smeared her first animal cracker all over brother’s first 100-piece puzzle (yeah that’s bragging but I’m the mama).

So while we let our second child take greater risks than our first, I’m confident and comfortable in knowing it’s not neglect. Because when we hug her tight and kiss her owies and tell her it will be ok, we know, this time, that we’re telling the truth.