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I can't feed my child. Okay, that's a little overdramatic. I can feed my child; I just don't want to do it. We've arrived at the baby food stage. And there is something about that stuff that just makes me gag. In high school, I volunteered at the Children's Crisis Center, and I would take any duty over feeding time. Give me a nasty diaper, and I can deal with it any day. But the front end, not so much. You know those adorable photos of one-year-olds smeared with cake on their birthdays? Also blech-inducing. Oh, and those biscuit things they give teething babies that get all soggy-crummy? I am wincing just typing the words.

I'm not sure what the problem is - certainly, I'm not a neat freak; one look at my house will tell you that. It's just some kind of personal aversion, and I realize I need to get past it. My wonderful husband handles most of the spoon-feeding duty, and when I have to do it, I manage. Apparently, it's inappropriate to wait to start solid foods until the kid is old enough to wield a knife and fork and feed himself. Darn it.