I was sure this was a dilemma that would never happen to me.
I was convinced that my children would always eat all their
food happily. I could in no way relate to those mothers who
would complain that their kids wouldn't eat some food in
particular e.g., fish. Or children refusing to eat when two
different kinds of food actually had the nerve to touch each
other on the plate. Those mothers would go out and buy those
nifty sectional plates which made me think of hospital meals.
Other kids never ate their food if it was too hot, too cold,
too hard or too mushy etc. etc. And don't forget those
adorable ones who have to eat everything smothered in
ketchup. "How picky," I'd think to myself self-righteously.
"Why can't these mothers get their act together? I bet they
were picky eaters as kids, too. Maybe they still are."
Food to me has always been something you eat and the only
form of digesting is in the stomach. I didn't understand what
it meant to be picky or even say you wouldn't eat something.
There was only one time in my entire growing up years that I
actually remember not liking something. It was this vegetable
called okra. I remember how proud my mother was when she
served it one Shabbos night. We all took one bite and
declared that it was awful. In fact, I have never met anyone
who liked it.
Luckily, I married someone who was also easy-going about the
food he would consume. The only food he didn't like as a kid
was salami but that was on principle that everyone had to
have one food he doesn't like. (I guess he never ate okra.)
My husband and I were so oblivious about food that it
probably took us ten years of married life to know what was
the difference between the white and dark meat of chicken.
Don't get me wrong; I do cook and I even enjoy it and by the
looks of my guests and family members, I'm pretty OK. Of
course there are some recipes I won't try a second time. But
what I could never really understand was someone who wouldn't
go near a particular food. One of my brothers as a kid
wouldn't eat eggs. He also wasn't so fond of fish, as a bone
once got stuck in his throat when he was a child. OK, so I
understand the fish business as it was traumatic enough, but
why make such a big deal over some eggs?
So I went into motherhood being sure that my kids would never
complain about not wanting to eat this or that. The food
would be served and they would just eat it. My oldest spoiled
that myth right at the beginning of his eating career by
following in his uncle's footsteps. He couldn't stand eggs no
matter how I'd make them. At least he had eaten them a couple
of times by his first birthday so that I knew he wasn't
allergic. That information is necessary for giving a vaccine
which is egg-based.
Every once in a while, I'd give those eggs another try but
never with any success. At a very young age, he also tried
getting out of eating fish but I managed to put a hold on
that one quick. It was about a week before Pesach and we had
just moved into our brand new apartment. I was using up the
last little bits of food left and had made a nice fish dinner
for the three of us. I could see my little son's face turning
sour and I said to him, "Eli, this fish is all the food we
have for dinner. So if you decide not to eat it, then there
will be nothing else for you to eat." It seems that my
warning really worked because not only did he eat it, but he
never gave me a problem about eating fish again. In fact, at
times in his early childhood, he'd even say that fish was his
favorite food.
But things were never as smooth sailing as I thought they
would be. I remember once my husband had to be away for an
extended stay and I was left to take care of four small
children and was at the beginning of a pregnancy. My
daughter, about fifteen months at the time, was the last of
the big eaters. While I had to get the three boys to eat,
bathe, get into pajamas, say Shema and story, I had no
time, patience, or energy to get her to eat properly. So
sometimes Bamba or biscuits were her dinner. Thankfully, she
did outgrow that stage and has a normal appetite. Another
son, I was convinced, would love a diet of soda and
lollipops. Shabbos he'd be in his element. He, too, outgrew
this stage and even when everyone was convinced he would
never eat any vegetables, slowly, slowly I saw him enjoy the
cucumbers, then the peppers and maybe a couple of years
later, even tomatoes. Today he, too, has quite an easy
temperment about his eating habits.
One incident will always stand in my memory. Once, my husband
decided to buy chopped liver for Yom Tov. I made such a big
deal about what a fancy item Abba bought and how special it
was and so on. OK, so it's normal in big families that when
you introduce new foods, there will always be a kid or two
who wouldn't go for it. Well, in my family it was unanimous.
They all hated it. I laughed it off and enjoyed eating
chopped liver for the next two weeks.
So over the years, there has been a balance of eating habits.
I'm sure each of my kids has a food here or there that they
don't go for, but overall I don't find myself doing kitchen
acrobatics, i.e. serving each person a different meal. There
are certain things I look forward to making once again when
my kids move out and I can cook what my husband and I enjoy,
but it's OK overall.
Rather it would be OK overall except for one area of cooking
and motherhood which I seem to get failing marks and it's not
even real cooking. It's those ubiquitous midmorning
sandwiches that no Israeli student dare show up without. The
only problem is that my kids just...just make me crazy with
this (bless them). I like things neat and simple. Sunday,
it's peanut butter and jelly, Monday it's butter, Tuesday
— white cheese and so on. But the kids don't want
assembly line sandwiches. No problem: if you don't want jelly
with your peanut butter, I'll give it straight. I thought
that was being super flexible.
I once met a woman who made 30 peanut butter sandwiches in
one shot, put them in the freezer and voila, the task was
done. She did confide in me that her son was becoming peeved
by the arrangement. I have another good friend who went to
the absolute opposite extreme. What a system she had! Talk
about catering to each child. Each night as she would make up
the kids' sandwich for the next morning, she'd ask them what
they wanted. Then to ensure there would be no confusion, she
had a different colored twist tie for each kid. Blue for
Avramie, red for Soroh, green for Yitzhak and on.
Once again, I aim for balance. If on peanut butter day,
someone really didn't go for it, they could have one other
option and so things would run fairly smoothly. But still,
every year there would be that one kid who would practically
never eat his sandwich. If caught in time, my husband would
make sure there was no waste by eating it himself, but
sometimes those uneaten sandwiches would get overlooked and
one fine morning, I'd find three or four in different stages
of decay. It drives me nuts. My husband says to just give
half sandwiches. I just always forget.
This entire long, long introduction brings me to what
happened last week. One morning I was sleepily getting things
going: Davening, getting the kids up, helping them
with missing apparel, coaxing them through the routine and
making those sandwiches. Sometimes the kids pack them for me;
sometimes I do it myself, depending on how it works out.
At different times in my life, we did it differently. Each
year the semantics change and you have to go with the flow.
Anyway, that particular morning I was in a particularly
sleepy mode. I had just packed up the first two sandwiches
— butter with olives. The next three would be plain
butter. While I was waiting for the butter to soften, I began
to pack up the fruit accompaniment.. I reached into the
schoolbag of one adorable first grader who is notorious for
not eating her sandwich, to place her fruit and behold, I
felt an uneaten sandwich. I checked it and realized that it
was the butter and olives I had just packed.
In my sleepy state I felt myself starting to feel outrage.
It's already the first thing in the morning and she still
hasn't eaten that sandwich!
That's when I realized how ridiculous I was being and how
tired I was.
