Feeding Time

Time to feed the baby.
What a pleasure!  What a joy!
It’s time to feed my chunky,
very porky little boy.

Every day like clockwork,
each time better than before.
Nicholas and daddy
get the food and go to war.

First to strap him in the chair.
To get him in secure.
To get his big mouth open
so, his lips, the spoon can clear.

To keep him from attacking.
Throwing food about the place.
To keep it off his fingers.
Off his belly.  Off his face.

Between his little tantrums,
I try cleaning up the mess.
I find I’m liking feeding time,
each day, a little less.

I think I’m going to cut him back,
each time that he’s a brat.
He might get kind of hungry but,
at least he won’t get fat.

He takes his bottle pretty good.
So long as he is able.
‘Less of course he’s ornery.
Then he slams it on the table.

I keep the food away from him.
It angers me, he knows it.
He grabs the food.  The spoon!  The dish!
And then, of course, he throws it.

I think it’s just a game to him.
A game at which he’s good.
You know it, when he wants to play.
He’s loudly understood.

I think that I have learned the key.
The way to get me thru it.
To just avoid the whole dang chore,
and let his mother do it.