The best-laid meal plans
Brussels sprouts. I thought we’d be feeding our kids Brussels sprouts.
In my “perfect” parenting days (that is, before I actually had children), I always told myself I wouldn’t be one of “those” moms who prepares separate meals for her family. If we’re having chicken with capers, our children would eat chicken with capers. Or broccoli. Or tacos. Or . . . whatever. But I wouldn’t be standing in the kitchen making pasta for one person and steak for another.
And, you know, maybe someday I won’t. But for now? Well. Eating has been a challenge with Oliver. When he finally graduated from pureed foods to soft items like waffles, my husband and I were so happy he was actually eating “real” things that we didn’t question or discourage his choices. Obviously he’s not going grocery shopping yet, so he can only eat what I have brought into the house.
Still, I knew better than to stick a whole green bean on his tray. It was unlikely he would favor carrot sticks over buttered rolls. I’d just hoped to get a few cruciferous vegetables into the kid before his insides turned into chocolate syrup.
Slowly, slowly, slowly his diet has devolved into the sugar- or carbohydrate-heavy: rice; macaroni and cheese; fruit squeeze pouches; chocolate pudding. Though we offer him a variety of foods, he never takes us up on anything new — even the benign like mashed potatoes.
Seriously, what kid doesn’t like mashed potatoes?
The most-requested item that is, of course, prepared daily happens to be chicken nuggets. With “sauce.” I thought the frozen nuggets were a godsend. Finally: some protein! Toddlers cannot live on applesauce alone, no matter what they tell you.
The chicken hasn’t turned on us or anything. It’s just that, at least twice a day, I find myself heating five nuggets for 50 seconds (the optimal temperature to defrost without overheating) and serving them with honey mustard.
This has gone on for months. While Spencer and I eat tilapia or meatloaf or quesadillas, I can’t sit down to dinner without first preparing a dish of boil-inthe-microwave macaroni: precisely what I said I would “never” do.
What is the solution? Trying to force a two-year-old to eat something they don’t want is basically impossible. If you don’t mind the mess when he or she inevitably rebels, it’s worth the suggestion. But I’m tired. The number of promises — or threats, for that matter — I make is never going to bring a hunk of meatloaf to his lips. He’s just not there yet.
Is that normal? I don’t know. I don’t recall ever being a picky eater. My younger sister went through a phase in which she wouldn’t touch most meats. I remember my dad innocently answering her skeptical “What’s this?” with “Chicken!” as she took a bite of porkchop.
As I got older, I took pride in eating many of the unusual foods that other kids wouldn’t touch. My grandmother’s cabbage rolls, for one. And roast beef with horseradish. Sitting at my grandparents’ table, I remember the impressed look on my grandfather’s face when I asked him to pass the jar of spicy, aromatic horseradish and slathered it on my dinner.
I’m sure I went through phases with meals, too, though I’m not sure when they began. In fifth grade, my breakfast each day was a small microwave tray of scrambled eggs and home fries. Dad bought the frozen meals until I was literally sick of them; I still can’t look at anything like that in the store.
The most adventurous my son will get is asking for chocolate milk instead of plain, or barbecue sauce in place of honey mustard. (OK, who am I kidding: the second has never happened. We’ve just had to supply it when we inevitably ran out of honey mustard . . . again.)
He’s two, though. Ollie isn’t eating hummus with celery or even a peanut butter and jelly, but I know where we’ve traveled with his eating in just a year. He will get there — wherever “there” happens to be.
In the meantime, I’ll be making nuggets. I started trying to prepare a work week’s worth on the weekends so I can easily make up the kids’ lunches in the morning. Anything I can do to cut down on the chaos is worth it.
Speaking of which, I thought “Sesame Street” had finally gotten wise to the struggle of parents everywhere. It’s my young daughter’s favorite show. I’ve seen a particular episode about morning routines about a dozen times, and it has a rather catchy song about getting ready: “Wake up, potty time, eat and brush.”
Except I thought Elmo said rush. Like: rush to get out going.
Would have been more realistic, certainly.