God's Sense of Humor OR Tales and Lessons from a Grown Picky Eater

Fear, Joy, Disgust, and Sadness from
Disney Pixar's Inside Out

I am at that stage of life where a number of my friends have kids. One of the byproducts of this fact is that my Facebook feed is filled by all sorts of parental anecdotes and/or lessons. One such article that caught my attention was an article that appeared in the Huffington Post entitled, "6 Words that Will End Picky Eating." Before I tell you the six words, let me share my story.

I am living proof that God has a sense of humor. S/he made me an introvert who shies away from any sort of attention while also making me a terribly picky eater in a family of people who were foodies before there even was such a concept. I am also the grandchild of people who lived through the Great Depression, so food was not something to be wasted. In fact my Grandpop, who was also a butcher, once wrote me an email dedicated entirely to soup. At the end he asked if I was hungry, but fortunately I did not have to explain that none of them were particularly appealing to me. On the soup front, I have come to appreciate a solid cream based option (i.e. the lemon rice soup of Northwest Indiana that I fill other people's Facebook feeds talking about, Lobster Bisque, etc. while I am not a fan of broth soups, which is what my Grandpop was writing me about that day).

Back to the six words, "You don't have to eat it." While this was apparently life changing for this particular mother, it was not at terribly helpful for me. The way I see it, this makes the assumption that there is a conscious battle between parent and child about what will be consumed. Perhaps at times I was just trying to be a defiant little sh*t; I was known to do that more than once (sorry Mom/Dad - thanks for still loving me). Honestly though, more often than not, it was a texture/consistency issue for me. Let's be clear, I WANTED to like "normal" food such as hamburger, eggs, carrots, peas, milkshakes. For whatever reason I could not do it. The food felt strange in my mouth. In my junior year of college I had pretty major nasal surgery, which I consider a great turning point. My palate has expanded quite a bit as I have gotten older, yet I often cannot seem to shake the "picky eater" moniker. Again, we're back to the normal food thing - I have given up on the egg or pea thing ever happening, but I have been known to eat a hamburger. And steak - my Grandpop was thrilled when I ate steak. Even though I put blue cheese on it, which he considered to be a sin, I was eating steak!

Back to the article, "Somehow I [the author] stumbled across Ellyn Satter's groundbreaking 2000 book Child of Mine: Feeding With Love and Good Sense, and it was literally a life-changing read. Satter, a registered dietitian nutritionist and family therapist, promotes a "division of responsibility" for meals: the parent decides when to eat, what to serve, and where to serve it, and the child decides whether and how much to eat. There is always something on the table you know the kid will eat, like rice or fruit or bread, so all new, experimental foods are paired with familiar foods." 

Thankfully my parents seemed to subscribe to this theory way before the book existed. They made sure I did not starve, but they also recognized that I was never going to be what is irritatingly (some call it affectionately) known as a "good eater" nor was I going to be a member of the "clean plate club." Yet, they worked very hard to adapt to my needs. There was one night where my Mom tried so very hard to get me to drink the milk from my cereal. I sat at the table for what felt like hours (probably 7-10 minutes) pouring more and more cereal in to the bowl without adding any more milk with the hope that it would all go away. After the milk turned a color that must have resembled a rainbow assorted vomit, she mercifully let me be excused. 

I also remember conversations when I became a teenager about what I was going to do when I started dating. Sure I was nervous when I would go out with a new guy about what I would order on the menu, but I managed to get through it. I also became a bit more adventurous, especially when going to meet the new family - I did not want to embarrass myself (again there's that whole not drawing attention to myself thing). I still feel bad that my now mother-in-law made me a special dessert the first time I met the family because Danny mentioned I was unsure about carrot cake. As an aside, she was very understanding about my inability to eat anything really cold at that point because of my esophageal spasms. Again, there's God with that sense of humor. I was diagnosed at 27 with pronounced (acid) reflux that finally required surgery. Yes, I was the woman in her 20s who had regular appointments in the gastroenterology department.

So what in the world am I saying? Besides the obvious fact that my body and I have a weird relationship with food. More than that, I feel that I need to be able to talk about being a picky eater, instead of being super sensitive, bordering on being ashamed of it (as I have long been). Did you see the Disney Pixar movie, Inside Out? If you haven't, please do. From the moment I knew that it was a story of an 11 year old girl, Riley who moves from Minnesota to San Francisco, I wanted to see it! I don't want to be a spoiler, but what I took away from it, which my Mom helped me articulate, is that you have to let people (of all ages) feel what they need to feel. The same goes for having a child who is a picky eater. It is easy for this non-parent to say, but if you have a picky eater in your life I would encourage you to, first, take them to an ear, nose, and throat doctor. So much of what we taste is based on our ability to smell; and as someone who cannot that had a profound effect on my ability to taste. Next, please work with them on it. Being a meanie-poopie head (very technical term) about it will more than likely not help the situation. Finally, keep (re) introducing things. As my parents said more than once, but I did not believe them at the time, I enjoy things now that I would not have dreamed that I would like as a kid. 

Again, eggs, never going to happen; so let's give up on that one. Nor am I the person to take to an incredibly fancy restaurant as it may be lost on me. Still, I can make a mean bowl of cereal. In fact, I would be called a cereal connoisseur, if there is such a thing...