My first daughter, in retrospect was wonderful. She used to sit in her high chair for lunch and EAT lunch. She would stay in her high chair even after she was done because I thought she should relax after lunch, take it easy while she digested. She did. I read her books. She was under two. I remember those days happily.
Until she was nearly two she had allowed a wide array of foods to pass into her gullet. She was eating vegetables in those days, I remember zucchini and even yellow squash. Imagine.
That all changed when she hit two, though not so drastically. When she did move out of the high chair into the regular chair after her second birthday, suddenly her tastes in food, well narrowed and dried up, so to speak. But she was still OK. That is when the creativity in feeding had to be used. I am grateful she laughs at my jokes to this day (my cousin with teenagers says, flatly, that will change). I had no trouble sending the helicopter with spaghetti or mashed chicken and vegetables into the landing pad in her mouth. She loved my scenarios and the food made it down her throat, that was the important part. Although, definitely, as I said, the numbered palatable interests narrowed. No more vegetables, at least food that was visibly vegetable. Fruits even were tough.
This proceeded to last for at least two years, and may still be taking place. Listen, when we were on vacation for a couple weeks before her fourth birthday, at her Grandmothers, my Mother, the situation became comically desperate. I still can list the foods she ate: omelette's, chicken, breakfast cereal, milk, juice (well we have to count them), her morning and evening porridge, spaghetti without meatballs or cheese just sauce, some soups, spaghettios but only the ones with spaghetti. I served her spaghettios one day. Out of desperation I served her spaghettios with meatballs the next day. She cried when I presented them to her and said "Daddy I dont want this". I said, "What what? You ate it yesterday. Whats the problem?" I couldnt understand through her crying, but eventually it came out that this helping had some big brown lumps in them and they did not please her at all. All explanations of the deliciosity and juiciness of meatballs in spaghetti were not worth the breath I breathed. I tried to push the meatballs to one side. More crying. I ended up picking out every meatball from the bowl and still she was suspicious.
See, this is where the women's patience kicks in but the males impatience goes crazy. I absolutely think it has something to do with the evolutionary "fight or flight" survival technique. I dont think fight or flight is an issue or exists for women. Does it? They would just pick up their kids, hold them tight to themselves and get out of the situation. Men, the blood starts boiling up, or literally you start to feel this "kicking in", which I will put forth is the adrenaline picking up and everything readying yourself for a battle. It has to be discharged. It doesnt dissipate. At best it is released by a good yelling at the child. (You better eat those meatballs, they are good for you.) Not very helpful, but not the worst. I dont want to talk about the worst, it makes me sad, but it has happened, not with me of course. But in fact the battle that men have to overcome and fight is in fact the very idea that they think there is a battle. The adrenaline has to be battled. The urge to fight has to be discharged peacefully. That is the real battle and issue for men. Or used to comic effect, this is when Homer Simpson puts his hands around his sons neck and says, "Bart, why you, Im going to..."
I left out one food item she also ate. Ketchup. She takes after me.... um to a degree. We served her an omelet or sunny side up in the morning... with ketchup. That's OK. The chicken meal in the evening was not so outrageous with a dousing of ketchup on the meat. I had to carefully pour the ketchup over the chicken pieces in an exact pattern of some sort. "Like this?" "Yes" "Here?" "Yes". "On this one?" "No, Daddy daddy, no not that one". The Europeans put ketchup on pizza and spaghetti, so that was acceptable too. Ketchup in the soups, wellllll, OK, mix it in. "Spaghettios already have ketchup my child, you really dont need to pour ketchup into the spaghettios. Oh, OK, a little will be OK. Go ahead."
One morning she demanded that I pour ketchup on her 100 per cent four grains breakfast cereal. That's where the buck stopped and my patience ran out. "Sweetie, we just dont put ketchup on breakfast cereal, it, well, its just not done. I m not really sure why not, but, NO, i wont do it"
"Daddy, I want ketchup on it, I want ketchup on it". "This is just too crazy. I ll get kicked out of society or something. If people find out about this, no, I really cant do this. Dont ask me to do this. I cant do this. I just cant. Please please please, pulease, DONT demand that I put ketchup on your breakfast cereal"
For some reason, I felt that feeling. The adrenaline picked up. I was getting extremely angry and I was donning my military gear for all out "me vs you" battle. That feeling is just so, so, its like a negative orgasm, if I can be a little crude. Its not going out with a sigh of relief, its staying in and corrupting your whole system and to repeat myself a little and coining a new word, "negatizing" you. Whats the opposite of dopamine and "feel good" natural chemicals in your body? That's what IT is. That is the impatience. "YOU DONT PUT KETCHUP ON YOUR BREAKFAST CEREAL, little girl"
What would you have done? Mrs Mother?
Next morning: "Sweetie do you want ketchup on your breakfast cereal again today?" "No, it wasnt so good yesterday with the ketchup. I want a egg. With ketchup"
An End note. On the flight back home from that vacation, of course the plane got diverted and we had to spend a day in JFK (that is another story, whoa Nelly) We got food coupons, but I was at a loss of what to get my daughter for lunch. Well, lets go with the breaded chicken with baked potatoes. OK. Fine. "Daddy, put on the ketchup". I shook it, it was a big plastic bottle with a squirt cap opening. The ketchup went SPURT, not in a nice design on the chicken but in a big heap on one side of the chicken. I was laughing my head off, it had just been a big, funny "SPURT". She was crying very loudly, it had scared her and it was a bad design on the chicken. She wouldnt eat the chicken, she only ate the baked potatoes. I was laughing, she was crying through the whole meal. The other patrons came over and pinned me with the "worst Father of the year" award.
Yep. Well.
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