Grapefruit, Prepare To Meet Your Maker

Max has always been a good eater, and for this I am grateful. It is a big part of the reason that he was able to leave the hospital less than a week after his premature birth. It is the reason that, despite that premature birth, he is now in the ninetieth percentile or above in terms of size for his age. It makes mealtimes easier and more pleasant. He particularly loves fruit, which means that I now have a partner in fruit consumption, something that has not been true since I moved out of my parents' house and cast in my lot with Ian (who has a blanket ban on all fruit. How does he survive and not get scurvy? Only by the grace of God.) It is only recently that the dark side of Max's culinary enthusiasm has made itself known to me. This morning, for example, I cut up a grapefruit, gave half to Max, and put the other half on my own plate. Delightful. Nothing better than sharing a grapefruit with someone you love. Evidently, Max does not agree with this sentiment, though, because he downed his own grapefruit like a boa swallowing a helpless ... whatever defenseless creature boas eat ... and then began eyeing my half suggestively. Being a loving mother, and knowing that there was another grapefruit in the fruit basket, I gave him my half and went to cut up the backup grapefruit for myself. When I got back to the table, however, Max had already eaten his bogarted half and was asking for more with great, dewy-eyed sincerity. The long and the short of it is that Max ate two grapefruits, a piece of peanut butter and jelly toast, a glass of milk, a banana, and a granola bar for breakfast. I ate the crumbs and rinds Max left behind, and I was careful to do so while he was napping, lest he take those from me, too. This sharing thing is not working out to my advantage as much as I thought it would.