By Patty Clark
Young parents these days are a bit more attentive to pesticides, additives, and preservatives than my generation was. Having become a grandmother my second time around, I can’t help but ponder the practices of child sustenance and what awaits this new mother. I’m surprised the food industry hasn’t come out with low fat tofu Tater Tots.
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Young parents these days are a bit more attentive to pesticides, additives, and preservatives than my generation was.
Having become a grandmother my second time around, I can’t help but ponder the practices of child sustenance and what awaits this new mother. I’m surprised the food industry hasn’t come out with low fat tofu Tater Tots.
What’s For Dinner?
Sharing is Caring
In my day there was no nursing in public, simply because you couldn’t subject engorged weapons of mass lactation without stares of indecent exposure.
My middle daughter pretty much rejected my colostrum anyway after realizing it wasn’t chocolate milk. However, it was my passion to put a twinkle in my starling’s eyes by pleasing her palate. Her year old mumbling voice clamored for my cuisinely challenged attentiveness, trying to divert me down the path of confections.
We had to come up with a mutually beneficial plan for her happiness. Guiding me was Dr. Spock, although he prophesied that there are only two things a child will share voluntarily: Communicable diseases and its mother’s age.
While I worried about my daughter’s fuel deficiencies, Kix was meanwhile kid tested and mother approved.
I used the old spoon/airplane technique trying to land un-sweetened cereal past her lips. She scoffed, probably fearing that I would forge the tasteless ramjet down her esophagus. Before long I became a punster air pilot professional. I tried everything from oatmeal to lime beans sprinkled with cinnamon.
Sometimes I threw her a hot dog and she willingly ate it, as long as I made smiley faces with ketchup on her plate, put a bendy straw in her drinks, took away the bun, chopped the meat into microscopic pieces, and spoon fed them with an ice cream scooper layered with ice cream.
Something to Snack On
One time I had an early morning power outage.
The big thaw forced me feed her fish filets, chicken cutlets, ground beef, and mushy mixed vegetables for breakfast. For she was a jolly good food-flinger. I came precariously close to having a fist flung in my face. I should have worn a crash helmet while waving a white flag.
The only way to minimize sorrow that came with every eating experience was through sugar. But that wasn’t listed in Spock’s advisories. Look who she role modeled after. Me. The queen of sweets. Children who aren’t allowed much sugar growing up subsequently end up siphoning anything that contains sucrose.
And nobody didn’t like Sara Lee.
Admittedly, I wanted to let there be peace on earth and let it begin with one of her goodies, and let me sit with my toddler in perfect harmony. Except there was a lot more joy in sweet potatoes topped with Chips Ahoy. Though tempered chocolate always discolored my dining room wallpaper. M&M’s weren’t the only things that melted in places and not in her hands.
How many other mothers have had persevering thoughts of piling chocolate morsels or gummy bears on top of broccoli spears? My ankle clinger never wanted to attend school because they force fed her carrots, when I force fed her carrots covered in brown sugar. It’s a wonder the two of us haven’t developed diabetes.
Eat Your Vegetables
My cherub loved toast, just not the brown parts.
The bread couldn’t be wheat or rye or pumpernickel, and the cat had to eat it first. She would happily consume yogurt as long as I called it pudding. Lucky Charms were magically delicious as well if smothered in Hershey’s syrup. And she was more likely to eat peas if they were splashed with honey and tossed onto linoleum. That is after she stared at them, poked them, and smashed several on her chest. I can’t wait for the day my daughter tells me her own youngster looks like a chicken-poxed-pea-farmer.
I found out OJ wasn’t just for breakfast anymore.
It was for anytime I didn’t want to see concentrated pulpy extract seeping into my shag carpeting. My little lamb spilled the juice then shot me sober glances while I rattled the ice cubes in my glass filled with lonely vodka. And while choosy mothers may choose Jif, others may choose something entirely different after they’ve seen peanut butter finger painted on their drapes. I should have given her a side order of acrylics.
Terms of Endearment
And supposedly cook’s who knew trusted Crisco. I didn’t trust it in the hands or mouth of my babe. She didn’t need kids at school saying, “Fatty-fatty two by four, can’t get through the classroom door.” I was already calling her “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch.”
I couldn’t screw up grilled cheese.
But cheese gave this girl gassiness. In the often occurrences of accidental anal releases, masks did not drop down from little trap doors in the ceiling. I almost lost consciousness from the flotation of rancid air. Once she caught wind of it herself, it was amusing to see the smirks on her face when she told me she was blowing me kisses.
My cutie was a keeper, even though she removed her diaper and left doo doo dumplings on my area rug. I took on the role as her personal pooper scooper. How could I be startlingly disappointed by such progressive and generous company? It would have been worse if she had been a constipated dairy carrier.
Equally menacing were the uh oh, Spaghettios. Diabetic retinopathy had risen after my eyes were fed with images of my youngster eating circular saucy shapes from everywhere but her bowl. Visualizing an army of bacterial critters patrolling her body made my own skin crawl. But my daughter came hungry and left healthy and happy.
My home was clearly a Build-A-Babe workshop.
I couldn’t find one book that would help me contrive new ways to stuff good nutrition into my child. She could never guarantee that she’d eat anything wholesome any more than I could guarantee giving her a unicorn. But when my munchkin woke each morning, I figured I was successful at keeping her alive. And I must say, it is truly satisfying now to see my children grown and not shooting straws full of milk at me while we are dining together.