Food Fight

My wife and child are notoriously picky eaters. Thankfully, Lesley eventually outgrew this phase on her own (by "eventually" I mean "recently" and by "phase" I mean one of 30 years), but Zachary has not had the luxury of experience nor does he harbor sufficient wisdom to overcome this idiosyncratic tendency.

That is to say, feeding my son is a nightly horrifying ride from the 10th through the 13th circle of hell.

The evening typically begins innocently enough with a chase through the house that requires a coordinated effort between Lesley, the dog, and myself using Navy Seal Ambush Tactics that funnel him into the dinning room (10th circle), restraining him in his high-chair (11th circle), subjugating him to intense psychological coercion to insert the food in his mouth (12th circle) and swallowing said food (13th circle).

Then it gets ugly.

This is a paraphrased excerpt from a random night at the dinner table:

ME: *holding spoon full of applesauce* Just one bite?
Zach: *shakes head vigorously in protest.*
ME: Please?
Zach: *Kicks spoon across floor and overturns plate for good measure*
ME: *smiling* Fair warning son, I orally dosed animals for a living.
Zach: *employs a look of challenge*
ME: *smile broadens- restrains child using the MMA Gogoplapa submission move* On three, ready? One... two... *CRAM*

That's pretty much how every bite of every meal goes down in the Williams household.

I still feel as if the potency of my problem is getting lost in translation here. Perhaps the word "picky" isn't conveying the severity of the issue. This is a kid who won't eat cake (presumably because it's made with flour and eggs). CAKE. What kind of kid doesn't eat friggin' cake? Ice cream is too cold, brownies are too chewy and cookies are too round.

And that's just deserts.

Now try to imagine his hatred of fruits and vegetables. Don't blame yourself if you're having a hard time envisioning this, you're not alone. Scientists say that the human mind has difficulty comprehending immense qualitative and quantitative values like the size of the Universe or in this case, a hatred that burns as hot as the fire of a thousand suns.

The picture at the beginning of this post? I snapped that shot as a tribute to my victory over my son and actually getting him to eat something on his own accord (granted he was eating Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream- besides, mint is a vegetable right? RIGHT? SHUT UP. WHO ASKED YOU ANYWAY)

Over the last year, doubt has been encroaching upon my judgment. How far is too far? Am I causing permanent emotional scarring by subjecting him to nightly mental anguish? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much?











(we can do this the easy way or the hard way son)

I've repeatedly brought my concerns to the attention of his pediatrician (whom I will refer to here as Doctor Retard) who always responds with well practiced condescension that only a professional in his position can deliver. Here is a recent conversation:

DR: Be sure to eat vegetables yourself. Don't set a double standard.
ME: No go. His moms' eating habits are as bad as his.
DR: Let the child select vegetables to prepare each night
ME: Do Cheetos count as a vegetable? No? Hmmmm. That may be an issue.
DR: Sneak vegetables into other dishes.
ME: Have you been listening to me?
DR: Try changing the presentation or preparing the food in a different way.
ME: Ummm
DR: Don't make food into a battle of wills
ME: Awesome. That's the best advice I've heard all day. Thanks doc!

Armed with a new tactic I went home to prepare dinner in an air of triumph. I sat Zachary down, determined NOT to battle wills. Then...

Nothing.

He just sat there. Stubbornly and predictably ignoring his food.

I was stumped. My WILL was to get him to f-ing eat. If we don't battle wills, then I lose and he wins. This was about when I realized that for a pediatrician, Zach's doctor knows very little about kids. Not battling wills was definitely out of the question. It was time for a hard-nosed, tough love approach.

Not going to eat what's for dinner? That's fine. No, you can't have a bottle. No, you can't have Cheetos. Well, I'm sorry I guess you'll just have to go to bed hungry. Much to my surprise, he went.

The battle of wills had begun.

Day one passed without much fuss as it was business as usual. Zach wasn't eating. No big deal, he skips meals all the time. But by evening I had a sinking suspicion I was playing against a worthy opponent.

On day two I was beginning to appreciate some of Zachary's more subtle moves within our mental chess match. It was here that I began to question the wisdom behind starving a growing child.

By day three I knew I was over-matched. I no longer feared for his physical and mental health as much as I was fearing for my own. I was really feeling the pressure and I was sure I was going to crack at any minute. Could this be what Doc Retard was talking about? Maybe Doc Retard knew all along that the boy is too clever for the likes of me. I can't win.

By that evening, my grip on reality was in serious question as I had convinced myself that Zach had some private stash beneath the floorboards and he was smuggling foodstuffs into his crib via elaborate tunnels. Later, Zachary's Union reps informed me that apparently eating is an infringement upon his moral and spiritual beliefs. And his choice to only eat Cheetos or milk from a bottle is his right as a God fearing American. Why do you hate America? Terrorist.

(UFCW Union Representative)


He's gone whole days without eating before, but this was getting ridiculous. His pediatrician assured me that the boy would crack first. But I wasn't so sure. Maybe I just have a weak spot for elephants accusing me of domestic terrorism. Could I be wrong? Are empty calories better than none at all? How can I enforce healthy eating on my son when his mom is just as bad? And who am I to judge? Are my habits much better? I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.

We consulted the family therapist (read: Zachary's Grandma) for advice. But she was no help at all. For some strange reason I still don't quite understand, she thought all of this was quite funny.
Whatever.

But then all of a sudden just the other day while we were at Legoland, without coercion or leading of any kind, he asked for and consumed three bites of ice cream (see first photo). I can't tell you how excited I was! Then not even 10 minutes later, he asked for an orange. A REAL ORANGE. Like, you know, the fruit.

He ate the whole thing

No MMA submission moves needed. Victory is mine.


(special thanks to Dooce for the inspiration behind this post)