Finicky Is As Finicky Does

My mother used to call me a finicky eater. I think I gave birth to myself times infinity.

As an infant my son would eat almost anything put before him - after all, he was a growing little man. Since he enjoyed food so much, I always had to gauge when he was full by feeling his belly. Otherwise, if I kept poking the spoon up toward his face he'd keep smiling and opening his mouth.

I don't remember exactly when he chose to go on a food strike, but it was somewhere in toddlerhood. Before he went on strike, he would eat green beans, peas, carrots, mashed potatoes, just about anything healthy. He wasn't all that fond of fruit, so I praised God for giving me a health-conscious child and passed the veggies.

During the food strike, I agonized over every morsel and tried to come up with the best dinnertime games. The airplane only worked for awhile. His favorite thing at the time was trains, so I even tried chugging the spoon down the track and into the tunnel. After two years of embarrassing myself at every meal, he finally found chicken strips. It's been a love fest ever since.

So no, my son did not die from starvation, but at the time I was convinced he was in a challenge with Ghandi to see who could arrive at their destination first. The love of chicken strips has never waned, but I've found ways to prepare chicken to satisfy his tastebuds as well as contribute to his overall better health. Veggies and even fruit have entered back into the picture, though most everything gets slathered in barbeque sauce.

Doesn't matter to me. As long as he eats it, we both win.