Maybe I'm selfish, but I don't always want to share my delicious food with a two-year old, even if he is my own. That's why I give him his own bowl and his own spoon. But for some reason my portion remains the most desirable of the two. He looks up at me with his big moist eyes and says, "Pleeeease, Mommy? I love you." Already a master at the art of manipulation. Of course, I relent. I always give him a bite or two no matter how badly I know he will have contaminated it afterward. As I draw my spoon back I envision thousands of little green hairy amoebas skating around on it, waving and mocking me with their hairy greenness. And though I can't see the spit, if I try to talk myself into using the same spoon I can taste it before it even reaches my mouth. So, I usually try to cram as much of it as I originally wanted anyway into my mouth before handing him the rest. He knows what he's doing and he thinks it's funny. His self-satisfied smile says it all.
On a deeper lever, I think the only reason that I do this is to spite my mother, who used to eat ice cream in front of us. When we would ask for some, she would bring it to her chest, draw in her legs, and protect her precious ice cream like she was some gross, hairless hobbit. She'd break and give us some, yet it was always apparent that this was a true sacrifice of motherhood for her. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. I'm going to end up with whatever germs he harbors regardless. There's no point in making him feel guilty about it.
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