Reasons My Son’s Not Eating

Some of us are blessed.  Their kids are adventurous.  They will eat all types of foods.  All types of textures.  For some lucky parents, this food can even touch other food. 

Nope.

                     Nope.

We are not blessed in this way.  This is our burden.  Our 8 year old son is a total pain in the ass when it comes to food.  Unless of course, it’s ice cream, then he’s good, but anything else, there are a set of rules that change almost daily.

Therefore, we give you:  THE REASONS OUR SON IS NOT EATING:

1. The pizza has sat out for longer than 5 minutes.

2. The macaroni and cheese is NOT Kraft. Homemade?  Big macaroni noodles?  No go.  Kraft M&C must also not sit on the stove longer than 5 minutes.

3. The noodles are too wide.

4. The noodles are a different color.

5. The noodles are mixed with something.  Anything, even broccoli, which he actually likes.

6. The carrots are mixed with peas.

7. The pizza has bubbles on it.

8. The bread has nuts in it.

9. There’s parsley on it.

10. The grilled cheese has a tiny brown “burn” spot.  (Not really, just browner at that place than he’d like)

11. The jello has fruit in it.

12. It has gravy on it.  Clearly, not my kid.

13. It has any sauce or seasoning on it.

14. It’s breaded with something other than nugget.

15. It touched the ranch.  Which he’s using to dip, but it touched before he’s dipped it.

16. Too much cinnamon on the applesauce.

17.  The carrots have crinkles.

18. It’s leftovers. Of anything. Pizza included.

19. It’s hot dogs. Of any sort.

20. It’s tacos.  Food touching all over the place. And lettuce, don’t forget lettuce. Ick.

21. It’s not the right meatball.

22. The noodles are too wide.

23. The potatoes are mashed.

These are just off the top of my head.  And there are rules on top of that. And if you do find something he likes that is remotely healthy, for the love of God, don’t over serve it.  No more than once every other week.

Now, on the list of Go foods are a few foolproof items, none of which are healthy.

Rolls

PB&J

Ice cream

Candy

Dessert, anything natch.

Every time.

Every time.

And that’s about it.

One might read this and think, “Hell, if that were my kid, I’d make him eat what I give him.”  You, my dear, DO NOT have this kid, because I can guarantee you no parent of a fellow picky eater follows this rule.  We get firm and we choose these food battles fairly often, and sometimes, we do the worst, meanest, most horrible thing a parent can do:  we withhold dessert. For the most part, we desperately try to put something on the table they might just eat a few bites of, but our hopes are dangerously low on the best of days.  We scour the internet, church and family cookbooks, and foolishly click on all the articles about “picky eaters,” but we are always disappointed, because I don’t know anyone whose picky eater will eat “Baked Polenta Fries,” cause mine sure as hell won’t.

Not gonna work bud.

Not gonna work bud.

But we keep on the fighting the good fight.  We pin the hell out of Pinterest.  But, most days, it’s PB&J or nuggets, with the hope that one day, one day soon, they’ll look up and say, “How about Mexican/Italian/Indian food?”

Until then, stay strong picky parents!

Cause he's cute, that's why.

Cause he’s cute, that’s why.

Things Have Been Said

A snippet of things I have said tonight…

“I cannot dance like a royal princess if you don’t turn Macklemore back on.”

“Stop eating the butter.”

“Let me get this straight, your head hurts because your thumb hurts?”

“NO!  I am not wiping your butt until I finish dinner!”

“NO!  I am not plunging the toilet until I finish dinner!”

Aaand face palm!!

Face Palm

 

Bath Night

Sunday nights are bath night.  As I sit and let my daughter play with Ariel and her pal, hotter sexier Barbie mermaid, I brace myself for the upcoming fight.  The fight to wash her hair.  The shampooing she says she never needs even though her bangs have syrup in them and the top of her part has glue on it as a result of scratching her head during “craft time.”  I use this term loosely, as craft time is usually just cutting magazines into itty bitty pieces and gluing them on “paper.”  And by “paper,” I mean the back of the kitchen chair.

G - An oldie but goodie.

G – Before hair washing was an issue.

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Will – One of my most favorite photos of him.

I let her play a bit, give her a 2 minute warning and then I get down to business.  That’s when the screaming and shrieking begin.  Like I am trying to drown her on purpose.  MOM!  DON’T GET IT IN MY EARS.  OWWW!  YOU GOT WATER IN MY EYES!  Me, being the classic abuser, blame the victim.  Quit thrashing around like a cat stuck in a plastic bag then!!  The girl has more evasive maneuvers than the Air Force.   I feel like I am water-boarding my child every time I try to clean her up a little.  Dick Cheney would be proud.  She gets so hysterical and screechy, it’s a wonder the neighbors don’t call to make sure I’m not ripping her limbs off.

Sometimes I wonder what a Child Protective Service Agency would think if they heard only snippets of my child rearing skills.  Like what if Will told his teacher the conversation we had a few months ago.  It was during a particularly rough patch with Molluscum, a viral skin condition that gave him tiny itchy bumps that look like little zits all over his body.  After some advice from a mom who’d been there, we tried a homeopathic treatment called ZymaDerm, which is simply a topical you put on the bumps twice a day.  (Worked like a charm by the way, and for the bargain price of $26 for a teeny tiny bottle! And no, I don’t know which all natural ingredients are in it.  I choose to believe it was manufactured solely from fairy dust and angel kisses.)  Well my boy was a bit skittish about this topical, which to him looked like pure acid meant to burn them off instead of slowly and not painfully shrink them to nothing.  So, in order to ease his fears the first few times around, I would blow gently on the area where I applied the stuff.  You know, to neutralize the flesh-eating acid I was putting on him.  Now, some of these bumps were near (not on) his groin area, so yes, I blew there too.  Can you see where this is going?  One night, as we were beginning our ritual, he says to me very nonchalantly, “Mommy, I like when you blow on my pee pee. It tickles.”    “Uh….OK, thanks, I think?  Saaaay, how about you NOT say that to anyone else please?”  What the freak?  How do you explain to a kid why another adult would not want to know this particular comfort technique his awesome mom is using?  You don’t.  You just pray they never say a word and if they do, hope to God his teacher would call ME before calling Child Services.

Likewise, the problem my sister is facing at the moment with her 9 month old son.  Apparently, some doctors prefer to not circumcise boys the way they used to.   Some prefer to leave a bit more scarf to the kerchief if you know what I’m saying.  She was a bit worried that something was wrong down there, and being raised around 99% females, we are bit uneducated in this area.  Sure, we’ve seen ‘em, but not enough by any means to qualify either of us as experts.  And personally, I’ve never seen one with its hoodie still up.  I missed that when Will was born, being they did it before I got feeling back in my legs, which is a long story about lazy doctors and an epidural being left in for 24 hours after he came out.  Not a fun first birth experience, but a story for another day, and six years later, I’m still not sure how I’d make that story funny.

Anyways, how does one go about finding out what normal looks like?  Google?  How do you Google normal baby penises without alerting the authorities there’s a pervert in our midst?  What would you search to get scientific results instead of horrible images you could never erase from your brain?  Circumcision mistakes?  Nope.  Healthy baby penises (or is it peni?)?  I don’t think so.  Baby girth?  Who knows, no matter what you search, it’s not going to be pretty, and what if someone checks your hard drive down the road?  We’ve all seen SVU, it happens.  Lord help me if they check mine at work, because I swear I was looking for Dick’s Sporting Goods, nothing else.  I just didn’t realize you had to type in the actual full name of the store.

I just worry constantly about being misunderstood.  Adults think crazy things, and they should, there are some crazy horrible people out there.  It’s just that I’m not one of them.  Most of the time.  I’ll admit that first nice spring day when I open all the windows I completely forget I have to keep my yelling to a minimum.  Who knows what the neighbors think when they hear me yell, “Will wipe your own butt!!  I’m trying to get the nail polish off your sister’s lips!!!” 

Please don’t rat me out.  Most of this I can explain.  It just won’t be much fun and will still make me look like an inept parent.  A loving, nurturing, but utterly inept, parent.

 

Confessions of a Parent, Part Deux

First confession:

This was merely a close call, not an actual mistake – so don’t freak out when you read this.  Did you know that Flexeril and Focalin pills look very similar? Flexeril is an awesome muscle relaxer prescribed to me after a month of dealing with an annoying pulled neck muscle (which, btw, is the worst place to pull a muscle. You have no idea how heavy your freakin head is until it hurts to hold it up.). Focalin, on the other hand,  is an ADHD medication intended for my 6 year old. Let’s just say someone in our home, who is above the age of 35, may have gotten the bottles mixed up and handed our 6 year old a Flexeril. Thank GOD this kid is the most detail oriented person on the planet. He pauses, looks at the pill quizzically, and says, “This is different from my other pills.” At first, we are both like, “No it’s the usual one, go ahead and take it.” Then a pause followed by, “WAIT, DON’T TAKE THAT PILL!!!” Good thing he notices the little things eh?

SIDENOTE: Zyrtec and Xanax are also similarly shaped, but those are just for me, and either way, I’m feeling pretty good, so no harm done right? Can’t say Xanax has ever helped with my allergies, but then if I take the Xanax by mistake, what the fuck do I care?

Next confession:

“Mom!  This milk is gross!”  What?  I just bought it.  It smells fine.  Crazy kid.  “Grace, quit being dramatic, it’s fine, just drink it.”  “But MOM, it’s gross!!!”  Sigh. “Here let me try it.”  Huge swig out of her sippy cup and insert whatever the noise is for spitting out milk and gagging here.  “What the???”    Note to Self:  Always disassemble sippy cup components.  If left intact, milk and other debris tends to get trapped between the plastic insert and the cap.  I had just let my daughter drink old, dishwashed, moldy milk leavings.

Confession #3:

This is an oldie, but goodie.  Back in our single kid days, when Will was just starting to really walk around and we were new to the whole wearing shoes all the time business.  While baby shoes are adorable, I was far too lazy of a parent to actually put them on just for looks.   My kids wore socks only until they set their own feet on the ground.  So much for those adorable booties I spent a fortune on before I had children because they were totally NEVER worn.  Anywho, my babysitter calls me up one day at work about mid-morning saying Will is limping and he won’t put any weight on one foot.  So, as I have shown in previous posts, I am completely calm and rationale in my train of thought.  Did he break his foot?  Are his leg muscles growing wrong?  Am I walking him too much on one side?  Is that even possible?  Is one leg growing faster than the other?  Is it shorter than the other, just like my self-diagnosed one short leg syndrome?  So, I call the doctor to see what might be the problem and they are running the gamut of questions when I hear my call waiting beep.  It’s my sitter saying she found the problem.  My loving cat had left Will a present in his shoe.  No!  It’s not that!  Eww.  She’s a good cat, she wouldn’t do that…it was one of her tiny toy catnip mouses (mice, meeces?) that she was playing with and had jammed up into the toe of his shoe.  So – that morning in my rush to get us out of the house on time, I unknowingly shoved my poor kid’s foot into a shoe crammed with mice, tied them up and ran out the door.

Last one:  This is borrowed from a friend, but I can guarantee most of us have almost done it.  The names have been rhymed to protect the guilty.

After visiting with my parents on Sunday, I was driving back home with the kids and rhymes-with-Hobie decides that he needs to go to the bathroom.  Of course, we are nowhere near a rest stop, so I have to get off the turnpike in the middle of nowhere. I asked the attendant where the nearest gas station was and he pointed in that direction. The station was under construction and had no indoor plumbing, so we had to settle for the porta potty around the back.  So in the dark and cold, we run around the back of the building coatless, and he hurries into the porta potty.   While he is going, I am huddling with rhymes-with-Lenzie to keep her warm and Hobie asks if I have extra toilet paper because he pooped and there wasn’t any in there. I dig through my purse, sightless in the dark.  I grab hold of a package thinking it’s tissues and grab one to hand to him. Hobie asks me why it’s wet and I say it is a moist towelette and to just use it. I then go to grab Lenzie and smell bleach for some reason. Ummm yeah I made my son wipe his butt with Clorox wipes!!!!

Thanks Megan Ann Leigh for the story.  Cracked me up!  In my opinion, at least you know you killed all the germs!  No need for hand sanitizer after that poop!

That’s it for tonight!  Say goodnight Gracie.

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PS – I totally woo’d Toledo Area Parent (check them out here).  I will be submitting some stuff by the end of the month, where they will hopefully take my sad writing skills and turn it into literary genius.  Or they’ll just shake their heads and go, “Nice try kid.”  Either way, I gave it my best shot.  I’ll keep you posted.  Thanks for all the support.  KF – I owe you big for suggesting it to me!

MIA

Sorry I’ve been MIA this week. Christmas, a full week of work, holiday parties, more food inhaled than humanly possible, combined with a lingering sadness that I can’t quite kick has made the desire to be funny put on the back-burner.

But, my sister is sitting in a hospital room with one sick kid at home with Dad and the other with her in a cramped, non-private room getting roto rootered every so often, just enough so that he screams bloody murder and wakes up just enough to be a squirmy, not-feeling-so-bad 7 month old in a tiny cage of a crib so that she can do nothing but try desperately to entertain him until the next round of suctioning. (which, by the way is awesome. Why don’t they pass these things out to go home? Best snot suckers EVER.). So for her, I have to try to come up with something funny to lighten the mood right? OK, here goes…

I think motherhood is off the table for the moment, as I can’t quite stop kissing on my kids and being thankful for them. So… let’s find bigger game…

Marriage? I can give a brief taste of the book I just finished that I mentioned a few weeks ago. Created to Be His Help Meet was all sorts of fun to read and has made for quite the after the kids go to bed conversation topics.

In a nutshell, Debi Pearl hates women. We are not supposed to have fun, leave our children or our husbands. EVER. Babysitters make you a horrible mother. Don’t even get me started on how much I am a failure for working. If she had her way, I’d be stoned on sight.

In addition to homeschooling our delightful children who are never to leave our sight, we should do all the household work…changing light bulbs, mowing the lawn, taking out trash, painting the shed, fixing the car, hand whittling kitchen chairs, all so our husbands can relax after a long hard day’s work. Not only should we do these things, but we should do them joyfully. Joyfully! HA! THEN after a full day of sheer joy, we are supposed to jump in bed and please him sexually so that he doesn’t stray, as men are wont to do if they aren’t pleased in every way. Yes, ladies, this book has been put in the freezer many a night, which was then followed by a stiff drink and leaving the dirty dishes to SIT in all their glorious dirtiness.

Needless to say, I can’t quite accomplish this attitude in my home. Let’s face it, even if I wanted to turn over a new leaf and be a reverent, joyful slave, my husband would NEVER be able to take me seriously. When you have a solid 17 year relationship built on mutual sarcasm and self-deprecation, being that positive just doesn’t quite fit my personality.

And really, who wouldn’t want me this way? Doesn’t every husband need a bit of ball busting every now and again? Can you imagine if NO ONE ever told him he was wrong? G would be wearing purple polka dot pants and bright pink plaid shirts with mismatched socks every single day. Will would never be allowed to bring his sexy back, put a ring on it, or vogue in any way. He would just be this mash of jerky offbeat gyrations my husband calls dancing. (I love you honey, I worship at your altar of smartness, but let’s face it, Channing Tatum you are not on the dancefloor.)

If I was a reverent super happy wife, who would teach my kiddos the greatest defense mechanism ever….sarcasm? When my husband teases me for being a “rich girl,” and then I break out my tiny violin (which totally does not annoy the piss out of him) when he talks of how SOOOO poor he was, we help to put each other in perspective with a little touch of dry humor and teasing. All in good fun I say.

Ms. Pearl, the ultimate help meet, would just listen and nod enthusiastically when my engineer husband makes the simplest task the most complicated, confusing, full set of blueprints, series of instructions that you ultimately give up and fall asleep while he is “explaining” how this will work instead of just doing it.

She would kiss his feet just for hanging the curtain rods a few inches from the top of the ceiling so the bottom of the curtains have at least a foot of clearance betwen them and the floor.

She would revel in his awesomeness when he proposes gunmetal gray floors because they won’t ever show dirt. She would lovingly buy his 30 different types of saws while she enjoys her one pair of sensible black shoes.

She would of course be supportive of his NEED for fog lamps on his truck while you have a phone my great grandma would laugh at.

OK – so maybe I am not the ideal wife, but let’s face it, I am WAAAY funnier than Ms. Pearl will ever be. I think that’s a much better arrangement. What do you think honey??

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