Whining and Dining


To say my kids are picky eaters would be like saying Donald Trump has bad hair. It’s both obvious and annoying.

They are vegetarians, by their own choosing, not mine. They didn’t set out to be vegetarians, at least I don’t think they did. I’m pretty sure they just refuse to eat meat because they know it would make my life easier.

They will both eat Sonic popcorn chicken and my son will also eat turkey bacon, but I’m not sure there is any real meat in either of those.  One is deep fried bits of stuff I don’t want to think about and the other is basically a stiff, salty, un-fruity fruit roll-up.

I count them as protein. I take what I can get.

Breakfast is the best meal for us. The boy has had mini pancakes, chocolate milk, and three slices of turkey bacon for the past 5 years. The girl has had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for…freakin ever. We are solid on breakfast.

The rest of the day falls to crap after that. I call it “whining and dining”.

I am trying. I am trying hard. I have sat through meals where both cried because I forced them to try…get this…noodles with a dab (a smidgen, actually) of tomato sauce on them. 

They are the reason I drink. 

Not to long ago, a miracle occurred. Hubby and I went on a date. (This is not the miracle, but it is a miracle.) We pulled up to my parent’s house, ran the kids inside, yelled thank you and “By the way – kid’s haven’t eaten yet”, and bolted out the door. We got in the car, high-fived, and drove around wondering what to do.

So…we went and had a fabulous dinner. And then drove around wondering what to do – again. Life is different with no little dictators in the backseat.

We decided on Target. Perhaps even Lowe’s, if we were able to make it past 8 p.m.

I dumped out my to-go glass, filled it with wine, and we went inside to browse. Kidless. If you’ve never drunk wine through a straw while looking at Target clearance racks – DUDE. You are missing out.

Soon, my phone began to ding! ding! I considered throwing it away. I reconsidered.

I glanced at it. It was the girl, texting from my dad’s phone. “MOM! I tried a hot dog! I liked it! emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji”

I stared at the phone, dumbfounded. She has tricked me before with this crap, knowing that adding even one more food to her list would make me the happiest person on earth.

My phone went ding! ding! I thought it would be her, saying “Just kidding! I’d never try anything new. emoji emoji emoji emoji !!!!!!!”

I looked. It was my mom – “Your daughter just ate a hot dog. An entire hot dog! Can you believe it?! emoji emoji emoji emoji emoji” (My mom likes her emoji’s, too.)

I called. I confirmed. I got the story. I told her I was proud of her. I was…shocked.

I must find hubby.
I called him. “Where are you? I need to tell you something!”
“I’m in the video games (of course). What’s up?”
“I need to tell you in person.”
“Umm…ok. Is it bad?”
“Nope! It’s great!”
“Why don’t you just tell me now?”
“I have to tell you in person. It’s major.”
“All righty.” (He rolls his eyes and sighs. I wasn’t there, but am 100% sure this is what happened.)

I speed walked with my cart and half-empty styrofoam cup of wine over to the men’s toy section. I told him. He was pumped. He asked if he could get a new game to celebrate. I told him no, but good try.

I have never been so excited about yet another fully processed, salt-laden, hunk of psuedo-meat in my life! I mean, I actually congratulated my daughter for eating this crap! 

We left Target, half-drunk on cheap wine, clearance deals, and thoughts of processed meat shaped like a tube, all smiley and giddy.

It was a short-lived victory, however. Apparently, it was a one time event. Or maybe an annual event. Maybe we’ll have a celebration every year where we will all eat a hot dog in “memory of the time one of the kids tried something new”.

I just take what I can get.

 

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