We are discovering we can never have too many baby spoons. In the beginning, it was binkies and burp rags we couldn’t have enough of. Now it’s spoons.
Not counting the spoons on hand in the diaper bag, the spoons left at Grandma’s, and the spoon casualties of the garbage disposal, each meal requires at least three of them. One in each of Andy’s hands, one to aim in his mouth, and several spares in case he flings the spoons he’s holding in order to “help” us with the spoon we’re feeding him with. It’s a revolving door of spoons. I dream of drawers full of rainbow colored, rubber-tipped baby spoons. Enough so I never have to wash them in the middle of a meal. Enough so I never have to wash them, ever.
Our friends Joel and Jill have a slightly younger, more vigorous little guy than our Andy. Several months ago, we had dinner with them, and the subject of meal times came up. Joel was in the middle of a story warning us of things yet to come: “and the pea coated spoon sailed across the kitchen table”. The waiter came by to see if we needed anything and overheard the conversation. He shook his head with pity: “So this is what dinner topics are reduced to when you become a parent: spoons?” He walked away, probably thinking he’d never have children, or, if he did, would never be reduced to such a boring topic when out to dinner. What he didn’t realize is that there are no subjects more interesting when you’re in the thick of babyhood than eating, not sleeping , and pooping. Stories of spoon flinging in the trenches is almost as good as it gets. Hearing that another parent had a hellacious, sleep-deprived night is even better. (In fact, I briefly considered ending our friendship with this couple upon hearing that their son is now sleeping through the night. But that’s a different story.)
My friend Sunshine is about to become a mommy. For her shower, she registered for cloth diaper covers and organic cotton jumpers, so that’s what I got her. But what I really wanted to get her was packages and packages of spoons.
