Feeding a Three-Year-Old
“I’m hungry,” my three-year old granddaughter told me.
“Well I guess you should be. It’s lunchtime, and you didn’t eat much of your oatmeal this morning.” She had the snuffles and came to spend the day with me, away from pre-school day-care.
“MiMi, what do you have to eat?”
“I’m making home-made spaghetti. Yum.”
“But I don’t like pasketti.”
“Ooooh. This is Mimi’s spaghetti. You’ll love it.”
“No. I don’t like it.” She shook her head, hair flew like on a rag-doll.
I tried again. “Your daddy loves my spaghetti.”
“My daddy?”
“Um-hum. He loves it.”
“But I don’t.”
“So what do you like? Here’s some steak from supper last night. Wow. That was good.”
“I don’t like steak.”
“Mm. What’s wrong with steak?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, how about some stew?” I bent low and rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling it out. “I know you’ll like this.
“No.”
“What do you like?
“Can I give the dogs a treat?”
“Sure. Make them sit.”
“Can I have one?”
“No. People don’t eat dog treats.” Unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“But dogs eat people food.”
I couldn’t argue with that! “That’s different. They eat…everything.”
“What do you have?” she pressed.
“I told you. Spaghetti. Steak. Stew.” I opened the pantry. “What do you want? I can open a can of soup. You like soup. Soup tastes good when you don’t feel well.”
“No. I don’t want soup.”
“It’s not home-made but I’m sure you’ll love it.” I opened the can and poured chicken noodle soup into a pan, and added water.
“I don’t want soup.”
“Chicken noodle soup is easy on your tummy when you don’t feel good.” I lifted her in my arms and we stirred the noodles in the pan. “Oh boy!” I was pushing canned soup even though I never had to act excited over noodles with my own children
“Mimi. What else do you have?”
“I have crackers you can dip in the soup.” I pulled six crackers out of a sleeve and arranged them beautifully on one side of the plate. “What color bowl do you want, pink or brown?
“Pink.”
“Right, because you’re wearing a pink sweat suit!” She looked down at her clothes and across at the bowl filled half-way to the top. “Ummm. Smell that chicken soup! Look at those fat noodles floating around like little caterpillars, just waiting for you to gobble them down. Eejuph.” It had been a long time since I’ve had to argue with a three-year-old about food.
Later.
“So how was it? Ooh, you ate it all! See, I knew you’d like that. She looked from me to Harley, the terrier who hovered beside her, a noodle hanging from his lips. “Hmmm. How about a juice box to go with those noodles, you little weasel dog.”
Who won?