My Son, the Dog

Ben is my impossible eater. He happily eats macaroni, fruit and grilled cheese. That’s about it. Maybe, ravioli if the wind is blowing in the right direction. Occasionally, a carrot or pea enters his system, but it’s a very rare occurrence. Getting him to eat anything he doesn’t want to is pure torture. Because of this, I’ve resorted to some pathetic ways of nourishing him. Some days, I can get him to eat chicken or lasagna by pretending he’s a baby and spoon feeding him. Or I tell stories and make him take a bite in between words. We’ll listen to music and eat when certain words play. I’ll try anything.

Last night I was at my wits end— none of my usual tricks were working and the kid hadn’t eaten all afternoon. I’d made tortellini, and there was spinach in it. The horror. Evan happily shoveled them in his mouth, as he does with every morsel of food ever presented to him. Lily ate her 13 and was on to her strawberries and banana. Ben was in minute 17 of his hissy fit and I had a pounding headache. I picked up his plate and was about to chuck it in the sink and shoot myself send him to bed. For some reason, my desperation led to me to ask “want to be a doggie and I’ll feed you on the floor?” His eyes lit up and he nodded yes, sliding onto the ceramic tile. I proceeded to feed him his entire plate of food. Spinach and all. It was a miracle.

I knew that it wasn’t the wisest parenting move, but he was eating spinach for crying out loud. I stifled the voice in the back of my head warning of inevitable repercussions and patted him on the head. Go me!

Sure enough, he bolted down from bed this morning barking and asking for waffles on the floor. Silly boy, that’s a deal I’m only willing to make for vegetables.