I know that it is possible to raise children who are eclectic eaters. Who sit down at the table and welcome new and interesting foods. Who seek opportunities to expand their fledgling palettes. Indeed, I think that my youngest is growing up to be one of these eaters. I am so grateful for that. She will eat anything.
My oldest however, often eyes food as the enemy. Though he begrudgingly follows the family rule that every new taste needs to be sampled at least twice per meal, that doesn't mean he likes it. He'll do it though. He listens. He is nothing if not extremely well-mannered.
My youngest, the adventuress.
My oldest, the tolerant bureaucrat.
Together, they are the perfect dinner time storm.
Here's the deal: Every day at around 3 o'clock, Zachary is engaging in some sort of quiet activity. It could be a craft. It could be a book. It could be building with blocks. It could be watching Curious George. But, every day at 3, while Zoe naps and Zachary plays, I begin the dinner prep.
Usually, if I am not sucking too badly as Chef-Mother, I have given dinner some forethought. I have come up with something new (will they like it?) or old (they better still like it!) and am busily throwing it together before the Diva Dynamo awakes from her slumber.
As I cook, I fantasize about a dinner where everyone Comes-To-The-Table-When-Called and Eats-What-I-Have-Cooked while Engaging-In-Stimulating-Conversation. We will have a Toast (Zach does this nightly) and play a round of Best and Worst (we all share the best and worst part of our days) and then laugh about whatever it is we are discussing. The kids will listen as Tim and I catch each other up and will interject with tidbits related to what we are speaking about.
Sharing the nightly meal is a big deal to me. I've read the studies. I know that the more often families eat together, the less likely the kids are to become mass murderers or jump off a bridge or smoke some Crack in my bathroom. I also know that eating dinner together makes it more likely that my kid will be able to do long division in her head and be able to identify an escargot fork.
So, every day, I continue to prep a meal at 3 o'clock and serve it at 5:15ish (The time when old people without teeth and young people with toddlers sit down to eat all around America).
I do this
every.
damn.
day.
It should come as no surprise to my family when I yell "Dinner's ready". They should be prepared for this, shall we say-- predicable --turn of events.
But every night,
every.
damn.
night.
The same dance occurs.
"Dinner's Ready!" I announce.
BAM! Like the 5 o'clock express train, Zoe streaks across the kitchen floor. She is first to the table every night. In fact, approximately 20 minutes before dinner hits the table, she starts circling her chair and shrieking like a wounded animal who is also starving and severely dehydrated. She makes this noise even if she has a snack in her hand. She begs to be buckled into her booster. I comply.
Arrow starts whining and wiggling for me to serve him his dinner. I forget to set up his dish before dinner almost every night because I am too busy trying to feed the humans I call my family. I put two scoops of kibble in Arrow's dish. He sniffs it and dismisses it. He walks away.
"DINNER'S READY!!!" I shriek.
My husband saunters downstairs from his office. If it's winter he decides that right now, at this exact dinner time moment, is when he has to add three more logs to the wood burning stove. And he has to stand by the stove and watch the logs catch fire before he joins us at the table. This fire watching will last until he can no longer withstand my bitching. Only then will he join us. (If it is not winter he will do some other small project-- like beginning to Spackle the walls --immediately before the meal) When he finally approaches the table he will make a detour for an extra ice cube or a special spoon, and then he will sit down.
"Zachary! Get to the table" I demand.
Zachary drags himself to the table. Sometimes he crawls over while trying to dig up the hardwoods with the top of his head. Picture a large pig snuffing mud with its snout while sprinting. That's the image I'm going for. Finally, he sits down. He informs me that his milk isn't cold enough. He feels cold. His napkin is not folded correctly. Anything to delay eating.
But, success...right? The four of us are around the table. I get us to at least this point every single night. If it's a good night (and this has happened approximately 3 times in the past 4 years) everyone eats and shares and relates and laughs and stays consistent with my aforementioned fantasy. If it's a normal night, dinner falls rapidly apart.
Zoe (who can not yet talk) begins to shove food in her mouth so quickly her cheeks puff out like small hot air balloons. She chokes the food down and regurgitates whatever doesn't make it. She spots the dog begging for scraps and attempts to share with him by flinging her entire plate off of the table and onto the floor. Tim or I pick up the detritus and salvage whatever the dog doesn't steal. We place the plate in front of her again as she swipes a dinner roll and chucks it at Zach's chest. Usually her aim is dead to nuts and the two of them share in a round of hysterics.
Zachary (who can talk very well) calls out, "Cheers! To Family!" and then engages us with tales of fighter jets that can fly "60 and 100" miles an hour (four year old speak for reallyfuckingfast). He regales us with stories of a child at school who hit another child and received a time out. We beg him to take just one bite. We play a round of Best and Worst. He nibbles a morsel of food off of his plate. Picture biting a Cheez-It in half and in half again. Then, eat half of that half. That is a Zachary size bite.
Tim and I have not yet taken a mouthful. Our food is congealing.
Zach announces he has to Pee. Zoe rubs salad dressing into her cheeks like it's Creme De La Mer. Tim's boss sends him a critical email. The cat meows a hello on the way to her litter box. Arrow farts.
Zachary takes a final bite and, ever the rule follower, clears his plate and places his milk back into the refrigerator. While he is on his way to the sink, Zoe tries to take his head off with a flying, half-eaten, Brussel Sprout.
She nails him.
My fantasy collapses.
But, I'll keep trying because I know that practice makes perfect and someday, before my children turn into surly teenagers, we will master the art of The Family Dinner.We already kinda have, don't you think?
Until then, I'll be here in the corner eating my Pasta Primavera.
