I know it’s totally a luck-of-the-draw thing, but I had been pleased that Alice was such a game eater.
My kid eats sweet potatoes! My kid eats azuki paste! My kid picks the sun-dried tomatoes off her pizza – to eat them!
But she has retrenched.
She’ll still eat any kind of fruit that isn’t whole banana. Enthusiastically.
Otherwise, there is dairy and there is pasta. A cracker here and there. And chicken tenders – but you do what you can, right?
So I guess you couldn’t say ‘picky’ quite yet. Particular, maybe. Discriminating.
Knowing that David and I would be having leftover pizza that she didn’t like the first time around, I decided on farfalle for Alice tonight. And feeling in a farmer’s markety mood, I tossed the noodles with some tomatoes and garlic and basil.
She wouldn’t eat it. She kept telling me it was hot. I think she was being polite.
But – aha! – prepared for such an outcome, I had reserved a bowful of plain, buttered noodles.
She took a bite. And refused a second.
You are not supposed to plead. You are not supposed to bargain. You do not make it emotional. You do not let it become a battle.
You are neutral. You are barely interested.
“Oh,” you say. “You don’t want any.”
You shrug. “Some bowties seem to have flown across the table. I’ll just pick them up, then. Milk?”
She eventually had a peach, two chicken tenders and – in what I consider a victory for me (except that it wasn’t a battle) – four Ritz crackers with cheddar melted on top.
If getting the girl fed is the only object, we’re doing all right, I think.
But you have to worry.
I mean, I don’t want to have to sneak her a Happy Meal in my purse when we go out for sushi. (Ha. Wink.)