”Mama, I don’t like Wiggle Bix, can I have Corn Flames for breakfast?”
Sure honey, once I work out what in the name of fuck a Wiggle Bix actually is and find time to call Kellogs to ask when and where they plan on launching their first chilli flavoured breakfast cereal.
Alternately, you could eat some toast.
Devilboy has embraced big brotherhood with great enthusiasm. And, while we’re thrilled that there’s been no jealously or resentment and that he loves his baby sister “bigger than a really tall jump” (which is, in Devilboy world, a lot!) we aren’t entirely without concerns, though they’re not ones addressed in any parenting books I’ve stumbled across.
You see, given my little man’s huge appetite – a thing of perplexing enormity that is inversely proportional to his lanky little body – I’m a tad worried that he might find our delicious little bundle of joy just a touch too tasty.
He frets when she cries, as babies are want to do with great frequency, and to end the tears proffers such sage parenting advice as “sprinkling her with cheese” as mentioned in the previous post. An interesting idea, I admit, but one I think is doomed to near certain failure.
Another hint of his carnivorous leanings came with his suggestion that we “put some bread in her bassinet” to mop up the tears, perhaps something commonly done by parents in a parallel universe I’ve not yet visited, but something that I must confess hadn’t occurred to me two kids in to this whole parenting malarkey.
But it is with Devilboy’s latest line of questioning, during a pleasant family breakfast, that the fear our beloved firstborn is actually a flesh-eating zombie seems truly founded and I am fraught with worry that my beautiful Devilette is going to get eaten by the end of the day.
“Mummy, what does a baby sister taste like?”
If he asks for some fava beans and a bottle of Chianti, we’re outta here.