Sunday, October 30, 2005
The Great Chiquita Intervention
Disclaimer: Yes, I'm well aware of the obvious Freudian implications of this post. Rest assured that sometimes a banana is still just a banana.
The "Papa issue" reached a fever pitch on Friday. Zoe was particularly difficult all day, ignoring and refusing food from me as she had done all week (but accepting the same food when Sari handed it to her). She finally went down for a nap at 4 p.m., with nothing in her tummy since lunch.
We're still learning about Zoe's routines, but two things were pretty obvious to us while she napped. First, she would probably wake up around 8 p.m. Secondly, she would be pretty darn hungry. So we waited. And waited.
A little after 8, we heard the stirring coming from her room. Sari got her ready for dinner. And as Zoe started to lead Sari downstairs to the kitchen for dinner, Sari stopped her in our upstairs hallway and sat down with her. And I joined the intervention on the floor. With a banana.
Bananas are Zoe's favorite food, one she has never refused. One ripe Chiquita (flecked with brown, and having a golden hue) has served as her complete breakfast, lunch or dinner at various times over the last week. Tonight, it represented a lot more. If she wanted the banana, it would have to come from my hand. For a few minutes, I simply tried to hand her the fruit, and she refused to take it. Then things began to turn ugly.
The banana became my microphone, and after years of rehearsing for this moment in the privacy of my car, I suddenly had an audience, albeit a captive one. For the next 20 minutes, I serenaded the girls with my all-time Sinatra greatest hits medley, dangling the fruit ever closer under Zoe's nose with each doobie-doobie-doo. By the time I reached the "My Way" finale, I had peeled away the top quarter of the banana to enhance its scent and visual appeal. All in all, the intervention/concert took a half-hour, ending when Zoe finally yanked the banana from my hand like a bobby-soxer at the Paramount going for Frank's cufflinks.
Since the Great Chiquita Intervention, things have improved between Zoe and me. She doesn't refuse food from me as much just on principle. I've caught her smiling at me, but she quickly corrects herself when she realizes I've seen her. When I'm not in the room, she'll speak of me in glowing terms, point me out in photos, and ask about my whereabouts. I've even managed to get in a few pats on her back or head before she starts to cringe.
Things are looking up... ¶ 9:27 AM
The "Papa issue" reached a fever pitch on Friday. Zoe was particularly difficult all day, ignoring and refusing food from me as she had done all week (but accepting the same food when Sari handed it to her). She finally went down for a nap at 4 p.m., with nothing in her tummy since lunch.
We're still learning about Zoe's routines, but two things were pretty obvious to us while she napped. First, she would probably wake up around 8 p.m. Secondly, she would be pretty darn hungry. So we waited. And waited.
A little after 8, we heard the stirring coming from her room. Sari got her ready for dinner. And as Zoe started to lead Sari downstairs to the kitchen for dinner, Sari stopped her in our upstairs hallway and sat down with her. And I joined the intervention on the floor. With a banana.
Bananas are Zoe's favorite food, one she has never refused. One ripe Chiquita (flecked with brown, and having a golden hue) has served as her complete breakfast, lunch or dinner at various times over the last week. Tonight, it represented a lot more. If she wanted the banana, it would have to come from my hand. For a few minutes, I simply tried to hand her the fruit, and she refused to take it. Then things began to turn ugly.The banana became my microphone, and after years of rehearsing for this moment in the privacy of my car, I suddenly had an audience, albeit a captive one. For the next 20 minutes, I serenaded the girls with my all-time Sinatra greatest hits medley, dangling the fruit ever closer under Zoe's nose with each doobie-doobie-doo. By the time I reached the "My Way" finale, I had peeled away the top quarter of the banana to enhance its scent and visual appeal. All in all, the intervention/concert took a half-hour, ending when Zoe finally yanked the banana from my hand like a bobby-soxer at the Paramount going for Frank's cufflinks.
Since the Great Chiquita Intervention, things have improved between Zoe and me. She doesn't refuse food from me as much just on principle. I've caught her smiling at me, but she quickly corrects herself when she realizes I've seen her. When I'm not in the room, she'll speak of me in glowing terms, point me out in photos, and ask about my whereabouts. I've even managed to get in a few pats on her back or head before she starts to cringe.
Things are looking up... ¶ 9:27 AM
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