So we're supposed to feed them?

Tonight I would normally be hanging out with Jenn (but she totally abandoned me; something about "wonderful family she never gets to see" and "once-a-year trip to Disneyland with the kids" and "blah blah blah selfish") but instead invited myself along on Daddy/Son night. Their routine is to go the park and do all the things Owen loves to do that make Mommy nervous for no good reason.

We got home and Owen cruised straight over to the patio door, stared longingly at his new trike and started banging the door to get to it. We offered him some food but NO, he wanted the BIKE. So, we decided to head to the park, maybe grabbing food on the way there. It appears we should have tried harder and that it's best to feed the kid BEFORE he gets cranky and unsatisfiable (yes, it's a word - check it out on Dictionary.com you doubters!).

The rest of the evening consisted of a frantic trip to El Pollo Loco to get him some food he didn't want to eat at the restaurant, and to the park where he wanted to eat but NOT chicken, and NOT beans, and NOT mac n' cheese, and NOT tortilla, he wanted something else, and then after a pathetic 15 minutes of offering up any possible selection of FOOD and FUN and SNUGGLES we were heading back home with us pushing the trike and carrying him because now he didn't want to RIDE the trike he wanted to WALK and interact with all the very nice people passing us in the park...but he can't walk on his own yet so it would have taken 15.3346 years to get home.

He decided about 1/2 way home that AT THAT VERY MOMENT he wanted some nursies and wanted them NOW (flash backs to a 5 week old baby) so we stopped to nurse on some random steps to someone's house and that sort of worked for about two minutes while I'm trying to shield my boobs from the kids walking down the street, and then we're back to carrying a big bag of dinner, pushing a trike, holding a 23-pound back-arching hungry child and...yeah, we feel like stupid assholes. As soon as we get home I put some yogurt and applesauce in a bowl for him and he gobbles it down, giggles, smiles, hugs, delivers slobbery kisses, then crashes. Poor kiddo! Sometimes, even with the best of intentions, we don't always get it right. Sometimes we realize that it would all be much easier if we were mind-readers, and that teaching Owen to sign "more" "dog" "milk" "shoe" "hat" and "ball" barely bridges the communication gulf between 30something parents and a 13-month old.

At least I think he knows is that we're always trying and he is loved.

And, at least we got it right for ourselves tonight after he fell asleep: we easily polished off a delicious bottle of Preston. Thank all that is holy for Wine Clubs.