Carrots? I don’t need no stinking carrots!

Sweet B turned eight months old Monday. Bubbly was served. Things here continue to revolve around her. Walk into any room of the house and there would be no doubt there is a baby in residence. She has become a Cheerios...


...aficionado over the last few weeks, and she’s been enthusiastic about shifting to more and more solid food. Instead of giving her bottles during the day, I’ve been spooning—some meals it feels like troweling—a mixture of baby fruit and baby oatmeal into her voracious little mouth.

On the other hand, she has returned to the newborn pattern of waking up every few hours during the night and demanding milk. Somehow, this fails to thrill Mom and Dad (I remain oblivious, tucked into my great little guest bedroom downstairs).

Yesterday evening, partly because it is time to begin introducing some veggies to the diet, and partly in the hopes of filling B up sufficiently to sleep at least halfway through the night, A defrosted some carrots, thoughtfully pureed last summer by Aunt K, and approached the royal highchair. B obligingly opened her mouth, A smoothly inserted the spoon, and the next thing we all knew, B emitted a growl of disgust from somewhere deep in her throat, turned quickly to her left, leaned over the arm of the chair, and expelled her mouthful, leaving us in no doubt about her attitude on carrots. Her dad tried a little of this, a little of that, but B continued to be absolutely clear about her feelings.

Today I’ve given her one feeding of fruit, but I’ve also defrosted more carrots, which I then returned to the fridge, in the hopes that it was partly temperature B was reacting to. I will, however, stand back when I spoon it in.

Our sweet B remains, of course, brilliant, insightful, deeply sensitive—and iconoclastically stylish.