Eat me: A preschool mastermind

When D- doesn't want to eat something, he's adopted the polite phrase, "That's not my favorite" to kindly let you know this. Our response is of course that not everything can be your favorite, and you still have to eat the other things in the world.

This usually has about the effect you'd expect for a 4-year-old.

Imagine the protests we faced last night when we had a delicious salad (with chicken) for dinner-- he has a pretty good memory for things he's declared he doesn't like, and a horrible memory for stuff he gobbles up when smothered in ranch dressing. This ridiculous concoction we dared to offer him was comprised, as far as he could tell, of at least 72% of things he "does not like," which of course taints those few things he does like.

Anyway, early on in the meal, the starvingly (my word) hungry boy we invited to the table changed course and announced to J- that he was full, though willing to acknowledge he was only full of salad. J- responded that he would be eating this salad for his next meal, whether that was right then, tomorrow's breakfast, or Christmas brunch.

This approach worked well in her family and pretty well in ours, so far, though D- has pushed us to comical lengths at times. Given our experience thus far, I expect M- in a couple years to be found once every few weeks immobilized from hunger on her bedroom floor, weakly chewing on a few wilted lettuce leaves in an effort to build the strength to take just a few sips of water.

For the time being, though, it's only D- that suffers this method every so often (it's only employed upon unjustified refusal to eat rather than normal fullness and such), and in his wise old age, he has learned a few tricks. Unfortunately for him, none of these include keeping his cards close to his vest, as evidenced by his (mostly nonchalant, only a touch defiant) response to J- last night: "But if Daddy doesn't know about that, and gives me something else, then I can eat that instead."

Now, seated to his immediate right, I felt the need to speak up and point out just a short list of flaws in his argument. After a quick talk in his room, he came back out slightly deflated, but with his spirit somehow still intact. We'll have to change that one of these days, like all good parents must.

We were eventually able to get him to finish his bowl (emphasis on the "eventually"-- he was in jammies by that point) by covering it in a serving each of ranch dressing and what he identified as "ketchup," a.k.a. Catalina dressing... not that actual ketchup would be so far fetched.

Thus was I deprived of an opportunity to spend my entire morning torturing a small child by withholding all but the most undesirable food from him, and letting the music of his whining lull my ears to sleep, the way we all love to do. Oh well, there's always tomorrow's dinner, and every one after that for a decade or so...