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Dad on a Lark

What to do when your child becomes a finicky eater? With Larkin, quantity isn't the problem. The girl puts down enormous amounts — but of about five things only. She eats oatmeal, Cheerios, mac and cheese, sweet potatoes (bottled, BeechNut brand), fruit, and peanut butter. That's her comfort zone, and you nudge her out of it at your own peril. No meat of any kind; and just try to get something green into her!

It's funny, because this is a toddler who otherwise plunges boldly ahead, avid for new experiences. In the high chair, though, she's a cautious conservative. What she craves are clementines and blueberries, apples, kiwis, bananas, melons, you name it. And Molly and I are to blame. Apparently, if you introduce fruit first, your infant may spurn the veggies: Peas, then peaches is the rule of thumb. Oops! Thus did we create a culinary version of the fairy-tale princess, a girl for whom the presence of a single pea within 3 feet of her plate can ruin the whole meal.

Do you take this kind of thing personally? I have to admit, I do. I'm the cook in this outfit, so it's my efforts that get dissed. And as a writer for Bon Appétit, I should be able to get my daughter to eat a simple pea ... right? It's silly, but there I am, putting a dish down in front of my 15-month-old, and suddenly it feels like throwing a dinner party for new friends. Will they like it?

The thing about adults is, they can at least pretend they like it. But infants are gloriously uninhibited by politeness. I try something new on Larkin, and the whole symphony of disgust begins. When the first bite hits her lips she'll freeze, frowning intensely, as if something completely bizarre — a caterpillar, say — has just crawled into her mouth. Then comes the spluttering and spraying. Finally she attacks her high chair tray, sending food everywhere.

"Rejected?" Molly asks from the next room.

"With extreme prejudice," I say. Meanwhile, our bulldog, Bert, scuttles about underfoot, frantically scavenging. At least he likes it.

With Larkin, nothing seems to work, not even when tried multiple times. Spinach mashed potatoes, with lots of mild cheddar added in? Rejected.

Boiled carrots whipped up with butter? Nope.

Tofu? Nofu!

On and on it goes. Angel hair pasta with Dad's homemade tomato-and-basil sauce gets the full Jackson Pollock treatment, dribbled and smeared in exuberant chaos across Larkin's tray. Kernels of corn cut from the cob lie scattered on the floor like playing marbles. One morning she rejects the omelet I make her — only to accept a frozen omelet Molly zaps in the microwave. ("Your omelet was too good," Molly kindly explains.) OK, so Larkin prefers store-bought foods to my cooking. One night I boil sweet potatoes, mash them up, and spoon them into an empty BeechNut bottle. She pushes this away and strafes me with a look of contemptuous pity. Did I really think I could fool her with that?

For me the real question might be, why do I care? After all, at 25 lbs. Larkin is not a starved little thing. More of a bruiser, really. Part of me says mellow out, Mr. Bon Appétit. Let the little bruiser enjoy her comfort foods.

And yet when I look around at what kids are eating these days — older kids — I see a lot of parents making separate meals for each child, and a lot of 12-year-olds who eat little more than pasta and cheese. Isn't it important to start your child out with a broader range of foods, right off the bat? I don't want Larkin to be picky; and I don't intend, over the long run, to cater to her pickiness.

I think about the table policies of my own childhood, when liking it was not the primary thing, and a moral charge, somewhat mysterious in retrospect, fueled the admonition to clean your plate. Vividly I remember my mother's kitchen and the battles of will that raged there. Her usual rule was that you sat until your plate was clean. There was the night I remained at the table a half hour after everyone else had gotten up, my mother doing the dishes and finally turning off all the lights except the stove light as I sat there, rigid with fury and self-pity, over the stone-cold plate of fish and those hated wax beans.

What is feeding your child all about, beyond the basics of health and nutrition? Why should Larkin eat something she really dislikes, as long as there are nourishing things she does like? That makes sense to me. On the other hand, I can literally hear my mother's voice on her more lenient nights, cheerfully informing one or the other of us, "Well, that's what we have tonight, and if you don't like it, fine, but that's all there is." Part of me will want to go this way when Larkin gets a bit older, teaching her that you don't always get what you want, that the world will not tailor itself to your whims.

But do I really want to serve up a lesson along with her meal? I waffle back and forth. Humor the Princess ... or give her more peas? And often I don't have the will, the time, or the energy to think long-term. So much of parenting comes down to just getting through. You solve today's problem today, and let the future work itself out.

Sometimes when Larkin refuses yet another dish I've made for her, I find myself imagining a dinner party where adults would express their dislikes with the brutal honesty of toddlers. I picture a table of 40-year-olds screaming and spraying broccoli rabe all over the room. It's a hilarious prospect, and I laugh aloud to think of it. Seeing me laugh, Larkin laughs along. Meanwhile, I take those cheddar-laden spinach mashed potatoes she rejected, and treat myself to a big spoonful.

"You don't know what you're missing," I tell her. And they do taste great, if I say so myself.