My daughter, Amy, is a famously picky eater. Most of the time I let it slide, try to make sure there is at least one thing in our dinner she will eat, and if she chooses not to she has to wait until the next meal or snack time. Occasionally, though, we butt heads and though I know intellectually I will never win, my ego has me digging in my heels in a battle of wills with my six year old. Ridiculous, but true.
Yesterday I made a delicious pork tenderloin with grilled veggies served on a bed of spinach. I knew she wouldn't touch it with a 10 foot pole, so I made chicken quesadillas for the kids. Whole wheat tortilla, a bit of pizza sauce (nice and bland), some shredded chicken, and mozzarella cheese. These are the exact same ingredients as her all-time favourite dinner, tortilla cheese pizza, except for the addition of chicken and the fact that it was folded in half. She whined, turned up her nose at it, nibbled a corner like it was made of lead laced with rat poison, and declared she wouldn't be eating dinner. I responded that I was not going to make her anything else, she could pick out the chicken if she didn't like it, and that she didn't have to like it in order to eat it. Line drawn in sand.
Trevor ate his up. Gavin ate his dinner. Since the grandparents were over, I got a little ice cream cone for Gavin knowing how cute it is when he tries to feed himself. Trevor said, "Can I have some ice cream?" I said, "Sure." Amy said, "Can I have some ice cream?" I said, "Sure, after you finish your quesadilla." (I know, I know you're not supposed to withhold dessert, but this child would live on ice cream and cookies given the speck of a chance). Trevor looked at her, knowing full well she was not going to let that quesadilla pass her lips. Then he turned to me and said, "That's ok, I don't want any ice cream. Amy won't get any and it will make her sad."
What do you know, I guess I am doing something right after all.
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