Having a child has made me a creature of habit.
Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always had my ways—the car has to be clean, the dishes have to be put away, my books need to be categorized by genre, and there needs to be a tube of Chapstick beside my bed. But I’ve always had trouble eating regularly—breakfast usually consisted of a coffee in a to-go cup and possibly a banana, while lunch was made up of a sandwich, usually only eaten around two in the afternoon. And supper? Well, that was whenever I managed to get around to it (usually only thought of after I was in a state of pseudo-starvation, meaning that take-out was the only option, as opposed to preparing a lovely home-cooked meal using the fridge full of food that I had stocked up on at the beginning of the week). This cavalier way of living became a thing of the past once my child starting eating solid foods. Instead, mealtime became a mission. What was the best way to get my child to eat his vegetables? I had to sit down with him and show him how good they were—I also wanted to encourage conversation and family time during meals, which resulted in me taking regular shifts at the dinner table, with (wait for it) well-rounded, home-cooked meals.
It’s funny how having a child can force you to become a full-fledged grown-up (cringing at the new music on the radio and all). From feeding your body regularly to forcing yourself to sleep at a reasonable hour (because really, those hours of sleep are precious, and there’s no telling when you’ll get to sleep again), babies seem to make you whole in a way that didn’t seem likely before you had miniature people relying on you for survival. But then again, perhaps I was just a poorly organized adult before having children.
