If Evan ate half of what falls from his highchair to the ground, he’d be ten feet tall. Having lost patience with mushy spoonfuls, he is now in a nutritional no-man’s-land: he wants to feed himself, but needs practice.

Compounding the problem is a newfound discovery of likes and don’t likes – and as you can imagine, most food falls into the latter category. Not liking makes one feel gloriously decisive.

Like the miraculous journeys of worldly salmon to home stream or sperm to egg, pieces of food have the odds stacked against them. Not much makes it to the belly.

First, it must pass the contemplation stage. Does this look (or not look) like a blueberry? Rejects sit unexplored, an unappetizing pile on the highchair tray.

Second comes the grab-and-stuff stage. Slippery fingers and an unperfected pincer grasp means most falls to floor or lap.

Third: the chewing stage, necessary to give your mother a false sense of progress.

Then the fourth stage: the finish line. Nine out of ten pieces of food that make it this far are spit out, in order to make room in the mouth for more pieces which are chewed up and yes, you guessed it: spat out. Anything swallowed is probably an accident.

Can a child get big on nothing but tickles and crumbs?

In another post-birthday development, Evan has discovered MINE. In a room full of three thousand, four hundred and sixty seven fire engines, crackerjacks, squeaky balls, bumblestumblers, musical chairs, fizzdoodlers, stacking rattlers and wahooglers so thick you have to kick a path through them, MINE is the small, unassuming block picked up two seconds ago by his cousin.

The injustice! The protest! Behold, the Toddler!