Not So Fast, Mister

For dinner tonight we had lasagna and a salad.  It was a normal dinnertime.  Everyone eating while we all discussed our day.

Until Cuckoo asked for seconds of lasagna.

We have a rule in the house that you can't have seconds of your favorite part of the meal until you eat the other items on your plate.

Cuckoo is a stubbornly picky eater.  So when he asked for more lasagna, we braced ourselves.  He hadn't had a nap today, so a meltdown when we told him he had to eat his salad first was inevitable.

Hubby carefully put one leaf of lettuce on Cuckoo's plate.

Cuckoo announced, "I'm a big kid now!" and put the lettuce in his mouth.

We all stared open-mouthed, sure he would spit it out.  No way was the picky eating going to be broken this easily.

But it was.

Not only did he eat it, but he asked for a whole bunch more.

Hubby loaded up the plate.

Cuckoo had a hard time picking it up with his fork.  Now he'll give it up, right? 

Nope.  He asked Buttercup to help him.

He ate a whole big bunch of salad.

And I cried.

Babies are not supposed to become big kids with a snap of the fingers.

It takes time.

I need time to adjust.

Especially when that baby is the last one I'll ever have.

And you know I told him so.

As he ate that blasted salad, I did the fake, dramatic cry, telling him he was my baby and not allowed to grow up.

Did he listen?  Did he consider my feelings?

Nope.

He came right over to my chair, looked up into my eyes, and said, "Can you please help me put my salad on my fork?  I'm a big kid."

Lucky for me, he's short.  10th percentile.  Won't be able to climb out of that crib for years.