When Bekah was small, she wanted me to feed her. I don't mean provide food for her to eat...I mean pick it up on the fork and place it in her mouth. And this was after the age where she was perfectly capable of doing it herself. Somehow, she could manage to eat her dinner if the food got to her mouth, but could not manage to make herself eat it alone. Go figure. But when you're a forty-something mom, and you know from experience that kids do indeed move on to the next stage eventually, you choose to feed the little one rather than have mealtime disintegrate into a coaching session of now-you-pick-up-more-food-and-now-you-put-the-bite-into-your-mouth that seems to go on endlessly and interrupts normal conversation and pleasantries. It just isn't worth it.
Amazed, I questioned her. "Bekah, why is it that I have to feed you dinner, and then you eat two cupcakes that fast by yourself?"
"Oh," she replied simply, "I feed myself fweets."