High Chair Missing

Although our digs feel spacious,
The idea of a high chair,
Or even a chair with designated booster,
Overwhelms me. Where would we put it?

And so I give the baby an apple slice,
Or maybe a cut up hot dog in a bowl,
Or bites of bread with thin smear of butter.
He plops down on the floor and digs in.

But his attention span is short,
And his brothers’ allures are many,
And so we end up with bits of hot dog
In the playroom, bits of apple in the bed.

One son put on socks to avoid the feel of
Greasy floor. Does it make me a bad mother
That I grin ruefully and flick dried apple to the floor,
Knowing it will all be mopped up on Saturday?

Such minor mess doesn’t phase me,
And never has. But sometimes
I see myself through another lens,
And it makes me question my legitimacy.