Anyway, Henry’s been watching a lot of Dumbo lately, although we fast-forward over the scene where Dumbo and Timothy the mouse get drunk. (Also, I’m troubled by the scene with the crows, but the racism flies several feet over Henry’s head, so…we’ll deal with that eventually.) You may not remember this, but in the movie, Dumbo’s mother, Mrs. Jumbo, gets locked up in a solitary trailer away from all the other animals after she attacks some people who were teasing Dumbo (“She made a bad choice in the heat of the moment and got put in time out,” is how I explain it to Henry). Later in the movie, to cheer Dumbo up after he messes up a performance, Timothy takes him to see his mother, who pokes her trunk out a barred window, gathers up Dumbo, and gently rocks him. It’s a scene that will make even the most hard-hearted melt.

And it’s the scene that Henry wants to re-enact daily. “Mommy,” he says as he takes me by the hand, “I want to go to your room. Come rock your baby elephant.” He curls up very small in my arms (no mean feat, considering he’s the size of a four-year old now), and I rock him and sing very softly to him. Sometimes it makes me a little weepy. And then he realizes that he’s been calm and quiet for a bit longer than his toddler brain can handle, so he busts out of my arms and says, “Mommy elephant, I gonna find a hammer and break you out!” I interpret this whole thing to mean Henry’s a little ambivalent about growing up.

***

We have to remind Henry nightly to eat like a human at the dinner table. He’s taken to eating like a goat (his words:  “Mommy, I eating like a GOAT”), which basically amounts to him putting his face to his plate and snarfing up whatever’s right under his mouth. He hasn’t yet figured out how to tilt his head so he doesn’t get food all over his forehead while doing this, so it’s incredibly messy. It started with him eating sunflower seeds out of my hand and then morphed into this ridiculous scene at the dinner table. We have to keep reminding him that he has to respect his fellow diners at the dinner table and that he can do silly things like that when he’s anywhere BUT sitting at the dinner table. This message has yet to sink in. We get strange looks when we take him to restaurants. Ah, well.

Lounging with lollipop loot:

This weekend really couldn’t have been any better. I have the best family!

Of late, he’s been very unhappy with anyone else feeding him (or even deign to help him), and he has to do it all by himself. This he announces by yelling “Self! Self!” (This, in itself, is strange, because he’s regularly speaking in 3 or 4 word sentences. Except when he wants to do something on his own. Then it’s just “no”s and “self”s.) He’s also started drinking out of a cup when he eats his meals. (“Cup! Cuppy! Cup!”)

As much as he likes feeding himself and drinking out of an uncovered cup, it tends to get on the messy side. Food drops off his fork. It tumbles off his spoon. Milk pours out of his mouth. And all of it falls onto his bib, his shirt, and his lap. When feeding him particularly messy stuff (spaghetti, soup, etc.), we’ve started to take his shirt and pants off first.

That’s classy, my friends.

Class is when your son is sitting in his high-chair, his hair a flowing mullet, wearing diapers and a bib, with food spilling out of his mouth and all over his person.

Of course, he is using a fork, so it’s all for the sake of growing up.

That really didn’t make any sense…

Anyway, fruit aside Henry loves to eat, and is getting pretty good at the spooning and forking and general shoveling. He’s still wearing a bib (when does that stop?), but usually he’s not so filthy after he eats that we have to immediately give him a bath.

The biggest problem is that, given a choice, Henry would eat pasta and cheese exclusively.

“Henry, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Pasta.”

“Let’s think of something different. How about some oatmeal? Or a waffle?”

“Cheese.”

“How about sausage?”

“Sausage!? Uh…” (It is here that we think we have him, because usually an offer of some sort of encased meat will get to him. But, no…) “Pasta!”

Sigh.

Luckily, Henry’s love for pasta and cheese encompasses all their variants. So he’s not just eating American cheese or mozzarella string cheese. He loves feta and sharp cheddar and blue, and has, of late, been devouring this garlic cheddar like it’s candy. (For him it is candy.) And it’s definitely not just macaroni and cheese or spaghetti with Ragu; he loves ravioli with spinach or stuffed shells or chunky (ie, full of tomatoes and onion) sauce.

Last night, we were downstairs in the back patio area of our building where there are tables and chairs set up. Our neighbors were there eating their dinner (a pesto tortellini) and the one neighbor foolishly offered Henry some. A few minutes later, half her plate was empty and we were dragging a crying baby away.

“Pasta! Pasta!”

He doesn’t cry for me, his own father, but he’ll wail for food. Lovely.

But with each new thing that he learns, there are always bumps in the road (sometimes literally). With walking, there are the trips and falls and bruises that come with it. (With running, multiply those bumps by two.) With talking, there are the challenges of listening to him yell out “shit” in a crowded store (instead of “sit”) or “cock” (instead of “truck”). (Sorry for the blue language.)

And lately, Henry’s been feeding himself more. Not the picking it up with his hand and shoving it in his mouth, but using forks and spoons. Henry is good with many things; his aim, however, is not yet up to snuff. So spoonfuls of food tend to end up on his bib or the tray of the highchair or the floor as much as in his stomach.

As such, half of each meal is usually Henry feeding himself and the other half us feeding him.

Yesterday morning, however, things changed. I strapped him in his highchair, and he wailed. I tried to put on his bib, and more wails. Sliding the tray in, elicited the biggest wail of all. And when I spooned up a heaping pile of apple yogurt (one of his favorite flavors), he swatted it away.

He wanted nothing to do with me and my evil food. Not in the standard situation. Instead, he walked over to the table and chairs that his grandfather got him for Christmas, sat down, and said, “Eat.” So I put the yogurt in front of him, handed him a spoon, and, with no bib around his neck, he proceeded to eat the entire container.

Okay, not the whole container. Maybe half. The other half ended up on the table (which he smeared around a bit), on his green sweatshirt (just out of the wash), and in his hair (apple yogurt as a conditioner? perhaps).

And he loved it. He had the time of his life, with no wails.

Next up, of course, is to have him cook his own meals, and then ours. (And, most importantly, do the dishes, too.)

We went out to dinner on Saturday (Tex-Mex at Uncle Julio’s) and Henry surprised Raphe and I by snarfing down most of our chili con queso appetizer. Yesterday he went bananas in the produce department (ha-ha) of our local Dominick’s as we walked past a display of apples. “Apple! Apple! APPLE! AP-PLE! Apple apple apple apple apple!” We bought apples. The kid is eating us out of house and home!

Still am, in fact.

It’s the sickest I’ve been since I can remember. On Saturday, I started to feel a bit out of sorts. Sunday, I was worse. By Sunday night, I was shivering and feverish, and I was worse Monday morning.

I stayed home from work on Monday, of course. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. When I spoke with my boss on the phone Thursday, he told me to stay home on Friday so as not to get anyone at the office sick.

Yes, I’m still sick. Miserable. With coughs, fever, sinus headaches, and aches.

I went to the doctor who told me it was the flu (no, really?). When I asked if I should be tested for H1N1, he said that the results took five days, and by then, I’d either be getting better or hospitalized.

Nice, eh?

Well, five days later, and I’m feeling better. Not much better, but better. I actually left the house once yesterday and twice today. Last night was the first that I didn’t have to change my shirt at least once. (Ew.) I assume that this is the dreaded swine flu, and thankfully Henry has been vaccinated. Miraculously, Kristen seems to have either not gotten it or beaten it much more quickly than I did. (She, too, stayed home sick on Monday.)

So that’s why there hasn’t been any posts. You’d think that me sitting at home doing nothing (or trying to get work done) would give me ample opportunity to write the blog, but I had little or no energy for it and I lacked any amount of creativity.

But I’m back.

Before I get to Henry, a story.

A former co-worker of mine, Erika, was a strange eater. A lovely young woman (funny, terrific singer, Scandinavian), she and I and a few others would often head off to eat at a Greek diner around the corner from the office.

Now this place wasn’t terrific, but it made pretty solid diner food: club sandwiches, patty melts, Monte Cristos. And omelets. Erika always ate an omelet, with hash browned potatoes and wheat toast.

That is not strange. (Who doesn’t like an omelet?) What was strange was that she’d eat each individual food on her plate completely separately. First, she’d eat the omelet. Then the potatoes. Then the toast. She would not touch the potatoes until the eggs were gone.

I have never met another person who eats like this. It was shocking to me the first time I saw her do it, and every time since then.

What does this have to do with Henry? Well, Henry’s been getting much better with feeding himself with a spoon. Gripping it tightly in his hand, he will scoop up his macaroni and cheese or ravioli or vegetables, and shove it into his awaiting mouth-hole.

Then, as he still munches away, he’ll go in for the next scoop.

There is only one drawback to this in that it doubles meal time. While Kristen or I can get him fed in 15 minutes if we’re in control of dispensing the food, when Henry’s in charge, it becomes quite the marathon.

Lately, however, he’s been doing something that would make Erika go nuts.

He’ll take a scoop of something solid. Let’s say it’s some rotini with ground turkey sausage. With the spoon full, he’ll move over to another bowl on his highchair tray, something a little more loose (applesauce, hummus), and take a scoop of that.

He’s mixing his food.

Is this something to be excited about or is this just the fever talking? I’m thinking we have to be even more adventurous and offer him sauces and more.

Anyway, that’s one quick story (preceded by two other quick stories), and with me on the mend, there will be more. Promise.

Henry, too, eats nearly any food that is put in front of him. The exceptions are avocado and banana. I have no idea why he won’t eat either — texture perhaps — but each one will immediately be spit out after we spoon some into his mouth.

This week, Henry has eaten: yogurt (4 different flavors), pasta with marinara sauce, macaroni and cheese, beans and sausage, cheddar cheese, apple, pear, pineapple, beef stew (yes, beef stew!), grilled chicken, scrambled eggs, turkey meatballs, pancakes, hummus, and this strange Southwestern style bean and rice cake. (Oh, and he ate some prunes because he was a little constipated.)

Introducing a new food to Henry is a three step process. The first is putting a little piece of whatever it is on a plate in front of him or, if it’s particularly smooshy, right in his mouth. He will chew on this new substance for about 10 seconds then pull it out of his mouth, and go onto to eat something he’s already tried. If he gets a sour look on his face, then we know this may not be a food for him. (You should see what he looks like after eating some avocado.)

The second step is, a couple of days after introducing the food to him, giving him a little more of the food. If he hadn’t made a face the first time, he’ll start double-fisting whatever’s in front of him until it’s all gone.

The third step is put the food down in front of him and keep your fingers away from his mouth lest you plan on losing a pinkie.

For example, on Sunday, I cut up a pineapple for Kristen (her favorite fruit) and we gave Henry a piece to try. He smelled it, put it in his mouth, and he chewed on it until ultimately spitting it out and going onto whatever else was in front of him. On Tuesday, we tried again, and this time he couldn’t eat the stuff fast enough.

Henry’s only current issues with mealtime are that he’s found that dropping food on the floor and throwing it at Kristen or me can be just as fun as eating (these are the times that we wished we had a dog) and that announcing he’s full encompasses him shoving as much food into his mouth as possible, chewing it for 30 seconds, and then letting it dribble out of his mouth and down his bib.

He’s a classy guy.

I’ve been reminiscing a bit the past few days, looking at old pictures and videos. (If you’d like to look at some yourself, see some pictures here and videos here.) And every time I look at something one or two or three months old, I can’t believe how much Henry has physically changed. But even though he’s gotten much bigger (and more handsome), he can still be a baby.

And that’s no more evident than in his lack of quality sleep of late. After coming back from vacation, there was a good (or bad) two weeks where he just didn’t want to go to sleep at night alone and would wake up after only an hour or so, making us go through the going-to-sleep routine all over again. And then he’ll wake up an hour later, and then two hours later, then he’s in bed with us tossing and turning, and nobody seems to get any sleep.

Well, that’s not true. Henry, his wakefulness aside, is quite chipper and well-rested in the morning. (The fact that he gets a couple of naps during the day doesn’t hurt.) But Kristen and I? Not so much.

We were as zombie-like as we were when Henry was first born. There was even a point where Kristen, delirious, had a conversation first with herself and then with two imaginary hot sauce packets as we were in the Taco Bell drive through.

Kristen: Don’t forget to ask for hot sauce.

Me: Okay.

Kristen: Or do I want fire sauce? What am I thinking? I can’t have fire sauce. (to imaginary hot sauce packet) I think I can handle you okay. (to imaginary fire sauce packet) You’re just too much for my stomach. I can’t eat you.

Me: You need a nap.

Kristen: No, I need a bean burrito.

Thankfully, Henry has turned a corner, and is back to waking up only once at night (which, while not perfect, is manageable) and Kristen and I are back to talking to other people and not liquid spices.