Feeding baby

c. 1984 Susan Marks Conner

The juice has gone flying,

your pants they are wet.

Green beans in your hair

are beginning to set.

You finger the eggs

with the tiniest squeeze,

wait til it’s grape juice

for the largest grand sneeze.

It’s the cutest darn game

you’ve started to play,

flinging raisins and peas

both near and away.

Bread spread with peanut butter

reposed in your hair,

you pluck it out gently

and offer to share.

You’re doing quite well

in your work with a spoon,

you’ll have it down pat

by next April or June.

It’s the sauce and the gravies

that cover the ribs—

I send up a quick prayer—-

Thank God for bibs!

You wear such a smile

as you play in the soup,

I haven’t the heart

to wipe off the goop.

Your eating’s not just confined to highchair,

your snacks are dust fuzzies and bits of brown hair.

And sometimes you relish what the dog wouldn’t dare.

The training cup now seen afloat

in the toilet.

I question myself—

Do I toss it or boil it?

Bathing daily in oatmeal,

you rinse off with squash,

then stare in amazement as I again do the wash.

I know that I will never see

a baby tidy as can be

for more than a just a minute or three.