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.
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.
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.
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.