…of which she’ll eat, like, ten percent. My money’s on the apple sauce, maybe a nibble of cheese (picture a “Honey I Shrunk the Mouse”â€“sized rodent), maybe part of one cracker, and if it’s a good day, she opened the carrot bag.
Goddess only knows what regulates her appetite. The beloved and I have given up trying to understand the erratic little vehicle that is her taste, and instead attempt merely to steer it in generally healthy directions. We offer her balanced options, and try to remember what a wise friend once told us: over the course of a week or two, she’ll have checked in at all the major food groups for a visit.
We’re beginning to accept that unless we strap her to her chair and ram it into her, we’re just not going to see all the major food groups get into her body in one day. We remain unwilling to dangle a “treat” at the other end of the healthy food, even if it is a humane alternative to bondage at the dinner table. We are fatiguing under the strain, over the long haul, of not using an inducement (so convenient! so sure-fire!), but we continue to hold fast. We want to do our little part to reduce the aura of specialness around sugar, a heavyweight drug right up there with caffeine and TV, neither of which we’re looking to use as rewards, either. Ask me in another year, though, and I may have to concede that we have a whole stock of Wonka bars in the pantry that are pressed into use nightly as bribes for her to finish her brussels sprouts.