The past two nights I have served my boys the most horrific meals. Yes, horrific, if you take Paul's word for it, anyway. Sunday night, it was lemon chicken. Paul took one taste and gagged - literally gagged. "This tastes horrible!" he moaned. To get it down, he made a slurry of ketchup and mustard in which to dip the vile chicken.
Last night, however, I outdid myself. I had made a casserole with rice, refried beans, cheese, salsa, corn and spinach. This time, he didn't even need to taste it before he declared it awful. "This is horrible!" he wailed again. "Why, Mother, why? What hath thou wrought? Why hath thou forsaken me?" Seriously, you would have thought I'd beheaded his pet rabbit and served it to him on a plate. OK, so I may have embellished his quotes a little bit, and he doesn't really have a pet rabbit, but it was outrage on that level. I had offended him, deeply, with my offering.
I never know the right course of action in these situations. In the past, I've broken every rule in the book regarding kids and eating: bribery, threats, I'm ashamed to say I've tried it all. I know experts say not to battle on this one. Kids will eat when they're hungry. Keep presenting healthy foods, and eventually kids will start to embrace them. File those under easier said than done.
I like to think I'm pretty reasonable with my eating expectations. Being a recovering picky eater myself, I'm empathetic to the boys' food dislikes and suspicions. I give them outs on foods they really don't like. If I make something they dislike and they try it and calmly tell me they don't like it, I've been known to let them eat peanut butter bread or cold cuts in lieu of the dinner I've prepared. The problem is, they usually don't tell me calmly, they go right to whiny. And when whiny comes out, I tend to dig in my heels.
Something tells me I'm in for several more years of mealtime battles. I'd better make sure I, at least, stay fortified. If you'll excuse me, think I'm going to go heat up some of that heinous casserole for myself.
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