So as ever in my quest to discover my true motives for my actions or lack of action, I brought up my food weirdness with my Walking Friend today. She's been on hiatus for a few months due to work so I haven't seen her in a while. She has a fourteen month old and a seven year old. So she's been around the block already with the first son and is experiencing it anew with the second. Also we share having been brought up in cult-like religions that later alienated us from our parents (not something the average person has any understanding of!). Today she mentioned her terror of being judged by other parents and how this relates to those old childhood feelings of being in this religion that everyone thinks is crazy and so always feeling defensive and like an outsider; I definitely get that!
But she did ask me why I'm so reluctant to dive into real food with B (and once again I have every intention of doing this once he officially hits a year old). At first I said, "I don't know!" But then I thought about it, and what it means. And please don't construe the following as me complaining about kids being too much work, or me being lazy (although that is somewhat true), or me being ungrateful. I'm just working all of this out in my head. And when I think about feeding B real food three times a day, I think about this: messes on the floor that have to be mopped up three times a day; clothes that get covered in slop and have to be changed several times a day; baths that have to be administered more often; cleaning of baby's dishes, sippy cups, utensils, etc, not to mention any extra items like hand blenders I need to use to make my food palatable for him. In other words, a LOT more work on a daily basis. As my friend pointed out, "it's opening a whole can of worms." Right now I'm in that sweet spot where he doesn't spit up anymore or blow out of his diapers anymore, so everything is neat and tidy and manageable. No messes, everything in order. What I'm looking at is things being messy, and out of order, and out of control. "Well, what the hell did you think would happen when you had a baby? Didn't you know things would be messy and inconvenient?" Yes, of course. But I reserve the right not to like it.
I feel like I felt at that six month mark when I lost it for a few days as B aged out of his swing and bouncy chair and went mobile. I kind of don't know what to do next. I am seconds away from graduating B out of his bucket seat car seat/stroller combo because he is about to meet the height/weight cut off. But when I think about what this means, the word "dismay" is all I can think to describe how I feel. It means no more napping while running multiple errands; no more carrying a napping baby up the stairs and having him continue to nap for an hour while I get things done around the house, eat lunch, etc; it also means sacrificing the ever- useful undercarriage storage for my non-storing umbrella stroller that comes next. It's going to change the way I do everything.
Then again, I freaked out when I lost the use of the swing because I thought it meant he'd never nap again, but still, he naps - in the jumper, in the car. I suppose something always presents itself to meet your changing needs. But he is about to be able to tip over both his GoPod (for use for him in the kitchen) and his jumper, and the crib in the bedroom will have to go soon, too, because he is so close to being able to climb out of it.
So there's a lot of change coming up for us. I feel all of my routines and habits having to change - everything, from sleeping to eating to playtime to baths to how we get in the car to what kind of errands I can do with him - and it scares the crap out of me. Did I mention I fear change?
Anyway. There's nothing to be done about it but put my big girl pants on and try to adapt as best I can. I'll figure it out. And fortunately along with these changes come good things, like ever-ramping up cuteness, the ability to clap, the enjoyment when I sing silly songs to him, watching him interact with other babies and learn how to play. I have no desire to keep him little. He has to grow. I just wish my cranky set-in-their-ways 40-year-old synapses could keep up!