My Danny baby and his Papa were bonding over food again. My baby son was giggling as he threw Cheerios at my husband's mouth, and I set my eldest boy on the scene with the video camera. The thought occurred to me that I get such joy out of that sound I want to have it for dreary days in my old age.
And he's my last baby.
Sometimes I'm very sad to think that. But sometimes I want to cry dramatically with arms flung wide, "Save me! Save me now or give me patience!"
Or maybe I should climb a chair and cry with a passionately shaking fist, "Give me patience or give me a break!"
My husband and my Danny Sam have spent a good deal of time bonding over food. That is owing to me, of course. Not because I make such wonderful food that everyone is thrown into raptures and bounces around the table clapping each other on the back - no - but because I sit with my ribs creaking against the table, my chair as close as I can draw it without snapping said ribs. I do this to prevent children from settling on my lap like wayward pigeons when I'm trying to eat. I learned a while ago that it drives me crazy to be craning around a little person to get at my plate. I cannot be denied that little scrap of peace over my evening meal surely?
So Matthew invites our littlest ones onto his lap, and that is how Danny Sam discovered the comical nature of a fork. He grabbed his papa's and speared it into the plate. The strike of metal on stoneware delighted him. Giggling he thrust the fork like a pitchfork into green beans and spaghetti time and again, not always coming up with food but never failing to giggle joyfully at the sound it made. While he played thus dangerously, and Matthew valiantly tried to prevent him from accidentally hurting himself or his papa, Danny Sam turned his laughing eyes often on his papa's face, looking for that camaraderie over cutlery.