Today, I had my redundancy package served to me on a spoon. A baby spoon to be precise.
The last 16 months I’ve enjoyed sitting with Indy, serving him a hearty breakfast every day of porridge, banana and vegemite toast. He’s been handling his own toast and banana for quite some time now, manipulating every handful skilfully like a ping-pong ball in a clown’s mouth, but porridge duty was always Daddy’s domain.
Like a Roman Emperor being hand fed grapes, Indy was always content to sit back and let Daddy shovel in his sustenance in bite size spoonfuls. That is, until today.
Going through the usual routine of popping him in the high chair, strapping on his bib, his steaming porridge…um, ‘steaming’…in the bowl in front of him. Daddy readied his chair beside him. But before denims could meet suede, Indy had drawn the spoon from the porridge like Arthur extracting Excalibur from the stone, and turned the breakfast table into a self-serve section.
And he manipulated that tiny spoon with the finesse and dexterity of a one-armed neurosurgeon, and each slovenly mouthful was acknowledged by a toothy grin of satisfaction on his behalf, and mixed emotion of pride and redundancy on mine.
Our little boy is growing up and he don’t need me no more, whaaaaa!
For eating at least.
And the most surprising thing is…he’s a lefty!