Pass the brocolli please.

Dear Little Monster Blue, malady

You love your food, don’t you little man?

Coming into the world at a whopping 9lbs 9oz (nearly three years ago now) it was clear you’d been making the most of the ease of access to nutrition and sustenance whilst tucked up safe and warm in the confines of my tum. Nothing has changed since your arrival. You guzzled so much milk in the early days I sometimes wonder if this is where your love of cows developed. As a baby you were very keen to move onto the harder stuff long before you should have been. Puréed foods were a whole new world of discovery for you, with you often favouring broccoli over banana, which you still do. Blueberries weren’t so much of a hit as the entire light grey interior of my Golf found out when you projectile vomitted their super vitamin goodness all over the back of the car. Tomatoes were a worry in the early days too, swelling lips, quickly developing rashy face, vomitting (again) and a frantic trip to A&E confirmed that you were indeed allergic. But aside those there is nothing that causes you any woes when it comes to your grub.

I quite admire your ‘bring it on’ attitude. Heartening especially when I’m so fond of Being On A Diet. You tackle food with gusto, wrestling corn on the cob all slippery with butter into a tight vice like grip and demolish it in seconds.  You power through platefuls of pesto pasta, using your little hands as scoops when the fork to mouth action is proving to be too slow. In your world, soup was made for drinking, even when it’s chunky, and you crush yoghurt pots like Popeye with his can of spinach and squirt the contents in your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand and looking round for your next target.
When I’m cooking in the kitchen and I hear the pad pad pad of your feet wandering through, I just know the next thing I’ll hear is ‘Can I have something to eat please?’ Your daily nursery reports are always the same when it comes to your mealtimes. Lunch all eaten, seconds requested and plate cleared. You have been known to swipe whatever takes your fancy from my plate if you’ve finished all of yours and I know you trade carrots for broccoli with your sister if I need to leave the table during mealtimes. Not that you don’t line carrots… You just LOVE broccoli. But you’re not a greedy boy, and wont just eat for the sake of it. The pushing of your plate from one end of the table to the other like an ice hockey puck gliding across the ice whilst  shouting ‘take it awaaaay’ at the top of your voice is my least favourite of your less than desirable table manners.
Tonight you took the biscuit, no pun intended. After scoffing your brocolli before I’d even lifted my fork, making a smiley face with the cubes of roast gammon I’d chopped to Little Monster size and filling your Yorkshire pudding with mash and standing all your carrot batons upright in it to ‘make a cake’ you polished off your entire work of art meal with aplomb, declaring afterwards, ‘Im still hungry.’ The same three words followed after your yoghurt, again after a bowl full if grapes. One jammie dodger later and yes, you’re still hungry. Packed off for a bath regardless, being told by Daddy that you’d had enough to eat, you happily go to the bathroom with no fuss. Assuming you were reacquainting yourself with your Mickey Mouse toilet seat after last weeks unsuccessful attempt at toilet training, I left you to it whilst fetching PJ’s and towels.

The look on your face was priceless when I walked back into the bathroom, caught you red handed with the half squeezed toothpaste tube in your mouth and a pasty white beard like your hero Santa Claus.

‘But I was still hungry’ you said.

At least there was no need to fight to get you to brush your teeth tonight big guy.

Love Mummy xxx

PS: bagels and squeezy jam for breakfast tomorrow, followed by a toothpaste chaser?

No, I thought not.

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