The Spoils of a Graduate Degree

I just threw away my first papaya. I was so proud of myself for buying it and I felt so exotic even thinking about making a Papaya and Avocado salad (Giada's Papaya and Avocado Salad) to accompany some basic grilled chicken. The bagger at HEB certainly seemed impressed when I told her about it in line Saturday morning (she did ask). But when I cut into that papaya, the aroma was nauseating. Since it was my first papaya, I figured I’d go ahead and taste it, since, you know, sometimes smells can be misleading (I’m thinking Roquefort here). Of course, in the back of my head, I’m hearing the narrator of some long-ago National Geographic special advising me that “bad smells are nature’s way of telling animals not to eat poisonous foods.” Too highly evolved for all that, I cut off a sliver of papaya, tasted it, and immediately spit it out. Here’s where the Ph.D. comes in—I tried another bite. Really, did I think it would taste better if I finished peeling it, scooped out the seeds, then tried again? I guess this is what 10 years of higher education gets you: the incredible ability to ignore instincts and common sense and taste that foul-smelling fruit, not once, but twice.

I often find myself wondering if graduate school is compatible with parenting. Not in the “Can women break through the glass ceiling of tenure?” way that many valuable books and articles discuss today, but in the “Do I seriously need to search for peer-reviewed articles to find out which solid foods to serve my baby first, or what color his poo should be?” kind of way. In other words, do I overthink everything? People tell you to follow your gut as a parent, but is my maternal instinct being buried by the voices of “experts”? Start with grains, start with vegetables, avoid fruits, eat fruits, puree, don’t puree, feed him, let him feed himself … the list goes on and on. I teach my students to begin each writing assignment with a clear understanding of the significance of their argument, the “So what?” question. The thing is, all of this advice doesn’t state the “So what?” but the implication seems to be that if you serve your child pureed apples instead of smashed green beans that he or she will be malnourished at best, certainly a lifetime picky eater, and at worst, will harbor feelings of neglect until his adult years when a therapist will help him trace his trust issues back to the parental choice not to let him hold his own spoon.

Here’s what I know. My child loves sweet potatoes. He’ll happily eat them every night and search for more when the bowl is scraped clean. He still loves breastmilk and, though he’s reached an age at which he’s easily distracted, seems to prefer to nurse over any solid food, a fact which relieves me to no end. I’m going to mash some avocado for him tonight (once I figure out what will replace the spoiled papaya on tonight’s menu) and we’ll see how that goes. I’m not going to google anything, nor will I search on amazon for baby food recipe books, all of which say the same thing: “Mash or puree cooked food with breastmilk or water until it reaches desired consistency.” If I take a step back from the expert voices all competing for my attention and reverence, I think I can hear my instincts telling me what to do. And if my little guy makes the same face at the avocado that I should have made when I smelled that rotten fruit, I won’t push the issue. At least not until tomorrow.