I knew that having children would also mean having cheerios. Finding them under foot, in the creases of the car seat, stuck to the wall, etc.
When Becca and I moved into our present apartment — previously lived in by a couple and their one-year-old — we cleaned from top to bottom what was already a pretty tidy place, and yet, for six months I was still occasionally sweeping up rogue cheerios hiding out behind the radiator or under the stove. So I knew what was coming.
And I accept my fate, entering the cheerio era with some equanimity, even while anticipating that familiar crunch under my shoes for the next, oh, FIVE YEARS or so — and even though, frankly, I don’t like cheerios. (At least I won’t have to deal with honey-nut® cheerios, though; those things weird me out.) Plus, who can begrudge a cute kid her cheerios?
— or her sweet potatoes for that matter.
with you.
The cheerio-baby phenom is amazing. When my sister and I went to get my niece Milena in China — where the cheerio rule does not exist — we brought some with us. The first time she ate one — she was a little over a year old at the time — her eyebrows went up and she said, “ooooh,” as if saying, “why have I never seen these in my life and why were people keeping them from me?”
Like Nico, Milena also has that Eddie Bauer highchair. It is the best!
¡Que vival los cheerios! (Buen provecho, Nico and Miena.)
looking forwrd to watching “baby” grow in that tag cloud.
no doubt
cheerios are da bomb
Cheerios are among the pleasantest of things that might be hidden for later attention or discarded in a nook or cranny. Bits of banana or bitten biter biscuit are a bit less pleasant after a week or two. It only gets worse from there.