The Chef Game

My son became a picky eater overnight. I have no idea what triggered the sudden change, or filled him with such conviction. But he no longer wanted to try new foods. He would turn up his adorable little nose and pout his mischievous little lips. He would refuse. He didn't seem to mind long standoffs. We, the parents, would ultimately win--barely. A tiny bite and we'd call it a victory, although my son probably counted it as his own victory, too.
Somewhere among the battles, I invented The Chef Game. I have no idea if it will work with other kids--it doesn't even work with mine 100% of times. But, when I remember it in time to avoid an all-out feet-in-the-mud you-can't-make-me battle, it works a satisfying percentage of times.

Intimidating Pralines

Here's how we play:
The child must take at least one bite of the new food. (But you can also play this game with known foods.) It can be any size bite. If the bite is minuscule, remind the child they will need enough of a taste to properly evaluate the food.
Now, the child must tell the adult:
Three things they like about the food, and three things they would change.

• The child may take as many additional bites as needed while deciding on these six things.
• The lists can be based on any aspect of the food.
• The child can't just say what they dislike--instead they must think of a way to make it better.
• The things to change can be improvements or just fun ways to make it different.

The "format" and order of the answers don't matter. It also doesn't matter if the ideas don't really make sense, if the suggestions are impossible or already being done, or anything else. If the kid comes up with ideas, be positive about them. The point of this game is to get the kid to give new things a chance. It might also help them think about the world, be a bit creative, and even implement some problem-solving to improve or transform a food they don't like even after trying it. It can also help kids realize one taste isn't always enough, because as my son is trying to think of a way to make an unpleasant food better, sometimes he will continue eating it, and end up actually liking it!
My son has said he would like to be a chef someday, but I'm hoping this could help some of you with your own picky eaters, even if they have no culinary aspirations.

Suspicious Lunch Meat

A few of my son's chef game results:

Hard Salami
Likes:

• Looks like pepperoni
• Tastes like pepperoni
• The chewiness

Changes:

• Shrink it a little
• Make it not as shiny
• Make it part of a 200-decker sandwich

General Tso's Chicken
Likes:

• Color
• Size
• Chewiness

Changes:

• A little less spice
• Put it on a stick with a hamburger and mac & cheese
• Carve the Pirates "P" logo into them

Praline Pecans
Likes:

• "I liked that there was a surprise--I literally didn't know there was a nut"
• Cinnamon
• It looks like a rock in the darkness

Changes:

• Wouldn't put a nut inside, instead change the nut to chocolate
• Would put a chocolate covering on it
• Change the shape to a brown doggy

Broccoli in sauce
Likes:

• The color green
• The sauce
• The crunch

Changes:

• Add ten hundred pounds of cheese
• Change it from looking like a tree to make it look like a doggy
• Cool it down more by putting it in the freezer for ten days and not heat it up

Mini Gherkins
Likes:

• Shape
• Color
• Taste

Changes:

• No sticks [stems]
• A lot less salt
• Put them in a marshmallow in a s'more

Throwing Stones At Strangers

It looks lonely. I'm sad I didn't tell my son to use it.
But his project had already been ruined.
He might not have wanted to go anyway.

"Is this one yours? Somebody needs to teach her about sharing."

They were words I couldn't handle right then. Words that broke me. Again. Words that flew through my ears and pierced my brain like nails.

I said nothing to the woman. Maybe I should have. No. It's good I stayed silent towards her. But I can't let her statement go unanswered. She'll never see this, but I can still reply.

You know you could have taken your kid to the identical, and completely unoccupied, light board directly across from the one my son was already using, right?

Maybe your own child should be taught to ask before starting in on a project when another child is already there, and already in the middle of something, waiting a few minutes (patiently--which is so hard for him) for his brother to return and continue creating with him.

It may be hard to fathom, but it is also completely possible for you to keep your sarcastic comments inside your own head instead of spitting them at stranger who might already be going through a hard time in general, and a very difficult day specifically.

Someone could teach your daughter to show compassion to someone who might not want to share right now, or someone who has difficulty processing the world like other kids do; someone could even teach her to walk away if there is a situation or a person she doesn't like-instead of being confrontational and snide.

Yes, my son could have handled the situation differently. Better. He could have not blocked the peg pieces with this body. He could have politely said, "My brother and I are working on something here. Could you please wait until we are done to take a turn?" (Or would that still be considered rude by you? Something that should be "taught out of him?") He could have welcomed the random new kid to join him. Or he could have abandoned his own ideas, and given all the pieces to her. Is that what you meant when you said sharing?

The Wonderful Teacher and Mother, Miss B?

If I had been there with my son... (I wasn't. I was selfishly trying to take a brief break and sitting on a bench a few feet away.) But if I had been there, and our roles had been reversed, I would have taught my son to share--with the person who was there first. Just like I had been trying to break through and make him understand his whole life. (Ask permission, or ask to be next. PLEASE don't just jump into something someone else is already doing, sweetie. You are going to make someone sad or mad.) At least four specific situations that day already. Situations with other parents and kids--some of them also saying (not-quite-as) rude things and shooting me dirty looks. Apologies from me. Apologies from my son. Trying to avoid eye contact. Situations making me feel terrible and worthless and inept before we even met you and your lovely family. Each one was followed by me explaining in every way I knew, any way I thought he might start to understand: "If someone is using a toy, wait for them to finish. Wait for your turn."

But you didn't see any of that. You didn't care. You are the Mother of Mothers, all-knowing, judge and jury. And you decided to throw a rock through the fragile bubble of calm sanity I had been trying to experience while my kids and I were three of only a few people in that room inside an otherwise bustling museum.

I knew I only had a few minutes before more people would enter that room. So I savored sitting and breathing while I didn't have to worry and chase and helicopter over my little boy to be sure he didn't interrupt someone else's play, or learning, or experience.

At a bit before 12:30 in the afternoon, you walked into the room and over to the exact toy where my son was playing. And then you aimed your dagger eyes at me. Our gazes met. (Couldn't you see the exasperation and exhaustion already on my face?) And then you said your hateful, hurtful lines.

Did you read his shirt, know he was a boy, and call him a girl anyway? Did you delight in seeing my face flush then fill with red? Did you secretly smile as I yanked away my kid? Did you giggle when I yelled at him before even hearing his side of things? Did you get a warm fuzzy feeling when your kid had the toy all to herself while the other one stood, unused, at the other wall, and my upset son sat at my feet? Will you treasure the memory of making a grown woman cry in the middle of a museum as the invisible weight of the world pounded down on her?

I don't know. Because I don't know you. And you don't know me, either.

 

Just another regrettable moment I live over and over

As if they don't even know there is a Garzel two doors away

I was at my kids' school, volunteering for some project. I was there with a few other moms and we talked to each other as we helped the kids do the things they were doing. One of the moms mentioned the Garzels (absolutely not their real last name) - another family at the school. (I don't remember how they were brought up, but later I realized why they were mentioned.) I said, "Oh! The Garzels. My son plays baseball with their kid. They're a great family." The other mom interjected, "No! I mean I KNOW them. I've been to their house! Our kids did this together, I've known them for this long. Our families have done that together."

Umm, okay...

Over the course of our 45-minute shift, I must have heard the name Garzel at least 50 times from that mom. Most of the time she was talking about how rich they were. Not outright, but by constantly mentioning the expensive things they do or own. Did you hear about their fabulous vacation? You probably don't know where they get their hair cut. The Garzels' car does this. Their house is state-of-the-art. Their TV would make you question your perception of reality. The Garzels' vacuum cleaner does their dishes, too. Good grief. The name dropping was nauseating me. I guess she was just very proud of her friends, but by the time we were done, I really was beginning to question my own reality without even having seen the Garzels' TV. I felt as if while I had been at all those baseball games, I had been in the presence of a family that made Tom Hanks and Bill Gates look like chumps...and I hadn't even known it! I just thought they were cool people. I didn't know they were rich and famous and I should have been honored just to be around them. I was also very sick of the name Garzel. My head was spinning from hearing about how much money they had, and how wonderful they were.

Did you know the Garzels have 35 of whatever that is?

I waited in the lobby with my son to sign him out of school. I saw one of the Garzel kids in the school through the lobby's glass doors. I was so sick of hearing about how "their s*** don't stink," I almost wanted to throw up at the sight of the sweet kid who had always been so kind and polite to my family and me. It wasn't a huge school, and there were two Garzel kids in it, but why did I have to see one of them right at that moment?
An announcement sprang from the public address system - someone had parked a Mercedes in the wrong place and it was blocking someone else. I smart acidly said to my son, "Maybe it's the Garzels. The Garzels could afford a car like that. But it's probably beneath them. They can do much better." I instantly regretted saying it. I had spat the words towards my son because of the headache in my brain. But I shouldn't have said such a mean-spirited, and probably confusing-to-him, thing to my child. Plus, there were other people in that lobby. We weren't in close proximity to them, but anyone could have heard what I said. Miss Name-Dropper was in that lobby. Had I said it loud enough for her to hear? Would she recognize the sarcasm? Was that my intention? The Garzels were at the school, too. What if they had heard me? Or someone told them? Out of context I just sounded like a witch. Probably in-context too, actually.
I still have no idea if the Garzels really are a super-powerful family or if Other Mom was just enamored with them. I've been around the family since that day, and they're still the personable, lovely people I had known them to be. I have avoided the other mom as much as possible.
That day eats at me, the memory stinging me like a million angry hornets. So I wrote about it in hopes some of the regret will be satisfied by the text and leave me alone.

Ps. "Garzels," it's cool you have a friend who sort-of worships the ground on which you walk. I'm sorry for hating you for a hot minute during the last school year.