She now occupies the vintage high chair (70 years old and counting). I remember, from this part of the developmental process with Frasier, that now is when I have to make peace with mess. Horrible, stomach-turning mess. Hair full of pureed peas. The scent of maple teething biscuits on skin. Sticky fingers on my face. Flung bananas. Gobs of food dripping down the front of baby clothes like lava.