I'm a tough mom. In my family, once you're able to hold a spoon in your chubby tiny fist, you'd better be feeding yourself, or you'll go hungry.
Well, it's not that bad. But my kids generally did feed themselves. That is, until we met up against the formidable obstacle of the grandparents. Otherwise known as the ones who would like to halt the development of my children.
Or so I thought. Because I'm tough like that.
I can't count the number of times I've come back from the bathroom, during dinner at my parents' house, to find my dad guiltily jumping violently enough to spill four glasses of water, holding a spoon next to some child's mouth. Some child who should be feeding herself. Sometimes he would go so far as to post my mother as a lookout. "She's coming!" I'd hear, as I walked down the hallway as quietly as I could.
I was gracious about it, of course. "It's fine to feed the kids," I'd say, "as long as you don't mind making my life about a thousand times harder." Notice how well I share the raising of my children. All about the village I am. As long as everyone does things my way.
Anyways, now we are here, and we are here with Jaya, who, though she rarely gets involved with kid stuff, informs me that my kids are too small to eat by themselves.
And I am giving in. Perhaps I am just too pregnant and tired. But the end of every dinnertime sees Jaya coming back to the table to feed YaYa the food that she hasn't finished. I mean, the girl is practically a teenager. She's four, right? So she's only nine years away.
I think, though, that the reason I'm giving in is because I love it that YaYa doesn't even protest. Even when my parents would feed her, she wasn't silent like this, accepting bite after bite gallantly, gulping water in between when it's spicy. I know a good thing when I see it. About 25% of the time.