After my first son was born, I'd say cringe-worthy things like, "I'm developing his palate," while pureeing roasted sweet potatoes or making homemade applesauce, organic, of course, which he ate with toothless glee from smeary piles on the tray of his highchair. He was curious about what his parents were eating and tried everything from asparagus to zucchini fritters with gusto.
We were clearly killing this parenting thing, food-wise.
Because the universe always puts you in your place, when we welcomed a second child, we knew we were facing a challenge.
From the start, he simply refused to eat almost anything. His preferred selections were shades of brown and white: Fish sticks, graham crackers, cheese sticks.
Most evenings we eat dinner together as a family, and it goes something like this: A plate of food is placed in front of the youngest child who is sitting at the table, poised and ready to dislike whatever I have chosen to serve him.
"NOOOOOOO!" he wails. "I DON'T LIKE THIIIIIIS!" He points accusingly at a solo blueberry, which is harmlessly rolling around his plate next to a pile of meatballs. His face is twisted with fear and revulsion as if the fruit is a live scorpion, ready to strike.
We all act like nothing is happening as he writhes in revulsion.