Alex ate at least three-quarters of a box of Macaroni and Cheese for lunch today, immediately after ingesting a container of yogurt, a granola bar, and a serving of pureed fruit. He ate so much that I needed a cigarette after watching him tear through it all.
When he was first born and nursed approximately 14 hours a day (I only wish I were exaggerating), I was convinced that the reason he had to eat so damn much was because my body wasn’t producing enough milk to sustain his frame. Little did I know that he was merely born with a metabolism I would kill for (much like his good old Dad).
It’s funny, because I used to hate people like myself, whose kids ate normal food without acting like it was laced with rat poison, because my darling firstborn ate so little that I often wondered how he gained weight at all.
And that’s one of those things that you place blame squarely on yourself, partially because you feel the all-too-familiar tug of Parental Guilt tapping you on the shoulder (none too gently), and partially because other people blame you for it. It’s amazing how quick to judge other people become when you have a Non-Eater for a child, like you alone are responsible for their shitty diet (and I swear on all that is holy that I eat more than saltines and oatmeal).
Save from paternity, all the variables are very similar between my kids, and who knows, maybe Ben didn’t want to eat because he felt nauseous knowing who his father was. Shit, I know that fact made ME skip a few meals.
It’s one of those funny things that has redeemed me time and again with Alex. Just knowing that I am not at fault (and never have been) for all of Ben’s “issues” has made the sleepless nights and hair pulling worth it’s weight in gold.
Now if you’ll excuse me, dear Internet, whom I love more than life itself, I must go save the cat from being eaten by the baby. Lunch was an hour and a half ago, and he’s HUNGRY again.