My dad had a mantra. It was mostly a meal-time mantra, but it was repeated any and every time I ate anything in his presence: "Maria," he would say with the gravity that only Papa can muster, "Take little bites, and chew your food well." As a child I heeded his wisdom, careful to take only small nibbles, but as an adolescent that changed. I'd look at him contemptuously and shove a fist-size-whatever-I-was-eating into my mouth as an act of defiance. As an adult, my dad STILL repeats his mantra, especially if I'm over-zealously devouring a Viola's steak and cheese sub or a slice of LaHacienda pizza. Now I just roll my eyes and go about my feasting.
Essentially, my dad was terrified of one thing--me choking, having my air passages cut off by a hunk of food, watching me gasp for air with my mouth gaping open as panic sets in, and him being faced with the dire responsiblity of saving my life with the Heimlich maneuver that would send the partially chewed wad sailing across the room and leave me panting to re-oxygenate. The details make it sound like I've been through this before, huh?
I had a moment not too long ago where I understood my father. These moments are far and few between so I figure I may as well commemorate it here. As Grace happily chomped french fries at Tom Wahls with me and Grandma she bit off a little more than she could chew--literally--and began to choke. Simple words cannot describe my terror. I reacted quickly and removed the enormous piece of french fry from the back of her mouth, breathed a giant sigh of relief, and then said sternly (complete with finger-wag): "Gracie! You take little bites and you chew your food well!"
What can I say, she loves her fries. I can certainly understand the feeling of such engrossment, captivation, and excitement that we simply overdo it. We think: If a little bit is good, more MUST BE better. It's this instinct that renders me immobile on the couch when I open good book that I just can't put down, a glass of wine at dinner turning into a bottle, a 2-mile jog on an injured hip becoming a 4-mile run if I feel unburdened by pain. It all feels right at the time, but I always regret it later--rushing through a book that could have brought me days of enjoyment, a hangover, even more hip pain.
I think Grace is learning about moderation too. The other night, in a fit of tears, she launched herself out of her crib. A kid who won't even climb down off of a child-size chair on her own hurled herself onto the floor from about 4 feet off the ground. When I try to get her to re-create her kamikaze maneuvers under my close supervision (hey-I'm curious!), she simply shakes her head and says, "Fall down. Boo-boo." Her tenacity scared her. It certainly frightened the heck out of me and Jeff...but it scared her too. We're looking into getting her a big-girl bed this weekend--a transition that I, for one, am not quite ready for. But her safety is at stake and we need to make sure that her acrobatics don't end her up in a body-cast.
My brother Michael always likes to say, "Go big or go home." If you're going to do something, do it, do it all the way, do it right, and do it well. Grace has a little GBGH spirit in her that I admire--with french fries and death-defying crib escapes. The GBGH mentality doesn't mesh well with my dad's little-bites philosophies, but I hope she can find a happy medium.
Go big or Go home, but on your way, take little bites, okay?
