Picky Eating

Our seven-year-old recently announced that he is a vegetarian; and his diet will be thus:

1. Chicken nuggets

2. Hot dogs, bun optional

3. Hard-boiled eggs

4. White carbs (all)

5. Babybel cheese

6. Every kind of sweet to ever exist

7. Fruits and vegetables

To protect his vegetarianism, Seven has determined that he is allergic to anything not on the list — which is often a surprise to people who will watch him eat a hardboiled egg, only to be “allergic” to scrambled. Also, he is only a vegetarian at home because he likes his school’s walking tacos.

Our ten-year-old, on the other hand, will eat (or at least try) whatever is served to him; but, if given the opportunity, will choose one of the following:

1. Taco Bell Doritos Locos Tacos (five words no mother has ever willingly strung together)

2. 5-for-$1 ramen

3. Macaroni and cheese

As you can imagine, I (their loving mother and household cook) have been dismayed over their food choices. Having determined that all parenting challenges are the karmic return of whatever was inflicted on one’s own parents, I was lamenting to my husband that we should have two of the greatest eaters in history because I have always eaten basically everything in the world — when it dawned on me that Ten’s garbage palate is actually my karmic fault. Here’s why:

Back in the days when a breakfast of Lucky Charms qualified as “eating the rainbow” of the food pyramid, my mother was magically-deliciously into tofu dinners and sliced cucumber snacks. On more than one occasion, she tried to convince my little sister and me that carob was the same as chocolate (carob is a punishment, not a dessert). Not only was processed food not in her vocabulary, we were one of the last families to get a microwave because she read during the Red #40 scandal of the 1980s that microwaves sucked all of the nutrients out of vegetables.

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“Your mom is a genius,” you may be thinking. “You and your sister must have been the healthiest children on the planet.” Well, just like my son and his Doritos Locos Tacos — you can lead the horse to water, but you can’t keep her from getting her Kool-Aid somewhere else.

Which is what we did. My sister and I strategically chose our friends based on their access to processed food. If you were a kid in Grand Forks between 1987 and 1992 and your parents served SpaghettiOs, chances are we ate at your house. We knew the exact amount of time it would take to walk down to Valley Dairy, get two (Red #40-filled) freezer pops, and eat them before our mother came looking for us. Also, I played soccer just for the McDonald’s orange drink.

Obviously, at some point, I became my mother. Specifically, when my oldest was born and I unexpectedly found myself blending up avocados and apples with my Baby Bullet because “I wasn’t sure what was in that store-bought baby food.” (P.S., store-bought baby food is great. Also, that same kid once licked both a car tire and a lid from a can of turpentine, so the avocado was more of a nice thought.)

At the same time I started going all-in on becoming my mother, my mom went full grandma and started buying food flavored “blue.” By the time my second child bounced into the picture (and I was long-past making baby food), my mom and I met somewhere in the middle and came to an unspoken understanding that so long as the majority of food is made by nature, the rest can come from Taco Bell.

However, while this “a lot of good, a bit of crap” plan has worked well with my eldest, it hasn’t been a success recipe for my little vegetarian. After trying basically every method in the parenting book — bribes, letting him help cook, sitting at the table until time and space have no meaning — I’m now onto hoping and praying that he’ll realize one day that variety is the spice of life. Until then, I’m going to keep Googling “Is it bad to eat only peanut butter sandwiches and nothing else?” a teen sees no way forward.