The little Princess now eats solid foods, at least, inasmuch as any seven-month-old does. Which is to say, she manages to simultaneously shriek with rage and clamp her mouth shut while the King and I try to shovel pureed green beans (which smell like the underside of a donkey's ass) into her mouth. After a month of chasing her face around with a tiny, tiny spoon, we now need new carpeting.
She hates green beans, sweet potatoes, cereal (both cheap, metallic-tasting cereal and the fancy organic stuff), and any other vegetable that can be turned into mush. She tolerates bananas and apples, although she has to inspect them thoroughly before they are allowed into her maw.
But what she loves loves LOVES is pears. My girl can eat her some pears. She sees us crack open the tiny jar, and when a little pear-scented breeze floats by her, her face lights up like Rockefeller Center at Christmas. Then she opens her mouth and jabs her face toward us, usually slamming her chin on the edge of her high chair tray, attempting to get closer to the pear-y goodness.
She will ingest pears as long as we will feed them to her. I once watched a penguin at Sea World eat his entire body weight in mackeral. That's how the Princess is with pears. I presume someday we're going to go too far, and she's simply going to overflow. She loves her some pears.
I don't mind the pears. I like pears myself, once in a while. The thing is, I'm afraid she's going to die of whatever the opposite of scurvy is. The King assures me there's no such disease, but I am not so sure. If there isn't one already, I think my daughter is going to invent it. At least she'll get to be written up in all the big medical journals.