Feeding a Westchester Baby: Avocados, Rejection, and Unexpected Milestones

Disclaimer: I am a dad living in Westchester, New York. The names of all people, but not all places, have been changed to protect the innocent and me from the glares of my neighbors who are definitely not reading this blog.

Avocados are water in our household. When the faucets aren't working because I forget to press the button that closes the garage door and the pipes freeze (this happened this winter when it was 6 degrees), we can just subsist on avocado. At least that's true if you talk to the newest member of our family. She's starting solids, which means she's throwing food at her face like a painter working through all her personal trauma on a canvas. She's Jackson Pollack with a size 2 diaper. You can't speak to her because she doesn't speak, barely babbles, which worries my wife from a development standpoint. "Ga. Ga," she says, which seems like enough to me. Apparently, there's all these milestones that we're supposed to be watching out for (worrying about). Instead of worrying, I just stare at her as she shoves another cucumber into her eyeball, and screams at me for even thinking about taking her away from her mother. 

Her bottom lips quiver at the mere suggestion of me holding her. "Don't you dare take me away from the person whose loins I came from," she says with one glance. What this baby doesn't know is that I installed her carseat. What this baby doesn't know is that she has my eyes and my widow's peak. What this baby doesn't know is... this baby doesn't care what this baby doesn't know. What she cares about is milk, mom, and making sure I know that I am second class citizen in those eyes that I gave her. I'm her least favorite person in this entire house and that includes her four year old brother who assures everyone that her crib is his. My wife tells me this is all normal. 

"Don't you remember all your other children hated you when they were this age," she says mockingly. I can't tell if she's joking. I never know if anyone is joking in this house. "And now look how much your children love you." 

My oldest is currently not speaking to me because I embarrassed her in front of her friends during a sleepover.  "Don't walk near my room while we're having a seance," she said. I didn't know they were having a seance. 

The middle child is more interested in granola than me. "More granola," he says when I ask for a hug. 

And then there's the baby. "You are number four," she says with a glare. Her neck chomps down on a pea puree that my wife has made with pesto from the Port Chester Costco. Her mom has left the room to go see if the lights on the porch are working. The baby is quiet. Then her mom checks the garden to see if the flowers she has planted have grown. Still no tears. Then her mom tells me she has to check the garage freezer for the frozen hot dogs and hamburgers that we're going to cook on the propane barbecue that we don't have yet. The guy next door told me I need to get a Weber.   

"Stay with your daughter," she responds. 

She's my daughter. She has my eyes. She has my widow's peak. She has my round face if you ask my wife's parents. It's summer, her lower lip quivers, and she begins to consume the world whole with her screams. Then, she's not crawling, she's not babbling, but she is flipping the bird. Maybe. I'm not sure. It certainly feels that way. 

Is that a developmental milestone?