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Dinner is a Battlefield
When I stop and think about the two tasks that most befuddle my 3-year-old - those being eating and sleeping - I can't help but think I must still be living in caveman times. It feels like, with all that modern science can accomplish, from the wonder that is Pixar to powering a car on shelled corn, we should have come up with a solution by now for kids who won't do the two things all adults crave from one minute to the next. I long for that day. But until it comes, I will don the battle gear. I will go to war.
I will go to war over noodles.
The scene: dinnertime. Skies that were blue when meal prep work began are clouding over. A chill, subtle but familiar, sweeps across the kitchen. The family sits at the table. Or rather, Randy and I sit at the table. MJ squirms in her chair, alternately humming and making strange noises that sound like Porky Pig stuttering to the tune of a European ambulance siren. (You have to hear it to fully appreciate it.)
Me: MJ, eat your noodles. MJ: [no response, more silly noises accompanied by a seated Chubby Checker dance move] Me: Eat! MJ: OK.
She picks up a single flake of Parmesan cheese from the top of a noodle and puts it gingerly into her mouth. I wonder for the hundredth time why someone so crafty in so many ways would think I would consider this "eating." Meanwhile, the faint parump parump of a battle drum begins to sound in the corners of my mind.
Me: I think we can do better than that. MJ: I need juice. Can I have some juice, please? Me: When you eat some noodles, you can have some juice MJ: No! I want juice! My juice! Me: Eat a noodle, get juice.
She eats a single noodle. Randy pours her juice. She gets down from the table, announcing that she is done. I immediately understand the consequences of using the singular "a noodle" in my last ultimatum. But I won't admit defeat.
Me: [placing MJ back in her seat, from which she has slithered onto the floor.] You are not done. You've barely eaten anything. Eat some more noodles. MJ: No! I want to get down! I want to play with baby! Me: Eat. MJ: No! I don't want any. I want to watch baseball.
She wants to watch baseball. No one in our house ever watches baseball on television. She wouldn't know A-Rod, or even Madonna, for that matter, if they tapped her on the shoulder and handed her an Elmo doll. She slides down again and walks over to the family room, challenging me with a certain look. If you have kids, you know the look. It's the one that says, "Oh yeah? Well, watch me. Just watch me, you fool!" I follow, hearing the marching boots of troops, the echoes of the battalion of fighting parents that have come before me thundering in my ears, urging me along, as I pull out the heavy weaponry:
"You get nothing else for the rest of the evening," I say. "Do you understand? Nothing else. You finish that juice, and you get nothing more to eat before bedtime. Nothing. Except those noodles."
She looks at me, unfazed. What's a little hunger in a power struggle? If it's good enough for Gandhi, it's good enough for a toddler. But I'm not done.
"And ..." I say, pausing for effect, "I'm taking your Lightning McQueen car."
"Nooo! You can't take my Lightning McQueen car! I need him! Nooo! "
"You can have him back," I say, snatching the car from the area that she has rushed to protect from me and putting his little red bargaining chip of a chassis into my pocket, "if you eat more noodles." She earned the car for potty training, but what the mommy giveth, the mommy taketh away.
Now there are tears and more protesting, but still no noodle eating. Several minutes go by and she begins to eye the dinner table again, circling it like a cagey little shark. I know she's realized that she's hungry, and that she wants the noodles. But she feels me looking at her, and grabs her sippy cup instead. Well-played, my little blond-haired foe, I think, well-played indeed. Another 30 minutes pass. I take a phone call. While I'm talking, she appears before me, taunting me by putting a pretzel that she's sneaked from the pantry to her mouth. I'm determined. I grab the pretzel from her lips and command her to eat noodles. "Eat noodles!" I say, to the bafflement of the caller, and MJ and I stare at each other with just inches between our noses -- the smallest of which is intermittently sniffling, the largest of which might as well be covered in the blue war paint favored in Braveheart.
Another 10 minutes go by. I'm disheartened that she hasn't given in, but I'm standing my ground. Bedtime is announced. And then, something miraculous happens. She trudges heavily over to the dinner table, each step slow and plodding and grudging. Randy is trying to tell me a story from his day, but I've stopped listening, and he turns to see what's so riveting. We watch from the sofa as she silently harrumphs her way back into her seat and, with the grumbled countenance of abrash lightweight humbled by an old prizefighter, she eats a noodle. Then another. And another. She finishes the whole bowl.
Trumpets sound. I'm riding in a victory parade, confetti stuck in my hair, flowers thrown at my feet. I have prevailed. I feel as accomplished as the day I got my first job. "I won," I whisper disbelievingly to Randy. "I actually won."
"Congratulations," he says, and he really means it.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at MotherBunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
When I stop and think about the two tasks that most befuddle my 3-year-old - those being eating and sleeping - I can't help but think I must still be living in caveman times. It feels like, with all that modern science can accomplish, from the wonder that is Pixar to powering a car on shelled corn, we should have come up with a solution by now for kids who won't do the two things all adults crave from one minute to the next. I long for that day. But until it comes, I will don the battle gear. I will go to war.
I will go to war over noodles.
The scene: dinnertime. Skies that were blue when meal prep work began are clouding over. A chill, subtle but familiar, sweeps across the kitchen. The family sits at the table. Or rather, Randy and I sit at the table. MJ squirms in her chair, alternately humming and making strange noises that sound like Porky Pig stuttering to the tune of a European ambulance siren. (You have to hear it to fully appreciate it.)
Me: MJ, eat your noodles. MJ: [no response, more silly noises accompanied by a seated Chubby Checker dance move] Me: Eat! MJ: OK.
She picks up a single flake of Parmesan cheese from the top of a noodle and puts it gingerly into her mouth. I wonder for the hundredth time why someone so crafty in so many ways would think I would consider this "eating." Meanwhile, the faint parump parump of a battle drum begins to sound in the corners of my mind.
Me: I think we can do better than that. MJ: I need juice. Can I have some juice, please? Me: When you eat some noodles, you can have some juice MJ: No! I want juice! My juice! Me: Eat a noodle, get juice.
She eats a single noodle. Randy pours her juice. She gets down from the table, announcing that she is done. I immediately understand the consequences of using the singular "a noodle" in my last ultimatum. But I won't admit defeat.
Me: [placing MJ back in her seat, from which she has slithered onto the floor.] You are not done. You've barely eaten anything. Eat some more noodles. MJ: No! I want to get down! I want to play with baby! Me: Eat. MJ: No! I don't want any. I want to watch baseball.
She wants to watch baseball. No one in our house ever watches baseball on television. She wouldn't know A-Rod, or even Madonna, for that matter, if they tapped her on the shoulder and handed her an Elmo doll. She slides down again and walks over to the family room, challenging me with a certain look. If you have kids, you know the look. It's the one that says, "Oh yeah? Well, watch me. Just watch me, you fool!" I follow, hearing the marching boots of troops, the echoes of the battalion of fighting parents that have come before me thundering in my ears, urging me along, as I pull out the heavy weaponry:
"You get nothing else for the rest of the evening," I say. "Do you understand? Nothing else. You finish that juice, and you get nothing more to eat before bedtime. Nothing. Except those noodles."
She looks at me, unfazed. What's a little hunger in a power struggle? If it's good enough for Gandhi, it's good enough for a toddler. But I'm not done.
"And ..." I say, pausing for effect, "I'm taking your Lightning McQueen car."
"Nooo! You can't take my Lightning McQueen car! I need him! Nooo! "
"You can have him back," I say, snatching the car from the area that she has rushed to protect from me and putting his little red bargaining chip of a chassis into my pocket, "if you eat more noodles." She earned the car for potty training, but what the mommy giveth, the mommy taketh away.
Now there are tears and more protesting, but still no noodle eating. Several minutes go by and she begins to eye the dinner table again, circling it like a cagey little shark. I know she's realized that she's hungry, and that she wants the noodles. But she feels me looking at her, and grabs her sippy cup instead. Well-played, my little blond-haired foe, I think, well-played indeed. Another 30 minutes pass. I take a phone call. While I'm talking, she appears before me, taunting me by putting a pretzel that she's sneaked from the pantry to her mouth. I'm determined. I grab the pretzel from her lips and command her to eat noodles. "Eat noodles!" I say, to the bafflement of the caller, and MJ and I stare at each other with just inches between our noses -- the smallest of which is intermittently sniffling, the largest of which might as well be covered in the blue war paint favored in Braveheart.
Another 10 minutes go by. I'm disheartened that she hasn't given in, but I'm standing my ground. Bedtime is announced. And then, something miraculous happens. She trudges heavily over to the dinner table, each step slow and plodding and grudging. Randy is trying to tell me a story from his day, but I've stopped listening, and he turns to see what's so riveting. We watch from the sofa as she silently harrumphs her way back into her seat and, with the grumbled countenance of abrash lightweight humbled by an old prizefighter, she eats a noodle. Then another. And another. She finishes the whole bowl.
Trumpets sound. I'm riding in a victory parade, confetti stuck in my hair, flowers thrown at my feet. I have prevailed. I feel as accomplished as the day I got my first job. "I won," I whisper disbelievingly to Randy. "I actually won."
"Congratulations," he says, and he really means it.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at MotherBunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
Comments
Congratulations on holding your ground!
It's tempting to want to give in. After a few hours, I'd be thinking, "Am I taking this too far? Who is the child here? After all, it's only noodles!"
But it was a classic power play and you did the right thing. Didn't it feel good?
I returned here with trepidation worrying that you might have ruffled the feathers of some parents who would criticize your choices in this situation. It seems that some parents are very passionate when it comes to food...don't force food, give your child choices, let her "graze," she'll eat when she's hungry, were those noodles organic?
Whatever the case, it's easy to be the armchair Mom and critique others' choices at mealtime. But unless you are sitting there in the arena...I mean, at the table...you don't know how frustrating it is!