Our boys are nearly at the age where they should be moving out of the house and getting jobs, so you’d think they’d at least have mastered the eating thing.  Not so much.  They’re fickle in their interests, all too eager to play, and far too ready to roar like a lion for our comfort.  In his defense, Dexter has an excellent roar.

And honestly, they’re often so happy about defying us, that it’s really, really hard to take a principled stand.  Sure, he rejects everything we make him, but look how happy he gets when we give him Cheerios?

Of course he isn’t eating them in this picture, mostly just swiping them from side to side, and onto the floor.  No, he only eats them when we start to get him out of his chair, at which point he grabs huge piles with each hand and shovels them into his mouth.

And don’t think Nicholas is a saint, either.  We used to call him Saint Nic in the NICU, when he was so well behaved (he never talked back to us the ENTIRE TIME he was there!!!), but not anymore.  He’ll eat most any meat, but try pasta, or a sandwich, or any vegetables and fruit, and watch out.  And I do mean watch out, he has an arm on him.  Also a mouth, though it often isn’t used for its intended purpose.  As an example, can you identify the white blur coming out of Nicholas’ mouth?

That’s right, a piece of string cheese.  That’s how he dealt with his “treat” that evening – he turned his mouth into a torpedo tube.  Extra points for creativity, but it certainly is a pain.

Dexter sits there, laughing uproariously, throwing Cheerios.

While Nicholas looks as proud as a peacock, and just about ready to reload the cheese tube.

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

And then there’s the mess.  Oh god, the mess.  We switched the boys seats a couple of months ago.  We had originally put Nic in the seat that was more reclined because he was messier (it’s covering is plastic, not fabric), and because he would twist around more, and that high chair had over-the-shoulder straps.  Then we had to switch because once he got a hold of a spoon, all sorts of food went down his front, so we switched him to the chair that put him in a more upright position and the tray closer to his belly.  Dexter is USUALLY the much cleaner kid.  And then you turn around and see this:

What the hell?  Seriously, kid, it looks like war paint.  We’d love to move them to the table and be done with the high chairs (if only to get them out of the kitchen), but at this rate we’ll have to find teenager-sized high chairs before they ever graduate.

We’re also working on their drinking problem.  They’re pretty good with sippy cups.  We’ve tried some cups with straws, which usually works well, but then they have FAR too much fun pulling the straws out, and you can be pretty well convinced that no matter what we do we lose.  That said, just tell me that YOU would be able to look at this kid and tell him he’s doing it wrong?

We occasionally practice with real cups.  If we’re thinking (which is unlikely, given the sleep deprivation and CONSTANT NOISE) we use very small amounts of WATER.  If we’re idiots, we turn our back when a class of milk or juice is within reach.

Sure, it SEEMS like its working.  Then you notice that they’re soaked, and the floor is soaked, and your socks are soaked, and no matter how many times you fill the cup up they WON’T STOP ASKING FOR MORE!

Go ahead, try and say no.  Just try.  Which you will inevitably give in to, because he’ll make this face after you give him his next drink:

So all I’m saying is that life sucks, but our kids are cute, and I’m thinking we should move on to intravenous nutrition because the adult food thing is clearly now working out, and I’m about ready to start eating pureed oatmeal myself, but nobody cares because look how happy he is?

I’d cry, but they’d only laugh at me, and then I’d have to clean up another mess.  Maybe we should just convert the house into an ale-house – spread sawdust on the floor and stop worrying about it.  Hose the boys down once a week in the backyard and call it good.  But then, if we did, Laura’s dad would move in and we’d never be able to get him to leave.  Seriously, we just can’t win.