I have a good friend who has always avowed that she hated feeding her little children. It’s not because she’s a bitch who wants her kids to starve. She just hated the mess and the work involved. I’m starting to agree.
Once upon a time, my mother went on cooking strike. She tried her hardest to prepare family meals for herself, me, and my (then) stepdad. It seems like someone was always moaning and bellyaching about whatever it was she chose. Funny. I don’t remember being that picky and I’m sure I’m right. Sure, I had favorite foods, but I remember my stepdad being the problem. Anyway, after so many years, she finally said “F#*$ it” and we became an “every man for himself” household. By then I was old enough to make myself macaroni and cheese. I was set.
I can understand that my kids will make a mess. What is starting to get to me is how their tastes in food defies all logic. I try my best to plan meals – meals that we can all eat, with the best and healthiest ingredients we can afford. And just when I think that I’ve got a magnificent feast planned that will have my entire family saying “Wow! Mommy! You’re the best mommy in the world. You make us the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten and we’re all so big and strong and healthy because of it,” they turn up their tiny little noses and start asking for corn flakes. Seriously. I’ve served broccoli (their favorite veg) along with ribs and macaroni and cheese and they snub me. I end up cutting up summer sausage and grapes and unwrapping crackers while my own meal congeals on the counter.
I know I should just shrug it off and let them eat what I serve or go hungry. But I can’t be that mom. So I guess it’s on me. Still, a part of me can’t wait for another few years when they can get their own damn cereal so I can eat in peace.