Emma looked at me—a plea for support from Team Mom. Should I give it to her, I wondered? She was just being Emma, after all, and hadn't I loved her for that a year ago, when she'd been my personal dietitian? But I was still kind of pissed about the formula comment, and now she was dissing my cookies. I took a sip of wine, and then I betrayed her: "Oh, Em," I said. "Don't we have bigger stuff to worry about than a little sugar?"
I don't know if my words were a slap in the face to Emma or not, because she chose that moment to pick up and nuzzle her baby. These children—our conduits, our receptacles!
A few months ago, Emma and her family moved to a small city in the South, where her husband makes more money and she can be a stay-at-home mom. I thought of her this morning, as I was feeding breakfast to my second son, just 10 months old. I was poised to drop a pinch of scrambled egg yolk into his open mouth when a wave of doubt washed over me: Is it the white or the yolk that's dangerous? I turned to Google. Dozens of M.D.s, F.A.A.P.s, and Ph.D.s lined up to assist me. Their advice—the yolk's okay—came judgment-free, unencumbered by stories of what they'd fed their kids that morning. And so I fed my boy, finger to mouth, finger to mouth: such a simple act, such a lonely one. Maybe tomorrow I'd call Em.
