It tastes like chicken, Mom
Posted at 8:50 pm in Lulz, Motherhood
It’s no secret that my son is definitely NOT a huge fan of eating his vegetables. Anything green, leafy, or otherwise plant-like, even the tiniest sliver of lettuce or a tiny fragment of tomato, is quickly spotted, thoroughly inspected, and quarantined, despite my craftiest attempts at disguising them. Cast away to the other side of the plate in groups, the lepers of the dinner plate civilization, they are shunned, and not worthy of the privilege of gracing his picky palate. It’s been this way for quite a while now. Only his entire life.
So, when the time comes, I do what any good parent with a picky child would do. I bribe, threaten, deceive, and do whatever else necessary to get something in his stomach besides M&M’s and DinoNuggets. While tasty in their own right, it isn’t something I’m willing to let him eat 24/7. I’ve never read a headline stating: “WARNING: THE CONSUMPTION OF FRUITS AND VEGETABLES LEADS TO PERMANENT BLINDNESS, THEREFORE RENDERING ALL ATTEMPTS TO WATCH BLUE’S CLUES FUTILE!”
A few nights ago, I cooked a big pot of vegetable beef soup. And I’m sure you can see where this story is heading. I was a little surprised when he told me that he was willing to eat it. I picked him up and let him peer into the pot, the bubbling corn, peas, carrots, and potatoes being clearly visible. I waited for him to change his mind, to all of a sudden rub his belly as he often does declaring that “his belly is full” and “he’s not hungry anymore”. But he didn’t. Regardless, I wasn’t very hopeful that he would make it past the beef chunks and the broth.
A few minutes into the meal, he announced to me that he was finished, with a big, toothy grin. I wasn’t falling for his tactics. He fails to realize that the things he tries, I’ve done them, and
done them better. As I suspected, only the meat had been eaten. I gave him a stern look. A look that, to me, said “you’re not getting up until you eat the rest of your soup” but to him, apparently said “Oh okay, well get on up and go play! Later when you get hungry at 10 p.m., you can have twelve chocolate cookies and whatever the hell else you want!”
But he wasn’t going to eat the goddamn vegetables without a fight, oh no. His grin disappeared, and making a last-ditch effort in making me realize what a horrible bitch of a mother I am, he bowed his head and started sobbing - looking up at me every few seconds to see how I was reacting. Now, to those of you who have never witnessed such a display of desperation before, it’s easy to want to give in. To just let them get up from the table and be done with the ordeal. But I’m a veteran at this game, and I matched his super sad display with an awesome, unfaltering poker face. I was NOT backing down from this battle.
I picked up his vegetable-filled spoon and put it to his lips.
“If you’re not going to eat them willingly,” I said, “then I’m going to feed them to you. Even if it takes all night. You’re eating them. Vegetables have never killed anyone.”
He glared at me, and I glared at him. Of all things he inherited from his father, it just had to be his stubborn streak. He crossed his arms and growled at me, just to prove this point. But I didn’t waver.
Finally, after a few minutes of threats (no more video games, cartoons, or sweets for the rest of your life!), and reciting a long list of toys I was thinking of giving away, he relented. He hunched in defeat, and let out a big sigh. He wiped his eyes, opened his mouth, and accepted the evil, shitty vegetables with an expression on his face that I can only describe as the look someone might have when they’re chewing and think they’ve discovered a hair in their food.
Yeah, it was that bad.
The first bite might as well have been a spoonful of rusty nails and scorpion tails, by the way he dramatically rubbed his throat as it made it’s way down. But soon, they started going down easier and easier until eventually, there were only a few bites left in the bowl. I bragged on him, and even thanked him for finally tasting it. He smiled. And finally spoke for the first time since dinnertime began.
“Mom,” he said, “you know WHAT?!”
“WHAT?!” I asked, with just as much enthusiasm. I honestly had no idea on God’s green earth what he was about to say…
“This soup *pointing fervently into the bowl* tastes likes chicken! It’s really good now, I like this chicken soup, Mom.”
“Oh…erm…good! I’m glad you like it!” I replied, with understandable hesitation. I was in disbelief over the fact that he just unknowingly pulled that “tastes like chicken!” slogan out of the air like it didn’t become super lame and annoying around 78.5 years ago. Moreso, I was wondering if now was the time to disagree with him by explaining the difference between chicken and beef, how they look, taste, and smell, and blahblahblah. I decided against it.
If that’s what it takes for him to eat vegetables in this way…if he insists on calling it chicken soup, then it IS chicken soup, as far as I’m concerned. We’ll deal with the specifics later. For now, I intend to take advantage of the fact that he doesn’t really know the difference, and shovel as many vegetables as I can in him for the next few years.
And I must admit, I also reveled in my epic win afterward.
