The Chef part of the relationship out at work, so the non-chef person – ie Me! – at home cooking dinner.
I mush some potato for Chippie, add bits and pieces of what the rest of us normal people are eating, moosh it some more and pop him in his highchair.
Monkey Boy, being uncharacteristically helpful this evening, hangs Chippie the entire bowl, complete with spoon, before I’m close to ready. The fact he has the spoon means he’s never gonna give it up. And its covered in crap, so I don’t want to touch it now, anyway. Euwww.
I also figure he has to fend for himself at some point in his life, why the hell not now. So I leave him to feed himself. Although not entirely convinced he’s actually consuming anything, as it appears the mush is all over his face, bib, floor, walls and ceiling fan 3 rooms away.
We’re all happily sitting, eating (gorging) our dinner and I hear Chippie struggling to breath. Now, a normal mum would panic, rip her child from