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Browsing Tag: toddler at mealtimes

Battle of Wills

The scene: We’re at the dinner table, Sunday night. We’ve settled down around a meal of take-out Italian, because, unlike the Norman Rockwellian family that gathers together over pot roast and mashed potatoes on Sunday, the idea of washing that many dishes is overwhelming this evening, so we beg the pardon of Mother Earth and dive in to our plastic containers. Please don’t judge us. Desperate times call for really bad environmentalism. The characters: David, quietly drinking his beer. Me, sort of drinking my own beer while sniveling unattractively through a haze of autumn hay fever. Quinn, actually sucking the cheese out of her ravioli, then, before we can stop her, throwing the pasta carcasses over the back of her high chair for the dog to catch. She’s happy, though, so that counts for something. Saoirse, meanwhile, is pitching a fit. A full-on, whiny, moaning, crying fit. The conflict: Saoirse wants bread. She has requested chicken tenders. (Yes, this former full-on vegetarian who only buys organic food for her family has fallen headfirst into the modern American fast-food trap, so chicken tenders it is. Stop the judgment, already…

Remind Me of This Tomorrow Morning

My friend Susannah once bemoaned (yes, bemoaned, because sometimes you’re just that tired) that staying at home with your children basically just means you’re always doing some form of cleaning up.  And she’s right: wiping tushies, cleaning counter tops, washing laundry–they’re all the tasks we do constantly.  All day long.  Every day.  But I realized something tonight:  my day is food.  Either preparing it or eating it, food rules (well, you know that already, but bear with me here.  I’m on a bit of a rant).  I breastfeed, then get breakfast together for the girls…then nurse some more, then get a snack for Saoirse…then it’s time for lunch, and another snack and dinner and…well, by the time I add in all the time I’m cooking or cleaning up, no wonder the laundry gets backed up. When I look at my day, my week (and my weekend, because if you’re at home you know there’s no difference between weekends and weekdays anymore), I am very aware of how much of my life is the minutiae…