Sticky Pants

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Cy has started trying to feed himself. He’s slow and careful about it, meticulously getting food on his spoon and bringing it up to his mouth.

There it is...

There it is…

But his new favorite thing is to try to feed me too. I’m usually sitting with him in my lap, so inevitably, the yogurt, the milk, the rice…whatever it is, ends up in my lap and on the floor while my OCD neat-freak side cringes and shudders.

I know it’s super sweet that he wants to feed me, and really it’s no big deal to toss pants in the laundry, and that I have a choice to encourage him in his sweetness and to meet him on his level and engage with him where he is.

...someone inserting himself in the shot.

…someone inserting himself in the shot.

I know I should conclude this by saying something about how the sweetness matters more than sticky pants, because pants can always be washed, but sweetness can be lost.

And it does matter. It does.

And there it goes.

And there it goes.

But I still can’t help bemoaning the sticky pants.

I tell him what a wonderful boy he is, and I mean it. And secretly I sigh as I take a tissue and blot ineffectively at my pants.



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7 thoughts on “Sticky Pants

  1. Nicely written! You are so right, sweetness matter more! And manners – he'l certainly be a gentleman some day :-)

  2. I love this – because pants can always be washed, but sweetness can be lost – so true. But sometimes we forget when the sticky is all over us. That looks like pomegranates on his breakfast. I love them!
    Have a wonderful weekend.