Mealtime Mayhem

Why are mealtimes so difficult? If it’s not Pixie spitting out mielies or throwing potatoes on the floor, then it’s Poppet accusing me of poisoning her fish or declaring that chicken is gross. (I told her if she didn’t like it, she could go to bed hungry. She ate it all.)

I don’t want to make mealtimes a battle. I don’t want my daughters to develop a love/hate relationship with food. I don’t want them to see food as a reward or as a punishment.

It’s hard to gauge if they’re getting a balanced diet, but they’re still alive, they’re growing, so I suppose they are. I don’t know what Poppet eats for lunch at school. (“Mud!” she tells me gleefully. “And sticks and stones and pasta!” Well, at least there’s pasta.)

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Pixie eats whatever the grown-ups eat when we’re out. Back at home, she’s a little more picky. She turns up her nose at the things Poppet loved when she was that age. (Poppet turns up her nose at the things she loved at that age.) I’ve started letting Pixie feed herself which, while messy, means at least she’ll eat what’s in front of her. Sort of. Sometimes.

I can’t make Poppet eat every single thing on her plate. I can’t force Pixie to chew her food instead of spitting it out. What’s a mother to do?

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