Some dark and stormy night in the past few months, a toddler crept into Maxine’s room while she was sleeping and replaced the baby who loved gingery carrots and garlicky hummus and heaping mashes of avocado with a tiny dictator who only eats cold toast (yes, that would be just a slice of sandwich bread–PLAIN–and untoasted), pasta, sweet potatoes, and rice and beans. (Nana (aka Janet aside): oh except for when she ate chicken that I gave her during our last visit because, you know, that’s what grandkids do as part of their efforts to annoy their parents and ensure that their grandparents are wrapped around every little finger.) For a little while there we were still slipping her carrots and beets and the like through pouches (you know those little portable food sacks in the baby food grocery aisle), but then she realized their projectile capabilities and lost any interest in putting their contents in her mouth.
We’ve got a finicky eater on our hand. By finicky I mean that someone in this household who is only about yay high has issued a moratorium on trying new things. And by new things I include hot chocolate. No matter the deliciousness, Miss M simply refuses to let anything new cross her lips. Thank god we’d gotten a few super nutrients over the threshold before the embargo settled in. The fact that she will eat interesting and strongly flavored foods (such as garlic and ginger), though, makes her refusal to continue adventuring all the more frustrating. John and I both offer her things to try with confidence that she’ll like them, only to find our spoons butting against her cheek instead of her open mouth.