A Messy Beginning
An amusing personal insight into an infant's introduction to solid food through the method of Baby Led Weaning.
Our daughter was just a few weeks old, my wife settling happily into motherhood, when we were visited by her friend, a first-time mother herself just ten months prior, cute cub in tow. Arriving just before noon, we brewed the cafetiere whilst the friend proceeded to unpack the sizeable cool-bag suspended from her shoulder, announcing she’d ‘brought a few bits’ for her toddler’s lunch.
I recall a sense of bewilderment as she revealed a seemingly infinite supply of nourishment from the bottomless hamper, akin to a magician presenting an implausible mass of handkerchiefs from his miniscule top pocket. Of further confusion was the nature of the food she laid out on the blanket before her salivating offspring - it wasn’t the fare you’d typically associate with a pre-school picnic but rather that adorning the table of a small spanish fiesta.
I hadn’t given it any thought, I guess I assumed she’d be spoon-fed from a jar of pureed produce but, using her fingers as cutlery, she proceeded to devour every morsel before her.
We sat entranced, in awe of the miniature mulching machine as she devoured the medeterrainian mezze; olives, hummus, flatbread, falafel, sun dried tomatoes, deli meats. I’d not before seen an infant at that stage of development feed themselves independently and with confidence, nor so evidently enjoy the experience. If I was impressed, my wife was astounded, and she set about with vigour to research all she could about the feeding phenomenon we’d just witnessed.
I’d not previously encountered the term ‘baby led weaning’ before the stirring enthusiasm of my spouse, which isn't surprising given the ignorance (arrogance) in which I often dismiss any distinguished deviation from the norm as being conceited, self-righteous, or should it be holistically based, ‘hippy bollocks’. Cynicism reigns supreme and anything new (or at least new to me) is often regarded as a fad, behind which there must be a party out to exploit financial gain from the new-found acclaim.
For the uninformed, or in my case - oblivious, Baby-Led Weaning (BLW) is a method of introducing food to supplement breastmilk or formula in a tot’s diet. The relaxed and unstructured approach sees baby offered solid food, appropriately cut and easily held in the palm, so they can feed independently rather than from a carer-held spoon, enjoying as much or as little as they like: baby led, not parent led. Allowing the youngster to regulate their own food intake, BLW presents eating as a positive, interactive experience.
My eldest daughter, from a previous relationship, was solely fed formula from birth, before the introduction of ready-made jarred sustenance, then pureed food and so on. Now 11, she’s a perfectly strong, healthy, happy young lady who has, thus far, suffered no physical developmental complexities whatsoever - something for which we’re incredibly grateful. With that in mind, I had no real reason to explore any alternative avenue but with my youngest now at 22 months, 16 of which with self-led weaning under her little belt, it’s an endeavour I’m pleased we pursued. In raising two daughters, each having enjoyed differing introductions to nourishment, we effectively possess two articles of long-term, well established research. Observing the ‘case studies’, albeit the younger sibling presenting nine-and-a-half-years less data, we don’t believe baby-led weaning be superior to traditional, but rather simply acknowledge it as an alternative, perhaps more natural, approach. Each to their own, as they say. For us, the approach is simply of greater personal preference and practicality in our current circumstance and point of view. Illustrating our experience of the practice certainly isn’t intended to persuade or influence, but simply to share, describe, and quite often amuse, those who might be curious.
Obviously opinion varies greatly, some believe solids should be introduced from as little as four months in, whereas others insist any food passes the blades of a blender before the jaws of their offspring until they reach the age of two, some even further. The current research-backed guidance advises an infant exceed six months before the initiation of solid sustenance into their diet. It is the judgement of the parent whether to follow such advice - my wife keen to adhere to the word of those adequately qualified to offer it, and in all honesty, I don’t possess the necessary developmental or medical intellect, nor the confidence to research the matter myself, to question otherwise.
We were on holiday in Tenerife when baby reached half a year but favoured to wait until our return home to begin the new mealtime endeavour. Familiar surroundings, the availability of prompt medical assistance and an assurance of what we’d actually be offering her (those little signs at the buffet aren’t always accurate) being the rationale behind the decision. Additionally, we didn't didn’t want to subject the holidaying public to what we would (correctly) assume to be an astronomical mess. One would be forgiven an indignation at having spent two grand only to reluctantly observe feeding time at the zoo.
So it was at twenty seven weeks and one day that she settled in her highchair to have a savoury breakfast crumpet presented before her. Lightly toasted, it wasn’t perhaps the most nutritious or exotic of choices for her introduction to solid food but appeared to fit the bill nonetheless. Her initial response was to fiercely inspect the small griddle cake, determine its inability to provide milk, then shoot us an infuriated glare as though to demand “what am I expected to do with THAT? Where’s the boob?” Fortunately, despite a greater period spent curiously manhandling than eating, perseverance prevailed and she managed to consume around a third of the buttered phenomenon before her.
The first few weeks were basically just trial and error - the initial hazard was the terrifying task of differentiating between gagging and choking which necessitated a level of intense surveillance MI5 would be proud of, but as she was experienced a wider range of tastes, smells and textures, the initial obstacles were overcome and she grasped the physical process of food to mouth, and began to form her own palatable preferences. This in turn appears to have led to a genuine passion for food and, just like her father, a huge appetite.
Most days she’ll devour a breakfast of 4 or 5 different items - breads, meats, fruits, cereals - a continental platter akin to the plates of a boutique resort. If, of course, said luxury hotels acquired their supplies from Aldi. However, despite best efforts and intentions, a combination of time (lack of) and provisions (little) mean the choice sometimes entails toast, toast, or toast. Whilst the ideal would be ethically sourced, organic, fair trade, etc, the reality simply establishes a balance between what’s half decent and what we can afford. Which often isn’t a great deal. Surely 69p ‘wonky blueberries’ are just the same as the £4 ‘finest’ variety?
The rations available diminish in plentitude and lavishness as the week progresses, before one of us musters the physiological and psychological strength one must possess before tackling the high-velocity, high-stress endeavour that is the tills of the German discount supermarket chain.
On nursery days she’ll ravage a second sitting of breakfast with her bambino buddies, often only an hour after her first. Like the ravenous feline in Six Dinner Sid, she’s the Two Breakfast Toddler. They don’t ask if she’s already eaten, nor do we inform them - at £52 a day we’ll accept everything going. The day she repeatedly requested further helpings of Mexican bean enchiladas, ending after her fifth serving when the entire establishment ran out, boasted an air of particular financial satisfaction.
At thirty-six years old, I’m unlikely to grow beyond my 5ft 6 frame and it would appear the apple won’t be falling far from the (stumpy) tree, as baby currently sits just below the 25th percentile in height for her age. This in itself offered a further amusing dimension to eating out, as adjacent tables would exchange a confused/concerned glance when a (seemingly) 4 month-old was handed solid food. Now nearly two years, the perplexed eyes continue as she devours a quantity of fayre that far surpasses what her petite frame is perceived to manage.
Some days she treats food as the single greatest, most fascinating bestowment upon mankind, her glee evident at the colourful multitude of variety - the exploration of touch, sound (translate: squelch) and aroma being just as rewarding as the devour itself, an experience of unparalleled palatable pleasure. Then other days she simply couldn't care less. She’ll always eat something but the very same substance that yesterday provoked such elation is today’s nuisance, brushed aside as though it’s mere offering is both an insult and inconvenience to her culinary tastes. Though I’d imagine this can be attributed simply to being a toddler.
She appears to harbour a belief that anything brightly coloured, generally with a distinct ability to stain, coincidentally also makes for a luxurious exfoliant, or at least one would assume from the manner in which she delights in smearing it across her face. Why go for a seaweed algae face mask when you can have Heinz Cream Of Tomato for a fraction of the price? Dolmio do a corking conditioner as well apparently.
Allowing her independent command of her feeding brings with it an additional advantage I previously hadn’t considered; we can eat whilst she does, and whilst she obviously receives our attention as she requires, it’s pleasant to enjoy our own dish using both a knife and a fork, rather than one or the other. Some may label this as lazy or impatient, but my failure to multi-task proves perhaps my greatest inadequacy, so I consider it a small triumph. However, granting her the authority to handle the food herself means it is liable to end up in a destination other than her mouth, an example of such an instance occurred in our local independent coffee shop.
My friend, the proprietor, has a successful business model - good food, fairly priced, served by fantastic staff - a recipe which sees the premises perpetually packed. The older generation make up a large quota of the clientele and, in stereotypical grandparent fashion, they always coo and fawn over the toddler. On one particular occasion, an elderly dear had just finished expressing delight at the waving of a breakfast sausage when she found herself an unwitting member of our party. Without warning, the Cumberland missile was launched with propeller-like dynamics, a panicked gasp between spouses before stealth precision saw the offending swine cylinder nestle directly in the lap of the unfortunate pensioner. The silence immediately succeeding the moment of impact appeared to last an age, in reality about three seconds, before the senior inspected the greasy article and emitted a hearty chortle. We considered ourselves fortunate, for many would be understandably less than enamoured having taken unforeseen and undesired receipt of a pork projectile, launched at point blank range.
Had it been me, I wouldn’t have protested too much given my affection for meat and omnivorous existence. Others may have been less enamoured with the prospect, which brings us to dietary preferences. My wife is a vegetarian whereas I’m keen to ravage anything that once had a pulse, but we have no such conflict in what we offer the baba. She has her favourites - sweet potato, blueberries and broccoli being consistent favourites. Her love for fish comes and goes but there remains a constant desire and fascination to rub it into her hair at every chance. Likewise, she expresses an unrivalled delight at the mere sight of a banana. She has grown wise to the connotations of the word ‘banana’ and has even managed to rumble our highly sophisticated abbreviation code of ‘B’. As an aside she uses baby British sign language, not through necessity but choice (she adores the local ‘Sing & Sign’ class) so is able to communicate ‘all done’ and ‘more’ in relation to daily aspects such as playing and meal times. Her ability to convey specific food items is developing everyday but she has a firm grasp on ‘beans’, ‘toast’ and ‘cheese’. Which is all well and good until she’s wide awake at 3am signing ‘where’s the cheese?’.
The approach also appears to have given her an accurate gauge of satiation, and won’t just gorge for the sake of it. If she’s full she’ll simply decline the food. Or throw it on the floor. Which brings us to the mess. Oh the mess. I’ve simply come to accept a significant portion of my existence is now spent on my hands and knees below her highchair, brandishing anti-bacterial wipes. She’ll peer and point from her elevated throne at obsolete chunks- her inner dialogue almost audible “This slop does not please my palate, now collect it from the floor at once you peasant”. The once-white walls of our dining room currently resemble a paint-by-numbers, and I now appreciate my wife’s reluctance to invest in a plush pile carpet before the new arrival. Often, baby will compute the request to place redundant foods in a bowl, stare deep into your soul, before theatrically opening the grasp of her outstretched hand to deposit said article on the floor. Think ‘mic-drop’.
My wife and I met working in a real ale pub - our first hand experience within the hospitality trade exposing us to families who feel entitled to leave behind a scene of dining devastation- tables desecrated, cutlery, condiments and dishes strewn anywhere within a three metre radius. “Who cares if little Finlay has sent his lunch into the wall, and intentionally embedded beans into the carpet? Not my job to stop him, the waitress will clear it up”. For this reason, once the new weaning routine was established we carried a wipeable mat (around 3 square feet) everywhere for the succedent few months. Fellow patrons would gawp, jovially stating it as ‘unnecessary’, whilst staff would be grateful for our thoughtfulness. In my mind, it’s not admirably considerate - it’s just common decency to leave the place as we found it, rather than leaving the hapless Garcon greeted by Ground Zero. “Table Five looks like Beirut”.
Whilst the mess and subsequent clean-up job can prove taxing, it is far overshadowed by the convenience the approach affords; She eats whatever we eat, so if we don’t have the time, or inclination, to prepare her a ‘pack-up’, she’ll happily consume what we ourselves have chosen when dining out. We might order her meal from the children’s menu (though one might question if the portion is actually intended for a child much older) or side dish, as well as offering her some of what we’ve ordered for ourselves. This often presents a pleasant predicament when she expresses a distinct desire for the contents of our plates, to the extent that our adult appetite is left unsatisfied, and thus necessitates a second round of ordering.
There will be those who disagree with the entire approach and I’d imagine, like everything, there will be those who advise against it. Again, each to their own, but for our family Baby-led weaning has been a method we’re very grateful to have discovered, and proved a very positive, enriching and enjoyable experience. Advocates and enthusiasts of the method gush of the developmental benefits but I would be insulting years of medical analysis by pitifully attempting to regurgitate (no pun intended) the research. But, in addition to the positive ramifications already discussed, we feel it’s been an integral aspect in the progress of her fine motor skills- her prowess with cutlery has rapidly improved, and appears to have provided her with a diverse pallet and the confidence to try new foods, a quality we hope will serve her well in the future.
It’s worth giving it a go. Just don’t paint your walls white. That new carpet can wait a few years.
