My daughter, however, makes me look downright co-dependent. Already. After nine months.

She has been demonstrating her fierce independence most prominently during meal times. First she’d only eat if she could use the spoon herself. Then she’d only eat if you interspersed every spoonful with pieces of her favorite cereal.

Her latest move is to abandon the spoon all together, opting instead for nothing but foods she can feed herself.

On one hand, this development is a welcome step forward—we’d much rather be giving her peas, pieces of banana and steamed fruits and vegetables than blobby puree. On the other hand, L’s insistence on finger foods has opened up an entirely new can of whoop-ass on my (well-documented) neuroses.

My primary concern is the whole choking hazard.

When she ate nothing but pureed stuff, the risk of her choking was practically non-existent. Now, however, every bite brings with it a formidable threat to her health; every time she puts the food in her mouth, I hold my breath and prepare to jump into action to save her life.

A secondary concern is the mess.

One might think pureed fruits and veggies are messier than little chunks. On the contrary, chunks take the cake because, well, because L can toss them pretty much anywhere she sees fit.

Tonight, for instance, after the baby finished eating, I cleaned peas off of the floor, the couch, the kitchen table and—oddly—the ceiling fan (don’t ask; I have absolutely no bleeping idea how she managed to get some up there). The other morning, there was banana on the television.

Granted, this second issue isn’t nearly as big of a deal as the first. Still, when you’re a neurotic man who expresses his own independence by keeping stuff clean and orderly, dealing with the chaotic manifestations of Villano independence 3.0 is a patience-trying endeavor that will require significant amounts of getting used-to.

She does, however, thoroughly enjoy their 1986 anthem (and chart-topping single), “The Final Countdown,” because I’ve dorkily co-opted it and made it part of her thrice-daily feeding routine.

My version has a variation; instead of singing, “It’s the fi-nal count-down,” like the boys from Upplands Vasby, I sing, “It’s the fi-nal spoon-ful.”

The song’s lyrics vary depending on L’s menu for the day. I’ve never captured the words in writing, but usually they have something to do with a little girl who likes [insert vegetable or fruit here], but is about to head into space and won’t be able to eat that particular item anymore. Much like the Europe song, my words are inspired by David Bowie’s ditty, “Space Oddity.”

Because of the theme, I bust out the song when L has a few spoonfuls remaining in her bowl.

I start early because it usually takes me a good minute or so to build through the keyboard introduction and first verse to the chorus. I do a mean keyboard impression, and as soon as I chime in with the “Bum-bum-bummmmm-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum-bummmmm,” L gets all excited. She knows a serenade will follow. And that the end is near.

As if on cue, it always seems like she truly savors those last few bites. One day last week, for instance, she growled in appreciation. Today, on the very last spoonful, she grabbed the spoon and chomped on it for a good while.

Perhaps she was pretending it was a microphone, singing into it herself. Like father, like daughter, I suppose. And there’s nothing wrong with that.