Never Blame The Mother For A Picky Eater

I’ve tried all the familiar tactics to break my daughter of her pasta and pizza habit, from putting food on the plate and insisting she “just try” to denying dessert.  In weak moments, I’ve pathetically resorted to screaming and guilt tripping, stopping short of offering cash.

None of it works.

Kids and terrorists, I’ve concluded, are really no different.  There are Guantanamo Bay prisoners, who after one whack to the head would rat out their mother.  Others could be hanged over a pit of alligators and they would never ‘fess up they spent their college years in a terrorist training camp.  Similarly, extreme torture – no TV – couldn’t get Savannah to eat ONE green bean.

At this point, the issue isn’t Savannah but the moms channeling Joan-of-Arc, who make Savannah’s dietary habits a personal crusade.

“My child is a great eater,” they’ll boast.

Wonderful.

They’ll then plow forward all knowingly:  “Every night just put a few vegetables on her plate.  She’ll eventually eat a few.”

To which I want to reply: “Do you know how Bobby Sands, the IRA prisoner, died?”

Savannah, and the Belfast native who died of a hunger strike, I’m convinced share the same DNA.  And, if not for her overriding medical issue, and Children Protection Services, I’d probably match her stubbornness.

So, to the smug parents who want to take credit for their kid’s healthy habits, I I share this:

For nine months I ate nothing but the purest, freshest fruits and vegetables – think Gwyneth Paltrow’s diet but with protein and dairy – and my kid craves Dunkin Donuts.  My girlfriend adopted a child from in a town in Guatemala with no fresh water, and the kid was eating salad and radishes at 6 months.

Repeat: Radishes.

Now, you tell me what kid is normal.

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