The babies are now nearly one year old. They have grown from loose-fitting 00000-sized clothes to a respectable size 0. That journey, as much as anything, has been about food. And drink.
The first six months were all about drink. Magic milk, as a mother in my mother’s group calls it. Maybe it is because we don’t think of ourselves as mammals that sustaining our children exclusively with our own milk for such a long period can seem such a miracle. I kept the babies alive on my own milk for more than six months. When I was at peak production, I produced more than 10 litres of it a week. They would suck hungrily, and when sated, fall back as if blissfully drunk.
Then came solid food and drinks of water from sip-a-cups. From the first cautious mouthfuls of rice cereal to such competent feeders at one, and for the last few months they have been able to drink from their sip-a-cups by themselves and, with help, from an ordinary glass. They can pick up anything, and love finger food like avocado or soft-boiled egg on toast soldiers. There are funny moments: Lara patiently chasing a piece of peeled pear around her tray like a slippery fish; Rhea holding her boiled parsnip delicately, the end sticking out like a rat’s tail.
They are both patient in accepting the rhythm of their meals, taking it in turns as I alternately feed them each mouthful. I wonder whether the glimmers of peer pressure have started already – sometimes one will drink from her cup only after seeing her sister doing so.
Their communication with me is quite nuanced. If Rhea wants to eat something she’ll open her mouth wide. When she doesn’t want it she will purse her lips like Miss Piggy and sniff, or flit her tongue in and out and chat to herself, lal lal lal lal lal la. Lara will blow endless raspberries. Alternatively they will close their mouths, become fascinated by their shoelaces or the birds outside, push the food away, smear it into the tray and/or throw the item overboard. It reminds me of part of one of Dylan Moran’s stand up routines when he asked why anyone would give toast with jam to a small child. They smear it all over the chairs, the table, their clothes. . . If I wanted to smear jam all over everything, he said, I’d do it myself. I don’t need a small child to do it for me.
Mealtimes are a big part of the babies’ day, and I like facilitating their exploration of food and its colours, tastes and textures. It is messy – these days I clothe the babies in plastic painting smocks before every meal, and it takes me half an hour to clean the floor, them, their smocks and the dishes afterwards. ‘Yes, nodded an old lady I met at the museum one day, who had had seven children, including a set of twins. It’s a lot of feeding.’ Our fridge is packed with plastic containers containing left over, over-cooked broccoli, pumpkin, and carrot, or corn cobs, chop bones, small quantities of pureed chicken, lamb or fish, and stewed fruit. We like variety in our food, and I think they do too.
Yesterday Lara took the piece of mostly-eaten rockmelon from Rhea sitting in her highchair beside her. Rhea took it back and they passed it back and forward, back and forward. They were exploring food – or perhaps the rockmelon as object – together.
So the days go by: breastfeed, breakfast, lunch, afternoon yoghurt, dinner, breastfeed, nightcap.
The grub’s good. And it’s fun to explore.
