Food Fight!

I realized how far I've dipped into the feeding philosophy of "as long as they are eating something" tonight when I was thrilled at the prospect of sitting down with two of the three men in our house for dinner without a high pitched scream or stomped feet, or blank stares. Instead, Elliott and Dietrich plopped themselves in their respective spots at the table and even held hands to remember Lent and give thanks to God before we ate. The other side? We were all eating different meals, there was a cereal box between my dish (chicken, rice, and mediocre asparagus) and Elliott's (all the leftover noodles I could find and cheese, mixed together and warmed on the stove) because he can't stand the sight of meat, and Dietrich's "meal" was a cibatta roll with butter and milk. Later Dietrich ate two plates of rice and soy sauce. It was still white, but it was something other than pancakes, bagels, and cibatta rolls! I passed around cut up pieces of asparagus, a vegetable both boys used to chomp down to the woody ends, but there were no takers. We've long decided that bribery for colorful food was not helpful and there weren't any cookies in the house, anyway. But we sat and ate our respective meals, talked, and with the exception of a potty break and a spontaneous need to see something in the living room, stayed seated at the table. Dining delight!

I remember the challenge of the boys' first solid foods. It was just one more thing to do on top of naps, nursing, playing and keeping up with new mobility. I wanted homemade, organic, efficient meals that I could spoon feed to one and then to the other in a game of food-tennis. But at least they would try the crazy things I made. And they liked eating avacado mixed with plain yogurt and oatmeal -- no kidding! I thought food would be smooth sailing. A friend helped me balance offering healthy foods and having fun -- she had presented (and had a picture to prove it) her first daughter with a zuccini muffin and a candle when she turned one. By her second daughter, it was butter cream frosting and chocolate cake. (The zuccini baby just turned 18. The cake? Umpteen layers of ice cream and crushed chocolate candies. Both girls eat mounds of broccoli, salad, and other happy greens). And for the most part, one of the boys eats well-balanced, though pasta-heavy, meals. But I never thought I would be grateful for a non-complaining approach to the table, even if it meant three different meals on the plates. Thankfully, Ryan eats just about everything I make.

When I am tempted to fight about what to eat, I'm reminded of pumpkin pie and chocolate milk. Our favorite place to dine out when I was growing up was Ponderosa. It's a cafeteria-buffet-style family restaurant where we'd pick up our drinks and desserts and pay before we found a table and loaded our plates at the steam tables and salad bar. Except that my meal was complete by the cashier. I ate pumpkin pie and chocolate milk. And I loved it. I loved my parents for letting me eat it. I don't remember going to bed hungry and I grew just fine. Then again, I also liked eating liver and ranch dressing at home, so it wasn't pumpkin pie all the time. And I'm pretty sure I pushed my share of green food items around my plate while everyone else had finished eating. But something about that pumpkin pie and chocolate milk keeps me from pushing foods that are not welcomed, at least not now. Somehow growth happens. Somehow our tastes emerge and change and open to possibility. For now, we'll just keep passing around the asparagus.