The most, you ask? The most what, I wonder. I imagine the most of myself I spent for a meal would have been my first meal, the first time I had to digest food to last me a few hours.
I don’t remember that time, nor do I have anything in the way of stories telling of that meal. I’ve been told I was born at home, and that one of my brothers was the third person to see me, after my parents.
My imagination says that it must have been a costly meal. Everyone would have been a little or a lot tired, my earlier food would have been on constant supply, not meal based (is that right?), and instinct or not, I know these things don’t always go to plan.
But, it was worth it. Yes. I got to continue to hang around my noisy siblings, who I must’ve known already from their boisterous presence. I got to continue hanging around my parents, who just like all their kids (I’ve been told, convincingly). I got to meet my own fiery kids, my gorgeous partner, and so many other people.
And, I got to see Mum grow into old age. When I hang out with Mum now, there’s almost always a smile of recognition, of welcome. We’ve spent a long time hanging out, quantity time, and it’s showing now. She’s not always clear on why people want her to walk to the dining room when there’s a lovely warm bed with a convenient overbed tray right in front of her, but she does know that I want only good things for her.
Yes. I’m glad to have paid that effort for my first meal. I get to hang out with Mum, and she gets to know that she is loved.
... thinking allowed ... 