I am not going to claim that since becoming a Pop I have changed in any dramatic way, had any life altering epiphanies or turned into a “Dad.” I mostly feel like the same kid with the exception that now when I do anything I have a kid of my own by my side (or as he prefers in my or his momma’s arms). Sure I have taken on a more eheffyouitsnobigdeal kind of approach to the things that I may have in the past worried more about, but that’s no big surprise. Anyone who has had kids I’m sure will tell you that the everyday inanities and insanities of life just kind of melt into the background. I am no exception.
Of course there are those observations I have made that make me feel like I am actually a parent. Those little rings of the tree that will be ingrained into his head for the rest of his life. Most recently what I picked up on was how early we are taught to walk the line of sweet and savory. And how it’s no surprise that people (at least those of us with taste buds) would gladly take our dessert before our supper. This is no accident. It can be blamed directly on on our Mother’s (or indirectly I guess as they really have no control over it). Unless you are a formula fed baby, then it’s just society.
Apparently the way the milk flow works (and I’m sorry if you don’t want to read about breast feeding, I know it’s like the ultimate taboo in America. Get over it it’s the most natural part of nurturing a child), is that the baby starts by receiving the sweet sugary milk first. I am sure this is no accident. Bribery is one of the first life lessons learned.
“Oh hey kiddie, want something to eat?”
“But I swear it’s nice and sweet!”
“Mwaaa, whaa, whaa”
“OK, I’ll take that as a yes”
But then after a few minutes the good hearty fatty milk kicks in and takes over. By this time it’s to late for the baby to revolt against this forced nourishment. He is latched and there ain’t no getting ’em off. I know they gotta fatten up and all but it seems an absolutely devious (and genius) design of the female body. Ba-bye sweet sugary goodness, hello chubby cheeks and cottage cheese “baby” thighs.
Now, I know that when I go to the cookie jar before dinner to spoil that upcoming meal it’s not my fault. It was born into me.