I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
November 23, 2008
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Now that I’ve established that my daughter is a shining ray of light, let’s return to reality.
The reality is that my daughter. Won’t. Eat. Anything.
Anything that’s not donuts, ice cream, cookies, or McDonalds french fries, that is.
You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent beside her at the table, begging her to take one more bite, pleading with her, threatening her, bribing her, imploring her… you name it, I’ve done it.
And it’s not like I’m trying to make her eat fish heads and green peas or something. I’ve made everything I can think of that kids are supposed to love- pizza, cheeseburgers, sandwiches, chicken nuggets, mac and cheese- I’ve tried it all.
The real rub in all of this is that I’m supposedly a good cook. People LOVE what I make. So of course, it stands to reason that three of my four kids pretty much refuse to eat anything I’ve put together. Hmph.
Tonight, things finally came to a head. I had made the Punky and Bruiser a delicous whole wheat quesadilla stuffed with roasted chicken and authentic Mexican quesadilla cheese. It was magnficent, if I do say so myself.
Bruiser promptly threw his on the floor. Punky groaned and moaned and told me she hated it, before even taking a bite.
I spent the next 30 minutes sitting beside her, monitoring every bite I could convince her to take of one tiny quesadilla wedge. Finally, exhausted, I stood up.
“Do you realize that you don’t like a single thing I make for you?” I asked Punky. “You don’t like cheeseburgers. You don’t like chicken nuggets. You don’t like pancakes. You don’t like pumpkin bread. You don’t like french fries.”
“I do like french fries!” Punky said.
“You don’t like my french fries,” I said. Punky nodded.
“You don’t like meat rollups,” I continued. “You don’t like tacos. You don’t like noodles. It really hurts my feelings, Punky.”
Punky frowned and looked mournful. I could tell I was having an impact.
“You’re forgetting one thing, Mommy,” she said, finally.
“What?” I asked expectantly.
“You’re forgetting peanut butter sandwiches,” she said. “I don’t like your peanut butter sandwiches either.”
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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