Julie Jay: We have started on the solids, and have the Jackson Pollock walls to prove it
This week, armed with a bib and a spoon, I faced off against a tiny food critic who, until now, believed the height of culinary sophistication was a warmed-up bottle of milk. JJ is officially on the solids, and I have the carrot-purée stained walls to prove it. Of course, watching our baby thrive is a privilege, but I can’t say I’m not having a heart attack every time he swallows some baby rice. Over the next few weeks, there will be some serious croí sa bhéal moments as our six-month-old gets to grips with life after formula.
First on the menu is porridge — my first true love and the one constant in my life. Porridge is the romantic partner I’ve always wanted: reliable, full of heart, and has never let me down. I simply adore porridge, a fact I always remind my three-year-old, who remains less than convinced with my persistent marketing campaign to get him sold that porridge is, in fact, a completely legitimate snack.
Because I’ve hyped up the oaty stuff to such an extent, anticipation levels are high when baby JJ beats his plastic spoon with a near-tribal enthusiasm, the likes of which is only comparable to that evidenced when the Dubs take over Hill 16 of an All Ireland Sunday.
I scoop a spoonful of the creamy goodness and aim for the tiny target that is my baby's mouth, but am quickly reminded once again why I was always picked last for PE class in the '90s. Yes, my lack of hand-to-eye coordination had been so extreme back in the day that I ended up spending my entire senior cycle pretending to be on my period in a bid to avoid the weekly rejection in front of my peers. The fact I got my period every week for five months in a row should have raised some alarm bells but we’re not here to cast aspersions.
When it comes to the perennial hunt for healthy snacks, bananas are a staple in our family. In baby land, it's the equivalent of introducing your tiny human to a Michelin-starred dining experience, with a perfectly ripe banana being up there with foie gras as a delicacy. I purée the bad boy of fruit land and present it to my littlest cherub — who by now is covered head to toe in his breakfast — and victory! The banana is a hit.
For lunch, I press on with the foodie adventure. I am at the frontlines of high-end cuisine and make a silent commitment to enter should Virgin Media ever reclaim the Irish franchise. Next on the menu — puréed carrots. A colour that rivals the finest sunset, a texture that screams 'mashed magic', and a taste that could be a little on the watery side (those timings will get you every time you’re trying to make the dinner with one hand and fill out an under-eights GP card form with the other).
But, alas, the baby has other plans. The first spoonful is met with a reaction that could rival any Shakespearean tragedy — a mix of surprise, betrayal, and a sprinkling of melodrama. As he spits out the offending vegetable, I suddenly think maybe he is my son after all, such is the level of histrionics involved.
Having dabbled in solid foods for most of the day, at our first proper dinnertime avec JJ, I get a little ahead of myself with some sweet potato and peas — the facial contortions that result could put Jim Carrey to shame. The baby pulls faces that range from 'Did you just serve me a lemon?' to 'I'm auditioning for the role of a lifetime as the lead in a baby food advertisement... let me allow you to see my process.'
As I find myself in the midst of a culinary conflict where peas are not just vegetables but are, in fact, potential projectiles in the making, JJ throws the green blended goo with gusto, demonstrating a surprising range given his diminutive stature. Most of it lands in my messy bun, and while I attempt to brush a wayward curl out of my eye, JJ seizes his opportunity and upturns his plastic bowl, much to his utter delight.
Bending down to survey the damage, I see that most of his dinner is now decorating our floor. But I forget about the upside-down bowl of remaining pea purée and JJ knocks it straight on my head, so I am now wearing his dinner as a grotesque sunhat. I am basically making a reboot of the 90s TV show , where children would gleefully plunge their respective adults into slime, only I am doing so without the compensative perk of an overnight trip to a London hotel.
“Maybe he’ll be a climate protester?” I say to my husband as I brush myself off and resume my seated feeding position. We all know that throwing puréed peas is always the first stepping stone on the road to throwing soup at the Mona Lisa.
At the brink of throwing in the pea-covered towel, JJ’s once skeptical face now lights up at the sight of apple sauce, as if he has just discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow — or in this case, the fruit at the end of the plastic spoon.
JJ’s smile lets us know we have finally cracked it, and though we live to fight another day, I am picking green gunk out of my hair for the next two days.
As unappealing as my latest hairstyle may sound, at least it’s not a fringe. Give me a pea in the hair any day, but we could never survive the return of my ginger cowlick. Now, that really would be a test for the fashion tastebuds.