He does not want help. I surrender the mostly empty spoon to his prying fingers.
Now he thrusts out his jaw and grasps the spoon in his chubby hand, his knuckles near the bowl of the spoon. Swinging his arm from the elbow, he clicks the spoon, by chance, against the plastic bowl of pumpkin mash before him. Two clicks, then three. He grins and looks up.
“See!” his eyes dance. “I can do it myself.”
I congratulate him. He stops swinging his arm and brings the spoon to his face. It hits his right cheek, strings of pumpkin resting under his eye. Then the spoon finds his mouth. He chews: nothing.
He frowns, his brow wrinkles, and he lets out a high-pitched wail.
“No fair!” his eyes whine. “I’m hungry.”
He won’t to relinquish the spoon when I reach to help, but he stops crying: he wants to feed himself. He thrusts out his jaw, and tries again.
To my very determined nine-month-old son
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