Messy Business

If not done properly, feeding a baby can be a messy business. I took a turn feeding my grandson, Micah, the other day. Other than finger-food (Cheerios, cut-up/smashed-up bananas and Puffs) placed on the tray of his high-chair, he can’t yet feed himself.

Micah likes to eat, and he isn’t very patient with someone unaccustomed to feeding a baby. His body language lets you know he’s ready to eat: his arms are extended, but slightly bent at the elbows; both his hands are flexing, eyebrows up, eyes big, mouth wide-open, accompanied by an occasional holler if you are too slow.

I had to ask what I was feeding him, as most everything has been blended into an unrecognizable consistency, although generally it’s color-coded. Green is peas, beans or zucchini; beige/oatmeal is oatmeal, rice cereal or ground-up chicken. Pears mixed with raspberries look like neither one, and pureed prunes look like so much mush. This time it was sweet potatoes, which look remarkably similar to carrots in their orangeness.

Micah likes fruit, and he’s learned to clap; so you have to be careful while feeding him applesauce that applause doesn’t suddenly erupt. I did have an audience when I was feeding him, and from what I could tell, we made a very entertaining pair.

At first I thought his mother and grandmother were laughing at Micah, but it became clear that I was the clown. It’s hard to hit a moving target with a spoonful of goo and all the while tiny hands are trying to grab it. At least half of the spoon’s contents ended up all over his face, which had to be scraped off for another go around.

As I repositioned myself, I mistakenly set the bowl down, which he quickly grabbed. By then food was everywhere – hands, face and hair.  I was a mess, so I took a break and went to the sink to clean myself up as best I could and then returned to the battle. But I had been relieved of my post by Rhonda, who finished the job in expert fashion.

Micah’s mother, my daughter Jennifer, is quite particular on the foods she will feed him. She prefers natural food of the organic variety, nothing I would want to eat mind you – but she’s the mom. She and her mother share a garden at our farm, and my job is to till it twice a year.

This year I added some ingredients to the soil. Our neighbors, the Duklets, have horses, and while I was removing the corn stalks from the garden I made arrangements over the fence with Duke to get some manure. As I was driving the tractor back from his place with a bucket full, the wind caught some and blew it into my face. Lovely.

After my third trip Rhonda reminded me that we had a pile of chicken poop (manure didn’t sound right) in the barnyard that had been seasoned and was ready for garden application. By then I had learned to lower the bucket beneath head height to avoid getting a face full. 

Then she suggested that I clean the old hay bales from the barn and put them in a compost pile for next year’s garden. The hay was dusty, moldy, rotting and rather unpleasant.  I added it to the list of things I was wearing on my shirt and pants. 

Even though usually I will wear clothes on a Saturday that I can rip, stain or soil with no regret, I found by the end of the day my clothes were ready to be washed separately from everything else. If not done properly, gardening, like so much of life, can be a messy business.