My kid loves pouches.
In spite of every effort to encourage varied eating and a balanced diet of diverse foods, nothing lights him up quite like eating a pouch. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get him to do something – and yes, I am not above bribery especially when sneaky fiber is involved.
The older he gets, the more independent he is when it comes to every aspect of life, including eating said-pouches. He insists on holding them and twisting the cap off, and holding the cap because heaven forbid the cap gets lost… cue: meltdown. I’m cool with all of this, but the one thing that drives me truly crazy is if he hands me back a pouch with food (smoothie? mush? what is even in a pouch?) left still in it. I’m usually not one to coax around food – my policy is if he says he’s done, he’s done, no questions asked. But something about that last little slurp in a pouch going to waste drives me bonkers… maybe because I already have so much guilt around the amount of single-use plastic involved in feeding kids, in general. But, I digress.
I recently found myself calling the last bit of pouch “The Last Squeeze”, and for whatever reason it has stuck. Now Max knows to ask for my help getting out The Last Squeeze as my obsession with avoiding waste has rubbed off. The more we work together to troubleshoot The Last Squeeze – him sucking out every last drop as I roll up the bottom of the pouch plastic to push all of the mush to the top – the more I’m inspired by this metaphor for life in general. To me, The Last Squeeze represents the little morsels we forget about or leave on the table, the driblets of experience or insight or connection we give up on and leave by the wayside. That Last Squeeze takes effort and coordination and determination – and sometimes, a little help from a friend (or in Max’s case, Mama).
The Last Squeeze reminds me of a mantra I hold dear, a mantra that came to me during the darkest days of Covid pandemic uncertainty: “this is part of my full human experience”.
This is part of my Full. Human. Experience.
Not my Perfect human experience, or Happy human experience – full human experience. We deserve to feel things and encounter things as varied and diverse as an aspirational toddler’s food palette, pouch included… and The Last Squeeze is one way to chase that full human experience so it doesn’t just happen to us, but rather for us and through us. It makes me wonder what metaphorical pouch slurps I’ve left behind along the way, and it inspires me to soak up every last drop, even if the parenting-flavor-of-the-day isn’t my favorite.
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Earlier this week, Max had a meltdown as we were getting ready to eat dinner which happens more often than not. Mealtime transitions – heck, all transitions – are hard for him. I don’t remember the specifics, but he probably was asking for a pouch, yet again, and I was probably telling him that pouches are not on the menu for dinner, yet again (in this instance I decided against pouch-bribery, apparently). It’s a script we play out often, can’t you tell?!
His crying was starting to escalate and I was starting to tune it out a bit to get through the rest of the evening routine without having a meltdown myself, but he did something that totally surprised me: through his wailing tears he said “I want the Calm Song”. I had never heard of this song before – I assumed it was something they play at school – so I started searching for “The Calm Song” in Spotify and went through the list of songs that popped up. After sifting through three or four different “calm songs”, we got to one called “Deep Breath” on a kid’s album, Gracie’s Corner. He nodded vigorously – “yes, that one” as we let it continue to play. He settled down; sucked his thumb for a few minutes; and eventually said he was ready to go in his high chair to eat. I was so proud of him for knowing listening to music would help him feel better, and for asking for what he needed even at the height of a tantrum.
The next morning I excitedly shared this with his teachers, reflecting on how incredible it is that something he learned at school is translating to his home life too; that he’s remembering something from a different setting and applying it to our time at home.
His teacher shook her head and said “I’ve never heard of that song before… we don’t play anything like a calm song, he didn’t get it from us!”.
My Max. My wise, articulate, intelligent boy. He somehow came up with it all on his own, knowing intuitively that music would make him feel better and that “calm” was the feeling he was after. Maybe the months we spent in dance class together or the countless moments we spend having “dance parties” around the kitchen have sunk in in this way; maybe seeing us take deep breaths ourselves as we try to keep it together when we’re reaching a breaking point has left an impression on him. Either way, this was a reminder that every Last Squeeze is worth it.
