That's why my 5th grader knows how to feed himself.
Bear in mind that even as I type this note, both I and my son's father are riding the boy's behind about eating a balanced diet... "Okay, add a piece of fruit to that can of ravioli..."
"Feeding oneself" is a relative concept, I guess.
The quantity or type of food in our pantry doesn't matter much in terms of The Boy's selections. This morning, his choice of breakfast items were most likely driven more by his artistic nature than anything else. He's inherited a lot of that, poor kid. I've already encouraged him to think of creative expressions as inexpensive therapy for the future.
Starting when he was a toddler barely able to hold a fat marker, The Boy would occasionally spring from his little bed and make a beeline for the nearest piece of paper, marker or crayon, and commence t'drawing.
He moved like he'd been possessed by Picasso's ghost, big eyes focused intently on blank paper, whole chubby little arm moving in mostly circular patterns, an occasional 'dot-dot-dot' sound punctuating the picture. Zoned out.
"Did you have a dream?" I asked the first time this possession occurred.
"Nope," he spouted.
"Whatcha drawin?" I tried. At that point, obviously flustered with my queries, the artist would sigh heavily, pause his work ever so briefly, and appear to be searching for words. "It's okay, I'm just curious," I'd comfort. "Keep drawing." And he would.
Now he's more likely to be building (with Legos and relateds) than drawing, but in the same driven way, haunted by spirits of architects or engineers. He still draws now and then, and he's starting to experiment in the kitchen like his mom.
This morning, with a welcomed clear blue sky and a refreshing case of The Witties (you gotta notice it clearly whenever it occurs at this age), he descended into his favorite color via clothing and food.
Pickles and key lime yogurt, anyone?