Alphabet Slop: Peaches, peas and where is the pudding?

As a mother reluctantly wrestling second-hand furniture out of her rapidly emptying nest, the challenges associated with raising an infant have somewhat faded from my memory. Sandwiching a lunch-date with my friend Sarah in between college errands and delivering a desk to Savannah's new apartment, I arrived at the restaurant first and put the waiting staff on full-alert that Baby William was on his way. "Could we eat outside so that we can just pull up his stroller," I asked, quickly assessing the situation. Delighted to accommodate Will, the hostess ushered me outside to peruse perambulator parking spots. Full sun was obviously out so we wrestled a metal table into the shade. All that was left was to roll out the red carpet.

Sarah and William arrived with proper fanfare. A group of waiters and waitresses gathered around to admire Will while Sarah admired their menu selection. William quickly assigned me an important job and I reveled in my position as CEO of toy retrieval. I withheld judgement concerning the quality of William's play things. Sarah was indignant that I confused Sophie la girafe with a dog toy. Developed in 1961, Sophie la girafe is an example of French infant toy manufacturing. Need I say more. "It's rubber and it squeaks," I said, "my dachshund would love it." Apparently this rubber wonder giraffe is made from the sap of the magical Hevea tree, its construction is a national secret and it costs more than two admission tickets to Cirque du Soleil.

The feeding of William is a painful process; a lesson in meal-time torture. Sarah started him out with peaches which he consumed with great gusto. "You might want to sit back," Sarah warned, "his peas are next." Savannah and I stared at Sarah in horror. She knows that William hates peas but deliberately feeds them to him anyway? If this isn't a clear case of child abuse, I don't know what is. We tried to subtly point out the error of her thinking. "If the theme of this meal is food beginning with the letter P," I remarked, watching William vigorously flail his little head side-to-side like an orca shaking a seal (or a dachshund shaking a rubber giraffe), "then you're missing the most important one...pudding." Sarah frowned and persistently followed Will's moving mouth with the spoon. Savannah gave it a try. "Couldn't you at  least alternate spoonfuls? You know, one spoon of peaches then one of those awful peas." Sarah insisted that would be like lying to Will. Savannah and I exchanged quick glances. What's worse...lying or cramming creamed peas into poor Will? By this point, we felt helpless. What could we do to save baby William?

Turns out William didn't need us at all (except perhaps as witnesses when his mother is eventually brought up on charges of forcible pea distribution on unwilling victims). Adaptation is a remarkable trait. To combat his mother's penchant for peas, Will has developed an allergy of sorts. Each time his little mouth is stuffed full of peas, he inexplicable feels the need to sneeze. Before I knew it, I had creamed peas coating my hair, green freckles spotted my skin and, as it turns out, peas work rather effectively as under-arm antiperspirant. Shocked (and a little disgusted), I looked at Sarah, certain now that she would recognize the error of her ways and alter William's meal plan accordingly. Taking in my pea-covered appearance, Sarah shrugged before heartlessly continuing to shovel that slop into her beautiful baby's mouth. "I warned you," she said.