The Story of Fifteen Spoons

I collected fifteen different spoons from around the house. I remember when the children were babies, they would grab the spoon from my hand and feed themselves. "Alone," they’d declare with their eyes, looking smug and pleased. It pleased me too, to see their fierce need for independence. I certainly understood that feeling.

I remember my mother feeding my disabled brother, two years older than I. She had two spoons and one plate. She would always say as she fed him, "One for me, one for you; two for me, one for you; three for me, one for you." She was a fast eater. He would kick and bang his hands on his tray after the number three; that was his limit.

I collected fifteen spoons and left them in a bag on my windowsill, hoping to create a new project. It’s been sitting there for nine months already. Do these spoons represent each of my fifteen children, or do they represent what I’ve given each child? I still don’t know.

The spoons are different sizes and shapes. Every handle, a little different. One is made of sterling silver with tiny flowers engraved on the handle. One is a souvenir from a trip to Israel, a leaf shaped spoon with a Menorah at the edge of its thin handle. There is a small, deep serving ladle and a oversized soup spoon with a rough edge. One is from a set I use for dips, the small handle wrapped with dark and light blue beads. It was hard to find fifteen different kinds. Some were from my mother's and grandmother’s sets. One set was rarely used. As a young child, I’d try to understand the stories shared at my grandmother's house, as they were served coffee and sponge cake in the dining room. In every set of cutlery, it’s the spoons that go missing first.

I never liked feeding my babies mushed-up food; I waited for their teeth to come in. I’d cut tiny pieces of cooked food into a bowl and put a small plastic spoon on their tray. I’d put the first piece on the spoon and wait. Usually, they held on tightly to their spoon and fed themselves with their other hand. I’d point to the little piece of carrot on the spoon, guessing if they would be a lefty or righty. They would attempt to feed themselves and hope the tiny piece didn’t fall off before it reached their mouths. I’d sit beside them, hiding another spoon under their tray, quickly getting something into their open mouths.

All together, I guess that equals three. We each held a spoon and they, their other hand. We all have our limits and our ways of handling things.