(Short Story) Mitchell’s Gerber

Zander's life had never been this complicated. At 25, with sun-bleached hair and a body sculpted by countless hours catching waves off the California coast, he'd imagined his college years would be about epic surf trips, late-night study sessions, and minimal responsibility. Instead, here he was, locked in an epic battle of wills with Mitchell—a 18-month-old tornado of destruction who seemed determined to test the absolute limits of human endurance.

The kitchen looked like a war zone. Sweet potato Gerber was his weapon of choice, and Mitchell wielded it with the precision of a tiny, unhinged general. Zander had long since given up on the concept of cleanliness. His crisp college hoodie—once a pristine testament to his university's rowing team—now bore abstract art patterns of orange and beige that would make modern artists weep with joy.

Mitchell's high chair was less a piece of baby equipment and more a throne of chaos. The kid had a look in his eyes—part mischief, part pure demonic possession—that suggested he was plotting world domination, one spoonful at a time. His chubby hands gripped the spoon like a medieval weapon, launching sweet potato missiles with reckless abandon.

"Okay, buddy," Zander muttered, "let's try this again."

But Mitchell had other plans. The moment the spoon approached, it was like watching a tiny food ninja in action. Half the Gerber would miss his mouth entirely, creating a Jackson Pollock-esque masterpiece across his face, neck, and the surrounding area. Orange streaks decorated his cheeks like war paint, his chin a landscape of culinary destruction.

And then, the poop. Oh, the poop.

Mitchell's Pampers began to tell a story of its own. It started subtly—a slight bulge, a hint of movement. Zander knew the signs. Years of babysitting (read: paying for his surfing addiction) had taught him something about toddler digestive capabilities. But Mitchell? Mitchell was a prodigy in the art of simultaneous eating and pooping.

The Pampers strained under the assault. It was like watching a small, contained biological event unfold. Mitchell, completely unbothered, continued his gastronomic assault. One hand shoveling sweet potato, the other apparently controlling some seriously impressive bowel dynamics that would make a gastroenterologist both proud and terrified.

The smell hit first. A complex bouquet that spoke of sweet potato, recent milk consumption, and pure, unbridled infant chaos. Zander's nose wrinkled. The Pampers looked like it was housing a small, very warm, very fragrant watermelon. Or maybe a hand grenade of pure infant waste.

"Seriously, dude?" Zander muttered, watching Mitchell's face. The kid was a study in concentration. Eyes locked on the spoon, mouth open in anticipation, face covered in orange war paint, and a Pampers that was rapidly approaching critical mass.

Mitchell pooped. And pooped. And POOPED. It was like he was trying to set some kind of world record for volume, timing, and sheer audacity. The Pampers creaked in protest, looking like it was about to wave a white flag of surrender or possibly call for backup.

But Mitchell? He didn't care. He was still eating. Still wearing his sweet potato camouflage. Still the most confident tiny human in the universe.

Zander reached for another wet wipe. This was going to be a long day.

Welcome to babysitting, surf boy. Enjoy the show.