Epic Mealtime

We all treasure meals together. We are so lucky that we can almost always have breakfast and dinner together. Except for the newest thing: the never ending meal. My dear daughter takes about six weeks to consume a meal. She will eat one noodle at a time. She will claim an inability to operate cutlery, despite two years of evidence to the contrary. She will spend 10 minutes arranging the food around the cartoon images on the plate. Oh the dawdling! The only thing that prompts her to put any bites in her mouth at all is the threat of no cookie for dessert (yes, she always has room for that).

I have wondered if it is the opposite of the ravenous growth spurt eating cycle; if perhaps now she has slowed down in caloric needs and simply isn’t all that hungry. I doubt it, though, because she never says she’s full or not hungry. Maybe it is a new toddler control issue: How long can I keep my itching-to-clear-the-table mom trapped here? I even have one sort of bitter sweet possibility: Perhaps she’s simply trying to prolong what are often our only relaxed, fully focused on each other (and food, of course) times of day.   

Thanks for Making me Look Good, Kid

I often joke with my young assistants that I am  never one to take credit for their accomplishments at work because the fact is: When they look good, I look good. I am a very shallow person. I want to look good. Because I am a 40-year-old-workaholic with a toddler, this will no longer be manifested physically. So I take the self esteem builders where I can get ‘em.

My daughter–like every toddler before her, and probably like every one yet to come– resists me on issues from the mundane (what to wear) to the obscure (“don’t say that word, mommy” uh, okay, but what’s wrong with the word litigious? “just don’t say it!). And while she is what most moms call “a good eater,” she develops random loathings for once-loved foods, and control issues with what textures and tastes are acceptable at any moment (though thankfully, she is drinking water again).

So it was that I went to Thanksgiving day at my in-laws with trepidation. Nothing like a child that refuses to eat orange food, or mashed food, or whatever in front of your husband’s parents, right? As we sat down, and I anxiously gulped my second Vodka gimlet, my dear girl took her seat across from me with daddy, as the dishes began to be passed. Okay, despite the fact that she’d eaten two Brussels sprouts earlier at home, she refused to take any on her plate. Gulp. But then she warmed to scalloped potatoes, portabella ravioli, pine nut stuffing, turnips, Tofurky, and every other item that passed before her! And she cleaned her plate! Then, in the piece de resistance, Grandpa offered her the cranberry sauce I’d made for just him and I (as no one else eats it in that familial branch)–and she tried it… and liked it! After that, she ate the most bacteria-laden blue cheese I have ever seen!

Oh, my sweet girl, I shall strive to be more patient at breakfast when you suddenly want me to strain the seeds out of your raspberry yogurt or refuse a strawberry that you feel has displeasing proportions. For you, my girl, made me so very proud (and yes, thankful) on Thanksgiving Day.

You can Lead a Kid to Water

My daughter doesn’t drink milk, juice, soda… never did. Drank breast milk and since she quit that, been on water and seltzer water. Never had a problem. Ya, you never have a problem until you do, right moms? All of a sudden, my daughter is on a water strike. Despite concentrated urine (she thinks that it is prettier such a dark orange) and painful poop (which I’ve explained is related to her hydration fast), she has to be coaxed, nay, bribed to ingest a few sips of water. Oh I can hear you now: try giving her something that tastes good, beverage facscist! Well I’ve offered. I thought that perhaps a bit of forbidden fruit juice would be just the ticket. But no. Clearly if I want her to drink it, my daughter wants nothing to do with it. I’ve also offered different cups and darling little containers of things. And I feel fairly certain she won’t actually refuse to drink, uh, until she collapses or anything. At 3.5, she’s still very biologically driven. But I do marvel at the control issues a child of this age comes up with. I’ve heard about kids who go through “only white food” phases, for example. What’s next?

Candy Corn is Murder!

Wow, that was a fun title to write. And anyone who gets the pathetic B-movie reference gets a gold star. So, my daughter’s preschool teacher is trying to come to grips with this whole three-year-old vegetarian thing and while she’s baffled by it, she is trying very hard to be respectful. Thus the note in yesterday’s lunch pail: “Michelle, we are making Halloween art out of candy corns next week and all the kids will get to try them. If you don’t want your daughter to eat them, please let me know.” My first thought was oh no, they probably have gelatin (bone marrow) and once again I’ll be mean mom saying “No, honey you can’t have that. Everyone else in your class can. Mommy can. But you can’t.” I went to the web to investigate and no, they don’t contain gelatin. They have egg whites in them. Great. I broke the news to her, and she took it well, though she looked so dejected.

So after she went to bed, I did a search for a vegetarian alternative and found that PETAkids has a list of vegan candy. Handy. But no Candy Corns. However, they mentioned Jelly Belly and I was surprised that there were jelly beans in the world that aren’t made of gelatin. A search of the Jelly Belly site revealed that they make Candy Corn. Hope! Unfortunately, the Jelly Belly site doesn’t include ingredients.  So I went old-school. I called my local gourmet market, which I know sells Jelly Belly products, and asked if they had the Candy Corn. A store manager was kind enough not only to confirm it, but to read me the product list:

sugar, corn syrup, Contains less than 2% of the following: modified soy protein, artificial flavor, sorbitol, color added, yellow 6 lake, yellow gold 3, beeswax [which some vegans do not eat], carnuba wax, confectioner’s glaze, salt.

Her teacher was thrilled when I brought in a package today for next week’s festivities. And my daughter was giddy as, well, a school girl.

Socializing with Toddlers

No, I don’t mean socializing the little buggers, though somehow it does always come down to them, eh? I mean finding time to hang with a couple you like who also has offspring of a similar age. Amanda and her kin get along pretty well with me and mine, so we like to plan the occasional dinner at one or the other’s home. Needless to say, dinner time has moved up a good deal since we had a child, from closer to eight, to six thirty on the nose. Luckily, Amanda’s family also dines around that time (could be the preponderance of under-4 year-olds on the guest list).

So when Amanda and I were trying to sort out when to arrive, we started with six. But that means, run in, eat, chat for about 15 minutes, pack the bags and head home. (At Amanda’s, that always includes doggie-bags as she is a frigging good–and copious–cook). Anyhow, long story short, we ended up saying 5ish and still the evening felt short to me. Yes, that is the sign of a good evening, when it flys by, but to combine the best of a play date with a couple’s dinner and conversation, the timing is downright wonky: Arrive at 5 (uh, isn’t it still brunch time?); dinner on table by 6:30. Then we have the rather lengthy meal given the requirements of toddler table management. Our collection of toddlers eat in three distinctive styles–mine mows down with enthusiasm, but then wants to get up and play; Amanda’s 23 month old eats everything in sight (with sour cream, please) then eats what is on dad’s plate and anything else in reach and is, in fact, never done; Amanda’s nearly-4 year-old suffers delusions that the food is poisoned and that we are clearly out to get him, but eventually takes solice in a sad microwaved facsimilie of the fabulous meal Amanda has prepared. Parents formulate fragmented table chat around various spills, demands, and other kid-chaos.

Hounds Kids are released from the table. As parents regroup with a round of beverages, children make short work of Amanda’s toy organization. 7:45: Men retreat to basement; luckily daddy-starved-kids soon follow. Women hunker down for a couple of well earned beverages and before you know it, it’s past bed time. One word: babysitter. For real, though: Multipurpose socializing may best be left to daytime gatherings, though god forbid we interfere with nap time…

A Look Up Robin’s Skirt

Hi, all. What a week! First, the “unexpected” guests, then a trip 1.5 hours each way for a 4 hour meeting with corporate… which generated the offer of a promotion (more on the fallout there later), then a 2.5 hour each way trip into the city to speak at a conference. But I can’t forget to relay one brilliant moment amidst the chaos:

My husband loves Red Robin because they offer any of their 20 or so of their elaborate burgers as Garden Burgers and they even cook these vegetarian burgers in a separate device, so there’s no grease spatter from the flesh burgers. Anyhow, they have a giant mascot bird that roams the tables on busy nights and it dropped by our table for a visit the other night. My girl asked if Robin was a boy or a girl and we asked her what she thought (since we bird watch a lot out of our windows). She paused, then bent down and looked under the table at, uh, Red Robin’s bits. She still couldn’t figure it out, but she got a huge round of laughter from wait staff, our table, neighboring tables…which was much more satisfying than an answer anyhow.

Are Doritos Vegetarian?

Random as this may seem, I have noticed from our blog stats (I think reading our stats is my second favorite part after reading the comments on particular posts. Did I mention I’m a dweeb?) that we frequently get hits from the search string “Are Doritos Vegetarian?” I know why; it is because I posted with a Doritos headline and frequently post about my daughter being raised vegetarian. Unfortunately, I have not answered this burning question… until now.

Classic Doritos are vegetarian. That’s right, as long as you have no concerns about dairy (cheese, as you may guess, along with several cryptically named dairy products in them), nor any issues with the standard polysyllabic flavor enhancers and preservatives, Doritos are “safe” to eat. Frito lay offers wonderful access to all of its ingredients lists (which can be tough to find on some foods unless you walk around the grocery store with your reading glasses on). They also make it even easier, providing a great link that lists all of the Frito Lay products containing animal ingredients (and what the specific ingredients are, to help you modify your choices based on your specific definition of vegetarianism). Whew! Glad that one is sorted.

Mikey Likes It!

The most unbelievable thing just happened at my house.  No, my husband didn’t do the dishes, it wasn’t that unbelievable.  My oldest son and pickiest eater just asked for something outside of his usual list for dinner.  I picked my jaw up off of the floor and ran to my computer to write this just so I would have a record that it actually happened.

You see, he wasn’t always such a picky eater.  He used to be willing to shovel just about anything into his mouth that would fit.  Then, he turned three.  People always warn you about the “terrible two’s,”  but this is a fallicy.  Sure, two can be difficult, but it doesn’t hold a candle to three.  Three holds all of the horrors of two except now, the child is bigger, stronger and sneakier.  As far as I can tell, a child’s free will develops some time around age two (hence the terrible twos).  Once the free will is developed, it is refined and and honed, this occurs sometime around age three.  Only now that will can be carried out with more ferver and agility. 

At three everything changes and your sweet child decides that everything you say is worthless and should be ignorned and outright disobeyed.  So if you say that a food is healthy, surely you don’t know what you are talking about and only the prefered foods will be eaten.  For example, my son, like the FDA, has four main food groups,  nuggets, peanut butter, cheese and cereal.  (Save the hate mail, I do see to it that he has a balanced diet, it just requires a battle of wills.)

  So, imagine my suprise when he asked me if he could have eggs for dinner.  He has refused eggs for the last year after deaming them “too squooshy” and now, suddenly, he says he loves them.  I don’t know what brought on this sudden change of heart, but I do know that I am thrilled to serve the child something outside of the four food groups with out having to force him to eat it.  If you will excuse me now, I have to go thank my lucky stars and run to the store for a carton of eggs.

Terror Alert

I am typing this while under threat of a coup.  There is a terrorist in my home and I am refusing negotiation.  This refusal has lead to a state of household emergency.  The terrorist I am referring to is my nearly two year old son, the baby Goliath.  The current issue is one we have had before, lunch is not up to his rigorous standards.  No, the food is not bad.  In fact, he asked for the sandwich.  The problem is that the cheese on the sandwich has been torn.  Torn cheese is ruined cheese.  You see, if for any reason cheese slices are not in their pristine state, they are inedible.  By refusing to replace the slice of cheese that he tore, I effectively starved the child.  Now, the torn slice of cheese has tainted the entire plate of food surrounding it making the whole lunch ruined.  This of-course is my fault, even though he is the one who tore the cheese.  My refusal to replace the offensive cheese has resulted in a full on tantrum.  Screaming, crying and jumping up and down has become a relatively common occurrence.  The closer my child comes to two years old, the more extreme the behavior has become.  I remember going through this phase with my other son despite my best efforts to block it out of my mind.  All children go through period of time where they are too little to reason with and too big to ignore.  I understand this is all part of growing up, but I am really losing my patience with the whole thing. 

You can lead a toddler to water…

Two words can bring my household to a standstill.  Uttering the dreaded phrase can bring about a palpable anxiety in all of us.  Sippy Cup.  Simply typing it just made my heart skip a beat.  Most parents can expect to go through a transition from sippy cup to regular drinking glass.  I went through a 48 hour white knuckle, old west style stand off.  A true battle of the wills, master to master. 

I am stubborn, that is no secret to anyone who knows me.  My three year old, gives me a run for my money, after all, he learned from the master.  Since the child was in-uetero he has grit his teeth and stomped his foot at my decisions.  If I ate garlic, he kicked me in the ribs, if I lay down to sleep, he would punch me in the bladder causing me to get up.  Fast forward three years, the battle ground is all around us, and the front lines are the topics of my choice. 

Toddlers are known to be contrary, it is necessary for them to grow a sense of independence.  My child takes it to the next level.  Contrary is simple, argumentative is a sport.  Like any sport endurance is key.  My young grasshopper is growing stronger and his endurance can be measured not by minutes or hours, but by days.  It is important when raising toddlers to stand your ground and not give in to their terrorist demands.  No, you can’t have cereal for dinner.   No, you can’t put your brother in the freezer, these are common battles.  Nothing had prepared me for “Sippy Cup Battle Royale.”

“Sippy Cup Battle Royale” began on a Monday morning when, as my husband and I decided, we took away the sippy cup.  A tantrum ensued.  My child went through the house like a tiny little tornado of terror.  You see, the sippy cup had become a security blanket of sorts, a tiny little piece of comfort in a sea of uncertainty (also known as a stable structured family in suburbia).  My little angel became a crying, screaming, snivelling demon.  He threw things and demanded the return of his beloved sippy cup.  I refused.  The drama continued.  I gave him a new cup in his favorite color filled with his favorite beverage.  It was poured out on the floor infront of me.  I did not retreat, I cleaned the mess and punished the bad behavior. 

Again, the cup was offered and my son took a drink and spit it out.  Enraged, I did my best to grit my teeth and pretend to be a good parent.  The day continued.  At 3:00 p.m. my son had refused to drink anything if it was not in the preffered cup.  I refused to break.  I stood my ground.  I upped the ante, by taking my child to the park where I knew he would play hard and become thirsty.   When he asked for a drink, I again presented to new cup.  Again, it was refused.  ”I’m really thirsty!” my son cried.  “So drink this!!” I answered.  No was the response again and again.  “Fine, be thirsty” I decided.  This went on the rest of the day.  Neither of our stances changed and neither of or facades crumbled.  The stand off was on and my opponent was showing no signs of conceding. 

My husband came home from work and pushed the new cup, still, no budging.  By bed time, my child had still not taken so much as a sip.  My exterior remained cool, but inside I was starting to worry, the child had not peed all day.  Would he dehydrate himself just to spite me?  The answer, 48 hours later was not clear cut.   He stood his ground as long as he could, but eventually his thirst won.  Two days into the stand-off my toddler conceded and took his first drink in a real cup.  “This is good,” he said as he polished off his second cup. 

 Meanwhile, I had ground me teeth down to nubbins and I had worn a path into the carpet from pacing.  My victory was not as sweet as I had hoped, but I had stood my ground and hopefully had proved the point that he won’t get everything he wants.  This battle was just one of many in the course of parenthood, two weeks later, I feel I can finally exhale, but if you bring up the topic, I may just punch you in the throat.