Harrumph
“Are you working on Remembrance Day?”
“Yes, I am.”
If you have the day off, but opt to send your child to childcare, your caregiver will not resent that. Every parent deserves the luxury of the odd kid-free day.
“Oh, that’s great! My wife was hoping for a day off.”
But you know, it would be sensitive and, you know, tactful not to go on and on and ON about it.
“I’m just so happy about tomorrow! I have so many things planned! So much I’m going to get done! It’s so great to have hours of peace and quiet!”
Because, though she understands your excitement, the fact that you have the day off means that your caregiver (ahem) doesn’t, and it would be a kindness not to gloat too openly.
“Hello, sweetie! Mummy’s here! …Oh, am I the last parent?”
“Yes. Actually, you’re ten minutes late.”
And, when you take that glorious day off? The one that your caregiver, through her dedication and professionalism, is enabling you to enjoy?
Show up on time.
A B C D oops, no, wait…
Did you know…
A is for truck,
B is for shoes,
C is for moo-cow
D is for puppy
E is for elephant. (Once in a while, they have to hit one, no?)
F is for doggy,
G is for duck — and strawberries
H is for horsie!
I is for ice cream!
J is for dolly,
K is for boy,
L is for yellow,
M is for momocyle!
N is for eggs,
O is for birdies,
P is for rocks,
Q is for bankie,
R is for bunny,
S is for teddy (thing is, they were right! Surely, if you’re going to put a toy on the slide on the s-page, you’d make sure it started with s?),
T is for choo-choo,
U is for horsie,
V is for fruit,
W is for waffles!!
X is for piano,
Y is for yogurt (probably because they’d just seen me eat some for breakfast),
and
Z is for zebra!!!
Alphabet books are lost on toddlers…
Picky eaters
Today’s post is inspired by a commenter, who asked, “Do you ever get kids in who are such picky eaters that they won’t eat a lot of your cooking?” My answer to that is, “Yes, at first.”
Generally, the younger children will eat pretty near anything you plonk on that high chair tray, or poke into their mouths with a spoon. (Occasionally, yes, something comes blasting back out of that 7-month-old mouth, but not nearly as often/commonly as with older children.) Just let them get a little older, let them start feeling their “I’m autonomous!” two-year-old oats, and suddenly you have someone refusing this, refusing that, refusing anything that isn’t white, that isn’t sweet, that isn’t macaroni…
Sigh.
So yes, I see my fair share of tots who turn their sweet little button noses up at my delectable offerings. I work with toddlers, of course I see that!
But as I say, it doesn’t last. Why?
The key is knowing who controls what. Who’s in charge of your child’s intake?
Hint: not you.
YOU control what is served, when it’s served, and where. Your child chooses whether to eat, and how much they’ll eat (though you can certainly put a cap on it, you can’t really enforce a minimum).
YOU provide a range of healthy foods at set intervals.
YOUR CHILD decides whether to eat it.
So far, any of you with picky eaters are shouting at me. “I KNOW that! That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it??”
Sort of. But not really.
It’s only a problem if you try to take on the child’s role of intake, and let the child take on your role of “what”.
Are you following me?
You provide a healthy meal. Your little darling says, “No broccoli. I want macaroni.”
Well, no. YOU decide what is served, not them. And THEY decide whether they’ll ingest it.
“I know you like macaroni, but tonight we’re having broccoli.” YOU decide what. Your child decides whether. It may well be that they will decide not to eat the broccoli. That is their right.
Of course, that’s not how the child sees it. They don’t want to be hungry. They want what they want. And you’re saying “No macaroni, but you can eat BROCCOLI”????
So of course they throw a fit.
I know. It’s awful. And don’t you just want peaceful mealtimes? Don’t worry. You’ll get them… only not just yet. Fits are almost inevitable when you’re teaching new patterns, so let’s take a look at your reacton to a fit. If you change his meal because he’s throwing a fit, you are being bullied. You are being bullied into doing something less-than-healthy for your child. Your child may not intend to bully you — they just know they don’t want that damned broccoli — but in the end, you are teaching your child you can be bullied.
And once you start that, it never ends. So, if you cave in to a fit, are you buying peace, or guaranteeing ongoing strife?
“I know you prefer macaroni. But tonight we’re having broccoli.”
[The fit commences.]
“Oh, dear. I guess you’re not hungry. Away you go and play, then.” (Or, if the fit is too loud and ugly to ignore, you calmly — think robot — take them and deposit them in their room.) “When you’re ready to be calm and quiet, you can come back.”
But why would I go through that, you ask? So what if she wants nothing but macaroni and bananas? It’s better than nothing, right?
Wrong.
You have ONE thing going for you — in a big way — in this food struggle. (You have more than one, really: you have the fact that you are the parent, you are the chef, you buy the food. But for many parents, that isn’t enough.)
The ONE thing you have that’s really, REALLY on your side and will inevitably tip the scales in the favour of healthy eating?
Your child’s hunger.
“AHHH! She’s telling me to starve my child!!!” There you go again, taking on your child’s role in the feeding dynamic. YOU are not “starving” your child; YOUR CHILD is refusing perfectly good food. There is a world of difference here.
I find myself hauling out the same things that were said to me, many years ago… because certain parenting techniques just never, ever wear out.
“But mummy, I’m HUNGRY!”
“No, you’re not. If you were hungry enough, you’d eat your sausage.”
And of course, she was right. And when I GOT hungry enough, I did eat that sausage… because I knew there was nothing else forthcoming. It’s entirely possible (because I was a stubborn little thing) that there were some nights I went to bed without supper.
My mother knew that choice was my right and was willing to let me make it. I’m better for it, because now I enjoy a wide range of foods. There are fewer than half-a-dozen things I truly don’t like. (Liver and lima beans top that list.)
“Starving”? North American children have no idea, none at all, what it’s like to “starve”. This is a good thing! But let us be clear here: Starving children will eat dirt to ward off the hunger pangs. They would never in a million years turn their noses up at broccoli.
So no, you’re not starving your child. And be assured that your child won’t “starve” themselves, either. (Yes, there is a rare medical condition whereby a child actually will do that… but it’s rare.)
If you’re hungry, it’s the most natural thing in the world to expect you to eat. (And it IS!)
This is a process. It may take a few days (for stubborn children, even a couple of weeks) before they realize you are dead serious. What they see is what they get. No options. And you can’t waffle on this, not even once. As soon as you do, all that suffering has been in vain.
Don’t cave!
For particularly recalcitrant kids (I recall doing this with one of my own, I forget which one), I’ve been known to pull out the rejected lunch at snack time. And then again at dinner. (Told you I was stubborn. Push me too hard and I get downright ornery.)
But stubborn (and maybe even a bit of ornery) is necessary when we’re talking creating healthy habits for a lifetime.
Really what it is, is consistent. Stick to your guns, and your child will eventually learn to eat. You don’t coax, you don’t argue, you don’t indulge in long drawn-out negotiations at the table. You can go easy, and only put one or two bites of a new/problematic food on their plates. And then they can eat it.
Or not.
If you can face the “or not”, you will produce healthy, varied eaters.
Why?
Friday, Noah was a normal two-year-old.
Today…
“I hear a airplane. Where is it going?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“Why?”
“Nissa has a poo?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Why?”
“Lunchtime!”
“Why?”
“We’re going to go to the 7-Eleven for Smarties for you, hon.”
“Why?”
“For when you do a poo. You know that.”
“Why?“
“Naptime!”
“Why?”
“Give me that, my dear. It’s too small for the baby.”
“Why?“
“She will put it in her mouth.”
“Why?”
“That’s just what babies do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You used to put everthing in your mouth, too.”
“Why?”
“Beats me. Why did you do that?”
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
I think the phrase he’s searching for is “damned if I know”. Lacking that, he’s struck dumb. For the moment. But only for the moment, for it is clear that Noah has entered the Why Stage.
It’s not so bad: At least he listens to the answers.
those recipes
When I listed my Thanksgiving menu, some of you expressed an interest in some of the recipes.
The sweet potato, rutabaga combo is just that. Doesn’t really have a recipe: take one rutabaga, two sweet potatoes, half a dozen carrots and a squash of your choosing. (I used acorn, because I had some already prepared from a previous meal.) Peel and chop the rutabaga, sweet potatos and carrots, then put in largish pot of water. Bring to boil, then simmer for as long as it takes for everything to get mooshy. Drain all but a scant cup of the water, and puree (I use hand-held immersion blender). That’s it. I let people season their own portions, with salt, pepper and/or butter. Serves quite a few: 8 or 10, I’d guess.
The marinated salad is more fun. Basically, you take a bunch of winter vegetables, cut into bite-sized pieces and cook until tender-crisp, then drain and marinate for a few hours or overnight.
That’s the overview. Here’s the official recipe (a very old Canadian Living one):
1 small cauliflower, divided into florets
1 bunch broccoli, divided into florets
1/2 pound green beans, sliced
1/2 pound mushrooms, julienned
1 red pepper, slivered
2 cups julienned carrots
2 cups rutabaga, cut into bite-sized pieces
2 parsnips, julienned
1/2 red onion, cut into thin rings
Vinaigrette:
3/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup cider vinegar
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 clove garlic
Prepare:
Cook cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, rutabaga, parsnips and beans till tender-crisp. Drain. Mix all vegetables but beans together in a bowl. (In non-reactive bowl. Glass is best.) Mix the vinaigrette and pour over. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Add the green beans just before serving.
My addition to the recipe: Use small button mushrooms, or larger ones cut in half or quarters (rather than sliced, as per recipe). Put the mushrooms in a small pot with 1/4 cider vinegar. Simmer for 5 – 10 minutes, until the mushrooms are soft. They provide little bursts of tangy ZING in the salad.
Quirks and the learning curve
Noah tackles the pattern blocks, but quickly becomes frustrated. He understands the basic idea — make a picture using the shapes — but lacks the fine motor control to place the shapes on the unfortunately slick wooden card.
We work together.
It’s interesting to note what kids can and can’t do. Some of this is their stage of life, some of it is quirky to the child. Mostly it’s a mixture of both.
I point to the diagram on the card. “I need a yellow diamond. Can you find me a yellow diamond?”
Yes, he can. Easily. Even though there are also white diamonds in the box, but I know he’s sorting by colour, not shape.
“Find me a green triangle, please.”
He immediately hands me a green triangle. (This is simple because, apart from the diamonds there is only one shape per colour. All the triangles are green. Only the triangles are green. )
“Now I need a green shape.”
I get a green shape. It’s a triangle, as it must be. “Thank you for the green triangle, Noah.”
“Now I need a triangle. Can you find me a triangle?”
Nope. Suddenly, there are no triangles in the box. Hee.
So he knows his colours, but not his shapes. Pretty straightforward. It gets quirkier than that, though.
“Look at the card. We are going to need one, two, three blue squares.” I point to the blue squares, one at a time. “Pass me a blue square, please.”
I get the first blue square.
“Thank you for that blue square.” I place it on the blue square on the card. “Now I need one of these.” I point to the next blue square on the card. “Can you find me one like this, please?”
Nope. Can’t do it. He hands me shapes at random, first a white diamond and then a purple trapezoid, and finally a red hexagon.
“This shape,” pointing to the card, “is blue. It is square. I will need a –” and he plonks the blue square onto the floor beside the card.
He knows blue. He doesn’t know square. More interesting, he cannot yet see a picture of a blue square and find the corresponding square blue tile from the box.
Interesting, I tell you. Isn’t that interesting?
Bah, humbug
“HeLLO, ev-ryboDEE! Are we having FUN???” His eyes are wide, his mouth is wide, his face bursts with ANIMATION.
What is this, Howdy Doody? Why do some people talk to small children like that? So patronizing.
And so loud. Does he think they’re hearing impaired, to boot?
“Are you all having a GOOD TIME today???”
You see these people all over. People for whom children are a slightly foreign entity, people to whom children are not entirely… human? They’re well-intentioned, and, were I to be honest, quite a few of the children react well to the excess of enthusiasm. Quite a few, but not all.
The others withdraw, stand back, and stare, their faces radiating disapproving confusion: “What is wrong with you?” Or perhaps the more sophisticated wonder “Do you think I’m a total idiot?”
It happens all the time, and when it’s someone I don’t know, I cut them some slack. It’s a style difference, that’s all. (So not my style, but just a style difference. That’s what I tell myself.) This person maybe hasn’t much experience with children, and so styles him/herself on a certain type of children’s entertainer. (The type I avoid, but as I keep telling myself, style, it’s just style.)
But this one? It was happening in my front entry. He lingered in the mornings, LOUDLY declaiming inanities, for three minutes or more. And while he did this, he revved up the group. His child, used to his performance, began to giggle and shriek. A couple more responded to the increasing energy levels by beginning to run, run, run the loop from dining room, kitchen and hall. The youngest child set to bellowing. Finally even the dog was drawn in, and started to howl.
And then? He’d laugh. “It’s CRAZY here, isn’t it, kids? This is a cuh-RAY-zy place!!!” This is obviously his mental picture of what life with five toddlers is like, and it thrills him to be in the midst of it. Shrieking children, jumping children, children bouncing off walls. Bedlam, right down to the yodelling dog. And he had no idea, not a single clue, that he’d started it.
I am not kidding. At least twice a week he was doing this.
I used to stand and attend to him while he lingered and howdy-doodied and revved the whole house up to manic levels. It seemed… rude to just walk away and leave him there. Then I smacked myself upside the head once or twice — “Rude? This is your JOB! Just do it, silly woman!” — and now I’m thinking clearly again.
Now, once he’s said his first goodbye (undiscouraged, he says four or five), I herd the children into a corner of the kitchen where they can’t see the front door, or to the table where I have a craft at the ready. He’ll stand in the front door for a moment before bellowing “BYE-BYE!” one final time, and leaves. Thank goodness he doesn’t follow us.
(If he did, I’d address the issue directly, obviously, but previous experience has told me that he doesn’t like to be corrected directly. He’s never rude, though he does stiffen and glower a bit, but more importantly, though there are incremental changes, the behaviour doesn’t necessarily alter by much. By responding in this way, the morning circus has been reduced to once a month, even less. Sometimes indirect really is more effective.)
The dog is sent to her crate to calm down, and I pull out a couple of books to read to the children clustered around me on the couch. Within a couple of minutes, peace is restored.
Because my home? It is not a cuh-RAY-zy place.
Thankyouverymuch.
The things you hear yourself saying
Part eleventy-bazillion…
“Don’t drive the train on Nissa’s head… No, she doesn’t like it. Nobody likes that.”
“Peekee boo!” Nissa pulls the coffee shop napkin away from her face, and giggles as the other children laugh in excitement. “Peekee boo!” She loves playing to the gallery, and she really loves making the others laugh. Depending on whether she uses her powers for good or evil, she’ll either be her future teachers’ delight, or the bane of their existence.
Right now, she’s delightful.
“Oh, they’re so sweet!” The elderly fellow leans over from the next table. His eyes sparkle as the children laugh again. “The expressions on their faces are so vibrant!” Much like his, I might add. His hair is white, his face wrinkled and the skin on his hands papery, but he radiates life and positivity. I warm to him immediately.
His equally delightful wife agrees. “That’s sure a lively little crew you have there, and so well-behaved! How old are they?”
I tap small heads as I identify them. “Emily is four, Noah is two and a half, Nissa is eighteen months, and the baby is eight months old.”
Her eyes widen. “Goodness! We didn’t even notice the one in the stroller!”
“I’ll bet you’re done now!” he chortles. And you know what? I join right in. I am done. No need to point out I’ve been “done” for sixteen years… I’ll take it as a compliment that 1) I look young enough to have an 8-month-old baby (!!!) and 2) I’m doing my job well enough that I can be mistaken for their mother, not a hired gun, and 3) they commented on the childrens’ excellent behaviour, which, unlike many women out there, I take as a direct tribute to my hard work.
The fellow drapes his napkin over his face, then whips it away.
“Peek-a-boo!”
The children shriek in glee, the wonderful couple chortle along with them. Faces light up around the room.
Some days? Some days I cannot believe I get paid to do this.
