Perhaps my most satisfactory moment – culinarily speaking, that is – as a parent so far was when Keira was about eight months old. I cooked Lentils; that particular legume I’d never actually eaten in my life prior to that point. I waited, I wondered, “Would she eat it? Would it taste nice?”
Yes, and yes, apparently.
Keira was an excellent eater. You offered the spoon. She took it. Heaven.
Riley, on the other hand, is fussier than a Frenchman. Leaving aside the fact that he had to independently eat ever since he could hold a spoon himself, given his particular moods, sometimes its hard to get anything in his mouth. Then, I get frustrated, he gets frustrated, he gets down from the table (oh, yeah, did I add he refuses to get in the highchair now?) and takes off. Then, it gets to 7pm and I think, I’ve got to get this kid to eat. So I offer him a cracker, or a milk arrowroot biscuit. Or ten. Perhaps a banana. Or a handful of prunes. Anything. I’m desperate.
Keira has been watching this debacle quite carefully over the past six months. So, you can guess what’s happened.
“Keira, please eat your vegetables.”
“I don’t like vegetables anymore!”
“Keira, please eat your meat.”
“I only want fish fingers!”
“Keira, eat your pasta.”
“IT NEEDS MORE CHEESE!”
“Keira, eat your potato.”
“I want chips.”
“Potatoes are chips.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Alright.” And she resentfully places a teaspoon’s full on her tongue.
So once when her diet was – if I may brag – pretty rich, now our cupboard is stocked with packet mac-and-cheese and other non-perishables. And we wonder why she went that week without a poo. Her intestines were probably frozen with all the carbs and starch.
I find myself waiting for this fussiness of Riley’s to pass. If it passes at all. I remember once seeing on the television on a current affairs show this segment about a boy who only ever, ever ate strawberry jam sandwiches. That’s it. His parents, like me, were waiting for him to grow out of ‘it’.
This boy was about ten. Lord!
Riley – don’t get any ideas.
It’s not all dire. Sometimes he floors me. Like that time he ate all of his Eggplant Parmigiana? My God. I fell to my knees, in thanks. For once I wasn’t Gordon Ramsay: all cusses and abuse (silently! in my case); no, now I was Nigella Lawson, all warm and bosomy, licking my fingers and leaning suggestively over counter-tops and tittering about the joys of food. I was a domestic goddess. Briefly.
Then the next day? He’d only eat bread.
Do you have fussy eaters? What do you do?
[Please vote for me here and here! No, I haven’t stopped beating this horse yet. Soon. Soon……]
