We decide to stop for cappuccinos on our daily walk along the Yalta Harbor & Port.  We can’t eat an early hearty lunch, because Liliana is supposed to be eating her full meals at the orphanage until the judge’s “judgment day” (which is next Tuesday!), and we don’t want to spoil her appetite (or cause her to get diarrhea, which we hear is a pretty common thing, once you circumvent the orphanage’s bland…but healthy…diet).  We order a sliced banana for her, and the waitress delivers it to our table, decked out with a toothpick sparkler and three pirates’ swords.  Liliana does her quick excited inhale.  A banana has never looked so good.  It takes her some time to figure out how to nab a banana slice with a flimsy plastic sword, but she does it admirably, and begins to eat.

Side note here.  We’ve noticed that when we return her to the orphanage in the evenings, the caregivers have the children’s meals set up in the dining room, where the chairs and tables are miniature–just the children’s sizes.  The tables are laid with real china and set for four.  The plates are heaped with mashed potatoes, and in the middle, are mugs of broth or some sort of soup.  The children have been taught to eat properly, and they’re expected to use the proper utensils and to drink out of a proper cup.  [I’ve introduced Liliana to the sippy cup, only so that travel home will be easier.]

This is one aspect I liked about Montessori, in all my reading–that they teach children to respect things, to do things correctly.  I also think, whether this is an intended benefit or not, that children get to experience beautiful things, too.  [My mother always did this for us as children.  We had cloth napkins and real china.  Each of us–seven children and father and mother–had a votive candle in front of our plate.  True, the plates got chipped, and I’m sure wax got on the tablecloth, but here I am talking about it thirty years later.  Isn’t that grand?]

So, back to Liliana eating the banana.  I’m helping her along, and Dan’s laughing.  He says, “You might want to slow down.  She can’t possibly fit any more in there.”  I look down, and she’s got chipmunk cheeks.  She’s not swallowing!  Here she is, happy as a lark, chewing away on half a banana, not realizing she needs to swallow.  Is she hoarding her food?  Is she simply following her caregivers’ instructions to “chew your food.”  I don’t know, but I stop feeding her, and she’s happy just to chew.  What seems like hours later, she swallows what she has in her mouth, but she’s enjoying the experience–every bit of it.

She reaches for the sprigs of mint on her plate.  She hands them to me.  She’s not interested in them.  I say “spa-SEE-bah” (which is the phonetical way to say “thank you” in Russian), but then I crush a part of it between my fingers and say “Smell” to her.  I sniff it, so she knows what I’m talking about.  She sniffs.  She looks at me.  She sniffs again.  She wants Dan to sniff.  And then she wants the mint back.

I guess the lesson is: sometimes you gotta stop and smell the mint.  For the past several days, I’ve felt like I can’t take my eyes off her–not because she’s being naughty–but just the opposite.  I feel like I’ll miss something if I do.