With the babysitter running late, Cecile, who was changing yet again for the twentieth time, had put her husband on food duty. Sebastian’s gaze slid from the bowl in his hand to the infant who was looking down at him from his highchair. He would have just prepared a bottle but knew his wife’s mood would depend on the amount of puree ingested. Hippolyte’s contortions obliged Sebastian to take action. He stuck the spoon into the green sludge with feigned confidence. He smiled, encouraged with his voice, and even stooped to imitate an airplane, but the few spoonfuls that passed those stubborn lips were immediately ejected onto the infant’s shiny chin, before his tiny and irascible fist smeared it up to his hair. Hippolyte, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glistening amid the face paint of a warrior, turned his head away, screamed, and repelled his giant of a father’s attack with all his might. Seized by sudden inspiration, Sebastian hid his face and revealed it suddenly - “Peekaboo!” - before taking advantage of a burst of laughter to stick a great spoonful into the gaping mouth. It closed, the cheeks bulged and expelled, between puckered lips, a snotty spray that struck Sebastian right in the face. All he had to do now was rummage through the laundry basket in the hope he’d find a shirt that was still presentable.