Truman Has to Eat

Babies are all firsts. First breath, first cry, first car ride, first fart, first smile, first laugh. They roll over, it’s a first. They roll back, it’s a first. There are the big ones: first tooth, first word, first step. And then there’s minor firsts—no less picture-worthy in the minds of doting parents, but trivial, I would guess, to onlookers: first time he grabs something, first time she turns her head, first sitting up for more than a few seconds before their top-heavy heads carry them off at an oblique angle into the couch cushions. For these small first we applaud, we cheer, we say good job, cameras always at the ready for round two.

All these firsts just happen. Truman grabs his rattle for the first time, we yell out in wonder at his dexterous abilities, and then take a picture. He probably grabbed something while we weren't looking, but it’s a first for us. He stands up while I hold him in my lap: Wow, how he is growing! Another photo opportunity. He rolls over on his play mat, how strong! but he needed little coaching from us. (A small confession: we were concerned about his inability to roll. He remained stagnant while his cohort from breast feeding group rolled around like cirque-du-soleil acrobats. April actually looked up coaching methods on youtube. He refused to roll until one day he didn’t. No coaching needed. We were then worried he’d roll off the bed. Now we think he’s forgotten how to do it, and we don’t know if that’s good or bad.) Truman experiences these firsts on his own accord, more or less.

So when it comes to first food April and I have a bit of a philosophical conundrum. This first we control totally. (Let’s hope. He is grabbing everything, so his first food could easily be a chunk of the cat fur he’s just wrested from Prufrock’s tail.) What do we give him? Nothing processed like baby food from a jar. We want it to be something natural, something we see as food in shape and taste before we give it to him. The contenders, as of this writing, are avocado, banana, or sweet potato. On a whim, we tried to give him the tiniest sliver of avocado, but it slid from the corner of his mouth on a sled of drool before anyone realized we didn’t have a camera ready. April’s vote goes for sweet potato. I think I’m with her, but I also like the idea of giving him some avocado. It feels more “Californian.” There is a tradition of saving the pit and planting it, but then I think of the last avocado tree we tried to cultivate. New England winters are not kind to subtropical fruits.

At the end of this week Truman will be seven months old and he’ll be one hundred percent milk-fed. People are starting to ask if he’s eating solids. Our pediatrician talked to us about getting him on some food to help with his sleep, which has been a battle in and of itself. Truman has to eat food at some point. I’m really less concerned with what we give him and more concerned with the back end of the process. Breast fed babies have pretty easy poops. [SPOILERS! As in, the following poop talk might spoil your appetite.] They’re liquidy with little texture. Easily contained in diapers, barring any blowouts. The smell is minimal. But with the first real human food comes the first real human poop. The thing we are biologically, evolutionarily, repulsed by, will be waiting for me in the night.

Whatever we choose, I know we’ll have the camera, iPhone, and iPad ready, so this first will be a first forever immortalized on facebook and flickr. I think I’ll keep the subsequent poop under wraps. God knows there’s enough on the web about the different types of baby poop and what each means. Though it would be funny if a poop picture of ours was sold to some third party by facebook.

Official Number of Poops in this Post: 6