Friday afternoon it was just me and Isaiah, biggest grump and littlest grump. I was painting when he woke from his nap, and so I fetched him from his crib and we tried to figure out what to do with each other until the Mama and brothers came home. I put on my Best of Steely Dan CD. There’s something both troubling and endearing about seeing one’s year-old baby wiggle in delight to:
“The Cuer–vo Gold, the fine Co–lum–bian…”
But we went with it. For all Isaiah knew, they were singing:
“Some Ma–ma milk, some squished up ba–na–na…”
You didn’t know this, but Isaiah has had trouble swallowing. He would gag even on baby food, and he wasn’t gaining weight. The doctor had his throat X-rayed, which revealed nothing abnormal. We were relieved by this, though perturbed by the extra year’s savings I’ll have to put away to pay for the therapy he’s going to need after the psychological trauma of the X-ray, which involved me handing him over to strangers who shoved him beneath a big scary machine. If he refuses to get in cars when he’s older, and insists on sleeping outdoors, and has trust issues, we’ll know why, won’t we?
The point is, we’ve been excited by little milestones, like his not choking on mashed sweet potato. So there we sat on the kitchen floor, Isaiah and me. He had a lean and hungry look, young Isaiah, and I was feeling a rumbly in my own tumbly. So I fetched the Cheerios.
I sat down in front of him and opened the box. He did a happy, anticipatory wiggle. “I think you’re ready,” I told him. He wiggled. I gave him a Cheerio. He gummed and chewed at it, let it float around in his mouth for a minute, and then swallowed with a smile. I clapped, and he wiggled, and then he squawked for another.
So we sat on the kitchen floor and ate Cheerios, and it was a good afternoon.