Here’s how dinner with my almost-three-year-old son went last night. Fellow parents, you feel me.
Miles would only eat corn if it’s out of a Tupperware container and if there are two pieces so he can switch back and forth. Had to be on the cob, obviously, don’t even try any of that baby stuff of cutting kernels off the cob to make the pieces manageable for a small mouth. He also required me to eat a bite of corn before he’ll take a bite. He would only eat blueberries off a plate, definitely NOT a bowl. His milk had to be in a bottle at first, then poured into a sippy cup halfway through. And of course he wouldn’t touch his sandwich.
But don’t make the mistake of trying the same tricks tomorrow! Tomorrow, surely, he won’t even look at the corn and the blueberries will need to be eaten out of their original container rather than a plate OR bowl. He may deign to drink all his milk from a bottle (yes, he’s nearly three and I let him drink milk from a bottle — and yes, I know I’m about two years late on taking it away), but only if I pour it in there from two separate cartons of milk, topped off with a splash of almond milk.
And just when I give up on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, he’ll probably devour the whole thing and demand another, and I’ll be left in a panic because I thought he didn’t like them and therefore am out of peanut butter. Or that could all be wrong! My little prince is nothing if not fickle.
His after-dinner specifications are also worth noting. After he finished not eating the sandwich and feeding his remaining blueberries to the dog, I told Miles it was time to walk upstairs to change his sister’s diaper. He instantly jumped out of his chair to follow, as watching me change his baby sister’s diaper is inexplicably one of his favorite activities.
He starts sprinting to the staircase, but then remembers he needs to bring his milk. He grabs his sippy cup, starts to return to the stairs, then it dawns on him that he needs his water, too, so he pulls another sippy cup from the table and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. “All set?” I ask. He nods his head determinedly and sets off for the stairs yet again.
He’s halfway there when he does a 180 and runs to the cabinet, where he pulls out a box of crackers. He pantomimes opening the box and hands it to me, so I open it and hand it back. With the box of crackers in one hand, a sippy cup in the other and another sippy cup safely tucked under his arm, it’s finally time to start our expedition to the Great Upstairs, which will last all of three minutes.
We make it to the stairs and he pauses, thinking about how he’s going to navigate the journey, as his hands are full and he needs to use one of them to hold onto the railing. Seeing no other choice, he reluctantly hands me the box of crackers and starts climbing. Two stairs in, he holds his hand out and waits, so I hand him two. Two more stairs, then two more crackers. Two more stairs, then two more crackers and he sits down to take a sip of water as if he’s climbing Kilimanjaro.
And so it goes for the entire staircase, elongating our trip by about 10 minutes, while the baby looks up at me smiling with her big eyes, patiently awaiting a dry diaper.
At least one of my children is reasonable.