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Manicotti, which is the name I am using here to designate SC's son, loves rice cereal. In Starbucks this week, he ate and ate and ate and smiled and smiled and smiled, and was generally adorable. He even laughed, opening his cute little mouth wide, and displaying the remnants of the cereal he was devouring. He looked like a baby in a magazine.

And, for the record, I know all the magazines and books tell you not to compare children.

But they have to say that because they know that we all do -- even though we know that all children are different and grow and develop according to their own timelines.

It's like how even though at the gym, you're working out for you (sort of), but you also kind of work out because if you run for longer than that guy on the treadmill down the way, you have this little semi-secret personal victory. Even if he doesn't know you're competing, which makes it completely unfair. Even though you probably shouldn't compete because, hello, you're different people and maybe he's, you know, rehabilitating a broken leg, or maybe you're, for instance, pregnant, and can't run that fast.

But everybody does it, right? And everybody tries not to because it's bad, and they're all right -- it is bad. We should avoid being randomly competitive for no reason.

But I'm feeling whiny, and tonight's song is, "Why doesn't Baby J eat as enthusiastically as Manicotti? What am I doing wrong?"

 Because when Baby J eats, he opens his mouth, takes in the cereal, spits half of it out immediately, and then looks at me searchingly. It's like he never thought that I would poison him, but then I went ahead and did it. Et tu, Mommy?

Mysteriously, though, he keeps on pounding his chair and looking for more.

But Manicotti doesn't do that. He loves it. He ate everything SC brought for him, adorably.

And I sat across the table and glowered to myself, thinking self-accusatorily about why my son didn't do that.

It was ridiculous. And I knew it was ridiculous even as I was doing it. And I know that Baby J will eat cereal when he's good and ready -- and that children (as I've mentioned before because it's not, like, a secret) grow and develop at different rates.

But if I'm being totally honest, I'll admit it. I had Rice Envy. And it was stupid, and it was petty, and it was irrelevant, and I still did it. The first step is admitting you have a problem right?