It's Hard Not to Help

Clara has acquired some exciting new skills in recent days, particularly pertaining to her ability to self-feed.  When I put a puff in front of her, one at a time, she can reach out, pinch it up between thumb and forefinger, and by some means or another land it in her mouth with about 50% accuracy.  In other words, one for Clara, one for the floor, one for Clara, one for Clara's hair, one for Clara, one for the highchair crevices.  

However, the every-other-puff that makes it into her mouth has a painful journey to it's final destination.  It's hard to watch.  She reaches for it, knocking it to the side, she reaches again, awkwardly maneuvering her fingers to grip it.  She aims for her mouth but misses.  She aims again with better results.  Though not a perfect delivery, her wet lips are sticky enough to hold it for a moment.  Engage other hand.  She reaches up, attempting with two sets of fingers to push it the rest of the way in.  She can already taste a hint of banana-grain-goodness.  But no, she winds up chewing her finger with the tantalizing puff still dangling off her lip.  After another double-fisted effort, involving concentrated tongue and lip work, with her head straining forward, she finally succeeds and enjoys the fruit of her labor.

I know I could so easily put her out of her misery (and surely she's miserable, right?) by popping that puff directly into her mouth for her.  Instead I sit, perched on the edge of my chair, my eyes glued on her, willing her brain and muscles to do the needed work and feeling a great sense of relief on her behalf when she succeeds.  Meanwhile she's happily reaching for the next puff.

I would gladly do it for her, but I know that she needs to practice and learn.  Part of being a parent is allowing your child to gain needed independence along the way.  Nonetheless, it's hard not to help.