Babies, I have found, are fond of exercising their right to strike, especially when unionized as in the case of any and all sets of multiples. In the past fifteen months, we've had nap strikes, poop strikes, nighttime-sleep strikes, walking strikes, and independent-play strikes.
As a member of executive management on this parental team, I've become a master at negotiating peaceful resolutions, which might come in handy right about now, since our latest strike is a biggie: food strike.
While Quin eats every last bite of food that crosses his path, Rhys has become quite exacting in his food standards. Slowly, he has whittled his formerly diverse diet down to one favored food - banana. All other foods are meticulously cast over the edge of his highchair tray and onto the floor, where at the conclusion of every meal, Quin and Bella hover, sharing delectable discarded morsels.
It's been a steady and slippery slope. First he (Rhys) cut out egg - one of his favorite foods, second only to the wondrous banana. Then it was toast. Then oatmeal. And so on. If I am crafty and incredibly casual, sometimes I will have a short-lived bout of success at breaking his strict "bananas only" rule. He'll nibble my toast, or have a bite of melon. Before I even get my hopes up, he is puckering his face and dramatically wiping his tongue off with his pudgy hand. I find myself wondering if humans can live on a diet comprised almost solely of bananas. I find myself feeling more thankful than ever that he is still nursing. I find myself wondering how many bananas it will take to push us back into poop-strike territory.
And here's the big deal: I'm not worried.
Strike negotiations haven't commenced. He wins.
Don't get me wrong - I have certainly noticed this new trend. I've talked about it with other parents. And here I am writing about it.
But I haven't run to the internet, or one of the several options in my vast baby book library, to get advice. I know it is a phase. I get it. I know it will pass.
If I didn't know any better, I might even say I'm relaxed.
Break out the red pens and fill in my report card, please. The comments section will now read: "is a relaxed and confident mother."
Okay. So maybe we happen to have our fifteen month well-baby visit this Thursday. So what if the banana-issue is at the top of my painfully long list of questions for the pediatrician. I want my damn gold star.