My son is a good eater…not a perfect one. Often he will engage in random tantrums because he can’t have more tomatoes, broccoli, or some other food that has me mentally fist bumping and busting a finely choreographed move. The only way I was able to get Little Man to stop pilfering all of the bananas…sort of…is by driving into his expanding brain that too many bananas will interfere with his ability to poop, which is funny. Mr. Man has absolutely no trouble in that department. Bananas might actually do him (and me) some good. I try to remember these primary food preferences when I allow him to stuff himself with chocolate, nuggets, and fries. Warrior Queen demonstrates the same food preferences thus far, so maybe I can consider this piece a parenting win?
Warrior Queen is passionate about blueberries, delicately lifting each one to her mouth, concentrating on the tray before her. Periodically, she’ll notice my stare, rewarding me with a newly toothy grin before continuing on her berry mission. Fierce Girl also enjoys strawberries, even if they pale in comparison to the blue counterpart. I cubed six reasonably sized strawberries today for her enjoyment. She finished her serving, and indicated she wanted more; but I decided to give her some previously prepared chicken in the fridge. She warily looked at it and selected a piece. But, as soon as the small bit of poultry lands on her tongue, Warrior Queen looks up at me with a finely tuned stink eye, and a general expression on her face that I can only describe as resembling the look if I had taken a dump in her mouth. Immediately, she began crying, tilted her head down so the chicken could fall onto her high chair tray. I get it. I feel the same way about baked chicken.
(Retired–Now What? has a similar disdain.)
In general, my daughter has a flare for the dramatic. It was an evening about a week or so ago. I was in our office completing some work when I hear the resident ten-monthish-old screaming quite passionately. My husband was with her, so I remained assuming she pooped…or was sat on or something by her big brother. Even though the predictable responses for her various crying fits did not occur, it wasn’t my problem. My husband did not ask for my help, so I let it go. When I ventured into the room holding my family, my husband informed me that the screaming was due to Warrior Queen finishing her serving of ice cream. I get it. I feel the same way about…most food terrible for me.
(The Angriest Babies in the Whole World knows what it looks like when you are about to be smite by a baby.)
Shaking my head, I refill my small plate of chocolate. I swear I didn’t make even the slightest crinkle in the plastic, but Mr. Man honed in, and descended upon me, leaping and skipping the way he does when he is all abuzz with happiness and excitement. He already had his evening treats, but, of course, I cave and give him a share of mine. I justify the indulgence as this the only time of day he has sweets at all…most of the time. He did eat a good dinner after all (sigh). As I remove myself from the room to return to the office a single thought occurs to me: What am I gonna do once Warrior Queen is old enough to stake dibs on my chocolate stash?