‘Not on the floor Henry!’
‘Put it in your mouth!’
‘Not the whole thing!’
‘Fine, just have some cheese!’
These are things I have said about 158 times this evening.
Whenever Henry is teething, dinner time is like a fight to the death. He always wins. He just wants cheese and grapes! All he needs to complete his meal is a fucking beaker of Pinot Noir and he’s sorted. The fussy fanny!
I slave away in the kitchen preparing a healthy delicious meal, which is then thrown on the floor or shoved down the side of his high chair. This obviously pleases me. So much.
It’s not his fault the poor little sausage. He is obviously in pain and the coolness of the cheese and grapes is probably quite soothing on his little gummy bears. But come the fuck on. I have just had to hoover the floor, the high chair and my son. Much to his dislike.
Come on teeth! Hurry up and cut through so we can go back to normal dinner time when I only have to pick up half your dinner off the floor instead of the whole fucking thing.
He’s in bed now so it’s time to relax and get over my dinner time paddy!
I’m looking at his peaceful little face on the baby monitor and I’ve forgiven him. I always will. No matter how much mess he makes.