Just call me Eric
As I write this, the boy sits across the table eating the last bits of popcorn from a bowl and sucking the life from unsuspecting oranges, and I cannot have any. I already asked.
He is so fun lately and says funny things all the time. We will not let him have bandaids, or as he calls them bangers, unless he is bleeding. The other day we were in the car and I guess he had bonked his head somehow and was begging for a banger. I told him that he was not bleeding and so he did not need one. After about a minute he informed me, “Mom, my head bleeding really bad! I NEED a banger.”
He is now drowning tortilla chips in his glass of water and then slurping up the remains. And yes, I just sit and watch. I don’t really care how he eats as long has he is eating.
The weird thing about him eating is that he is so picky, but he loves steak. Half cooked bloody steak, he will have the blood dripping down his chin like Eric the Red and I don’t say a word; I am far to chicken to draw his attention to the fact that was he is eating. Something we usually have to bribe him to do unless this eating activity involves chocolate. I am so amazed that he would even let steak sit on his plate. Usually if he does not like the food he will throw it on the floor or at me because I am the offending party, obviously. I am amazed at his ingesting half cooked steak when he acts like noodles are going to cause his death and I must be the devil for trying to get him to eat such toxic worms.