Dainty Elliot

He’s such a dainty little man. 

Today at breakfast he sat in his high chair, happily shoveling up Cream of Wheat, plowing the short spoon through the gooey cereal, letting the stuff creep up the stem, practically sinking his fist in the bowl.  And then taking that overloaded spoon and cramming it in his craw. 

Of course it was too much.  Elliot, of course it was. 

It glopped down onto his hand, it spilled out of his mouth onto his chin.  Oblivious, he plowed that spoon through the CoW field again, and again filled his little mouth, swallowing intently, not exactly happy but well-occupied, focused, content.

It took him at least five spoonfuls before he realized what had happened:  Hey, I’m covered in cereal! 

He dropped the spoon.  He looked at me accusingly.  How could you let this happen?

Out stretched the little CoW-covered hand, and there it waited, horizontal, entitled.  

I knew my task.  Like a eunuch scraping with bent back toward his Roman emperor, I approached the high chair.  I wiped the offended hand thoroughly with a tissue. 

Elliot bent his elbow, examined the hand --- and then straightened it again, highlighting a spot I missed.  I wiped further.

(I am not making this up.)

And his daintiness is not limited to the dining table.  Sometimes it seems that he is chiding us for our poor housekeeping skills. 

He often toddles about the house barefoot.  A few days ago he squirmed off my lap and headed over to knock some DVDs off the television stand and break them in half. 

Suddenly he paused in midstride. 

He sat down and began maneuvering his tiny fingers into the even-tinier spaces between his toes.  He worked at it for ten or fifteen seconds --- intensely focused, delicate work, like eye surgery or grabbing that one nose hair that just won’t cooperate.

When he’d found what he was looking for, he stood up, turned around and came back to me.  I offered a scooped palm to accept what was in his outstretched hand.

It turned out to be a fragment of a Cheerio, shrunken and firm like a woodchip.  Once it was safely in my hand, he turned and strode back to his task.

One could not help but interpret that as a passive-aggressive attack against the cleanliness of our floor. 

Or maybe I’m over-analyzing?