Table Etiquete

We hosted Thanksgiving, and I was grateful that Oliver sensed my need to have a quiet kitchen without toddler-like beings underfoot in the morning. He slept late. Really late. Meanwhile, I was doing things like this:



At 1:30 pm, everything was ready for consumption, so Michael decided to finally wake Oliver (told you he slept late). The day before, the poor kid puked twice at daycare, poltergeist-through-the-nose-type puke. When we woke him up, he was in no mood to be awake, no mood to play, and most certainly in no mood to eat. I gave him a piece of toast to attempt at some nourishment.

This is how he looked for about 20 minutes. He held that piece of toast with a furrowed brow and did nothing; the only thing that moved occasionally was his eyes shifting back and forth. Eventually, the toast-hold led to a lick, and then a few bites, and a sippy full of Pedialyte. And then it came shooting out like an orange geiser.

I can say one thing about this Thanksgiving: there was no gray area about the socially appropriate time to move from the dining room table to the living room.