“Open up the tunnel! Here comes the Choo Choo train!” I wheedled as I wielded the loaded baby spoon. “Here comes the Choo Choo train!”
Second Son wasn’t buying it. Nope. He closed his lips tightly in determined defiance. He would not give in. He hated food. All food. No matter how we begged and pleaded, prodded and cajoled, he seldom ate anything besides plain toast with milk. Getting him to eat was a job of epic proportions. We once (and only once) forced him to try the fish everyone else was enjoying. He puked on the table. On his sister’s plate. We once made him taste black bean tacos, with the same result. After that, we stopped trying. The kid ate a lot of plain toast.
He is now in elementary school, and at breakfast this week, true to form, he declined poached eggs. “Mom,” he confided, seriously. “I have never really eaten an egg, except for scrambled.”
“What? No fried eggs? No poached? No Easter eggs?” How did this information get by me? I understand we have a lot of gross gluten free food around here, but really… “No eggs?”
“Nope. But look what I can do.”
He smiled, and turned to his little sister, who was balking at her breakfast.
“Credit card time!” He hollered. “Open up the card reader! Here comes the credit card!” He pushed the loaded fork towards her mouth, and like an obedient bank machine, she dropped her jaw and ate the food.
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and they finished their food.
Good grief. I’m feeling old.