Car-seat baby treats mealtime like it’s a card game at a casino. She has no words (other than abu and baby) so she’s come up with a system that works for both the player (her) and the dealer (me).

The pit boss examines the selection of foods presented on her tray and before choosing her first item she points to it and nods. She chooses a corn bran square then points to the space where it used to be, “hit me.” If I’m not quick enough to respond, she takes the pointed tip of her finger and with calm yet mindful and deliberate positioning, she taps twice on the hole left on her tray before making eye contact with me. If she has to tap more than twice her eyes become lasers, “Bitch I said corn bran.”

Occasionally she doubles down on mango slices and bananas and with grapes she follows a strategic pattern of hit me, hit me, hit me, stay, waving me off  to continue slicing or warming her next hand.

When I bring over a bowl, she’s excited about the possibility, the “what if” factor of the next food item to be served.

When she figures out it might be sweet peas, she tosses them one by one, clearly points to the mango, looks at me and threatens to dive from her high chair and flop onto the ceramic floor if I ever attempt to pull that crap again.

I show her my hands are clean. There are no nut products up my sleeve.

She goes all-in with chips.

Mealtime ends with a satisfied customer. She groans in her chair, her cheeks become flushed.

Short stack and I head straight to the change table.