haftalaph

I have to laugh.I have to laugh.I have to laugh.I have to laugh...or I might cry/scream/eatadozencookies/gotobedbeforemychild...

The night was right on schedule. Sam had a great time playing in the tub. We laughed while I got him dressed in fresh, clean pajamas. It was time for the obligatory pre-bed snack. (A necessity to ensure that Sam doesn't wake up at 4:30am starving...well, mostly ensures...) I suggested string cheese, raisins, and pretzels. A well-beloved choice. A virtually mess-free menu.

But, no. Sam is his father's son. He wanted cereal. Raisin Bran. With milk. I knew it was coming, but I got him a bowl of the mushy, sticky stuff anyway. What can I say, I love the kid.

I strapped him in his high chair, complete with tray (he's been using it as a booster lately to eat at the table with us). Contain the chaos. I put on his bib, you know, the all plastic one with the pocket. I sat down to work on a project that makes me feel like I got hit in the face with a cream pie.

I heard a slosh. Didn't expect this.

A bowlful of cereal right in the pocket (mostly).

A very proud Sam.

At least he's using his spoon, right?

Can you see it in his hair? Up his nose? In his ear?

(That's right. In his ear. I almost took a picture to document it. Then I thought, do I really want to document this? Guess I did.)

Turns out, he can't slurp the milk out of his bib. Had to scoop it back into the bowl.

Ironic.

So proud he could hardly stand it.