A one year old CAN play mind games with you.
A couple of nights ago, I made a dinner that The Little Lady LOVED: pan-seared chicken and corn on the cob. She couldn’t get enough of it, which left me ecstatic! Finally, a combo that seemed a sure-fire hit.
Today’s lunch was a repeat of that meal. I knew she was hungry (she was giving all of the annoying signs: screaming, screaching, and pointing to anything edible in the kitchen), so I figured she’d love chicken and corn.
I held the Little Lady as I prepared the dinner; she Oooo’d and Ahhhh’d over my culinary skills, impressed with each turn of the chicken, the sprinkles of pepper, and the dash (a very tiny dash) of salt. I knew that in her eyes, I was a cooking genius. I watched her eyes get big as I lifted each piece of chicken from the pan, the succulent meat glistening in the light of the vent hoood. She pointed and squealed in my arms — it was finally time to eat!
Eagerly, the Little Lady allowed me to put her in the highchair and attach the tray. She impatiently pounded said tray as I cut the meat (apparently, she was not impressed with my turtle-slow knife skills). Bit by bit, I dropped pieces of juicy, perfectly cooked chicken on the tray. She pointed to the corn. Oh, yeah — I’d forgotten about that. I placed the mini-ear of corn on the tray too.
She grinned — a sign I assumed to be showing her gratitude.
Then Baby Yoda took over.
I swear, without using her hands, that kid managed to throw every piece of chicken off the tray. It was flying everywhere! As soon as I picked up a piece, another was replacing it.
Of course, I sternly told her to stop and “told her” (I know she understood) that big girls do NOT throw food around. I pointed at her corn and told her to eat it.
Yoda Baby slowly grinned and pointed at the corn. I watched it slowly, independently roll across the tray to the other side.
I looked at the corn.
I looked at Yoda Baby.
Yoda Baby looked me.
She looked at the corn.
Then (still grinning mind you) she lowered her hand, picked up the corn, and held the piece of corn over the floor.
(It really was this dramatic)
In slow motion, she released the buttery corn and I watched it, horrified, as it careened to the floor, where it bounced twice, splattering butter in every possible direction, before slowly rolling several inches. . . a trail of moisture left in its wake.
I turned my eyes back to my Jedi daughter.
She raised her arms and said “Done!”
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At least there is never a dull moment.
