My husband coaxes the howling child with ‘kitty bites’ of meatballs, but the toxic berry is RUINING THE WHOLE PLATE. Finally, Dad pops the offending item into his own mouth and says the words we seem to say frequently at the table: "There, it's gone. Happy now? Please just eat.”
Satisfied with the results of this negotiation, my son settles down and eats most of his meatballs, keeps his napkin on his lap, drinks his milk, and asks to be excused, please.
As he and his brother take their plates to the kitchen, I rest my head in my hands in defeat. Have I caused this dysfunction at the dinner table?
But then it dawns on me. I’m not upset that my son doesn’t want to eat what I made for him – I mean, there is that – but it’s something else.
I have always had my doubts about people who don’t like to eat. Is my son one of those people? Someone who eats the same, monotonous thing every day, for his whole life and doesn’t think twice about it? Who never takes risks, never tries anything new, ever? Someone who eats McDonald’s in France?
I think back to dinnertime as a child when my brother's diet consisted almost solely on plain iceberg lettuce, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and American cheese. It wasn’t until he was a teenager that he woke up to the magic of food, and he hasn't looked back since. Now he’s a healthy adult who loves oysters and hot peppers, has traveled internationally, and tried every local specialty. He’s curious and loving and friendly and generous. It just took him some time, but he got there. His limited childhood menu didn’t seem to stunt his growth in any way.
Maybe there's hope for my picky eater, after all.