Urban Suburban Mommy

Author Archives: Alexis Nicols

Want To Rip A Hole In The Time/Space Continuum? Have Kids.

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

Want to feel smart? Being a mom is like being a physicist, and every day is an experiment in time, space and sanity. Consider some of these basic principles (and yes, I do spend long nights awake):
  1. Often, I’m creating time where time does not exist.
  2. While two bodies cannot occupy the same space, two smaller bodies can fuse themselves to my exoskeleton while I’m trying to sleep.
  3. The speed of light is constant. The speed at which my younger son can launch food across the table is faster than the speed of light, which pretty much makes him a tachyon.
    And he’s not even two.
  4. The acceleration of an object – say, a sharp pointy toy – by an applied force is related to the magnitude of the pain it produces in my face.
  5. An object in motion tends to stay in motion.
    And loud. It also tends to be loud.
  6. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For instance, the volume of my voice goes up equally and exponentially to the crap my kids get into.
Mummyhereandthere.com

Mummyhereandthere.com

So there you go. The next time you’re feeling down because your house is a mess or your kids are testing the Doppler effect at a pitch only dogs can hear, take a moment and know that we’re all occupying the same space. The results may be different, but that’s part of the experiment.

How Pinterest Saved My Life(Style)

Posted on by Posted in The Best You, Urban Suburban Mommy .

Like many moms, I need help getting dressed in the morning. Not “one leg at a time” help, just gentle redirection so that I can put together an ensemble that doesn’t scream “poor you” or “laundry day.” When I was ready to go back to work after my second and last mat leave, I turned to social media for help. I decided to start a Pinterest board to help me find my style and get my general groove back.

Unfortunately, there were no boards titled “Outfits for Cray Mombies” or “What to Wear When You’re Currently Covered in Poop”, so I settled on “Casual Mom Outfits”. I’ve learned a lot about conserving time and money when trying to piece together a wardrobe on a budget. Here’s what Pinterest has taught me about fashion, style and sanity:

  1. I pick out my clothes the night before. I’m not kidding. You will save precious minutes getting dressed if you’re not standing in front of your closet with your mouth open trying to figure out what to wear. In fact, if possible, pick out your outfits for the week. One less thing to stress about, and you’ll avoid reaching for the same 10% of the closet that you always wear.
  1. I now work with what I’ve got. I have neither the funds nor the patience to start my wardrobe from scratch. Oh pretty please, can I stare at myself half-dressed and sweaty in a dressing room while garbage music thumps through the speakers, causing an aneurysm and resetting my heartbeat? The good news is that I have have a “tabula rasa” closet –full of neutral (black) pieces and endless possibility. Pinterest helped me pull together items I already had and reassembled them in new ways. For example, I saw this:

So I thought: Well, I have jeans and I have 500 black shirts. Add some fancy bracelets and a pair of flats and voila! It looks like I got dressed without having to smell my clothes first!

  1. I stopped spending tons of money on trends. Remember parachute pants? Shoulder Pads? Yeah, I’m still trying to forget. Trends can quickly become fads. And honestly, who can keep track? I’m still wearing a side ponytail. Rushing to keep up is a waste of time and money. Consider too that not every trend is right for every body type. Recently, I tried to rock the whole raw hem with ankle boots thing. It’s supposed to look like this:

I looked like a hobbit in dirty shrunken pants. Now, I keep trendy items to accessories.

  1. I skip sales. Unless you’ve found the one – that item you’ve been dying to get and has finally come out of the stratosphere and into your arms in your size and at an incredible discount – you won’t wear half of what you buy on sale. Volume is not value. If you figure out the cost per wear, you’ve actually spent more on a $10 shirt worn once than on a $100 sweater that you’ve worn a billion times. I used to do 85% of my shopping in January and July – the in-between seasons where everything is heavily discounted – and routinely wound up with things that were out of style by the time I got around to making those purchases useful. Now, I avoid Boxing Week like the plague and only shop Cyber Monday if there’s something I’ve had my eye on for more than 3 months.
  1. I know my digits. Not just my size (which varies from retailer to retailer) but my actual measurements. In addition to being a sadistic torment, knowing my bust, waist and hip measurements will ensure that I order the right size if (when) shopping online, especially if items are listed in European sizes (for example, a size EU37 translates to “Ha ha you wish” in its US equivalent.) It also prevents an accumulation of crap I can’t unload, and I hate returning online items.

Most moms have a decision threshold – after a certain amount of time, our ability to make decisions – good ones anyway – is drastically depleted. It’s called “decision fatigue”. For me, I can’t make executive decisions past 10:00 a.m. (lunch time is usually whatever I can find between the couch cushions.) It might sound corny using social media to dress myself, but if I can offload one more task, why wouldn’t I? If people can pin vision boards or outfits for their cat, why can’t I designate a board for personal style? I’ve become a better dresser and a better shopper, and that’s major value.

Look (sort of) rested with mombie-approved concealers

Posted on by Posted in The Best You .

Generally, I don’t think I ask much from my cosmetics – simply erase all signs of age, time and fatigue.

Easy peasey, right?

In reality, if I can look like I didn’t spend the night covered in small children who treat nighttime as an MMA championship, I will consider going outside. One product I won’t leave the house without is concealer.

The right product can make you look refreshed and rested. Not “Before Kids” rested, but definitely “hit the snooze button” rested.

Trust me when I say that I have tried every product on the market; high-end, low-end, pan, wand, brush, cream, stick and everything in between. I based my selections on the following criteria:

Coverage – Since I haven’t found a concealer that mimics the effects of a paper bag over my head, I look for concealers that cover what they’re supposed to (dark circles, sun spots and those adorable laugh lines) and endure throughout the day. If makeup doesn’t last past my first coffee or my toddler whipping a toilet brush at my face, you don’t get my money.

Skin tone – My skin has an interesting hue, the result of Middle Eastern/Eastern European heritage. I need a concealer with yellow undertones. As a result, I’ve never been able to use most drugstore brands. Most of them have a pink/peach payoff that looks, at best, mismatched and at worst, completely cray.

Make-Up Atelier Fluid Concealer: Oh, how do I love thee. Makeup artists and beauty insiders can’t get enough of this concealer. The pros favour its performance and shade range, and everyone loves that it’s cruelty-free. The texture is light and silky but not thin. Blends seamlessly into skin and is perfect for every day use.
($18, beautylish.com)

 

Smashbox Camera Ready BB Cream Eyes: When I first went looking for this at Shoppers Drug Mart my shade was sold out. When I went online, it was also sold out. This isn’t a coincidence or a failure to order enough inventory – they just can’t keep them in stock. This product is a game-changer for tired eyes – a concealer with an added BB component means that imperfections are concealed and the eyes actually look brighter and less droopy. It could only be more perfect if it were available in a bra. ($29, beautyBOUTIQUE.ca)

Bobbi Brown Skin Foundation Stick: Full disclosure: my very first concealer was a Max Factor foundation stick. After Max Factor was purchased by Procter & Gamble, I couldn’t find it anywhere. I had no suitable replacement until I found Bobbi Brown’s Skin Foundation Stick. Don’t let the title fool you – it’s so creamy and blendable that it has become my favourite go-to concealer. The thicker consistency offers medium to full coverage without feeling greasy or heavy. And talk about longevity; I can endure a full day of parenting/working/feeling like a failure/cooking/cleaning/nursing/ordering in/watching four straight hours of Caillou/drinking wine in my closet.
($55, bobbibrowncosmetics.ca)

 

When all else fails, remember that a huge pair of sunglasses and an even bigger coffee will work just fine.

Momologist, Alexis Nicols

Alexis Nicols, our resident Momologist, is a marketing specialist, actor and freelance writer. She lives in urban Toronto with her husband and two sons, but is definitely suburban at heart. She regularly dodges the slings and arrows of parenting boys, considers herself a connoisseur of stretchy pants and hopes that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train.

For more musings from a mom who wonders when everything below the neck went National Geographic, visit her blog: stopstopcomehere.ca

Mobile devices, crude weaponry and other distractions

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

Four year-olds have no concept of time.

Oh sure, they say they do. Tell your kid that he has a friend’s birthday party coming up next weekend and he’ll nod in happy agreement. You may even help him circle the important date on a calendar. It’s just a ruse. You may as well tell him that the party is in one hour, because that’s how long he’ll ask you for clarification. Every day for the entire week.

“Is it today Mommy?”

“No, it’s next week.”

“Today?”

“What? No, it’s next week. In seven days.”

“On Monday, Mommy?”

“No honey. Next Saturday. In seven days. That’s six more sleeps.”

“It’s tomorrow?”

And so on.

As such, telling your child “One moment please,” while you finish up a chore or a phone call is equally futile (one moment = forever). Things have to get done – our family can only occupy a space for so long before it’s taken up with debris and general chaos. I’ve become adept at distraction and proficient at stealing, even creating time to get things done. A few things have worked for me:

1. Colouring: I give them crayons and a colouring book or blank paper (Note: I have to tell them to play nicely. This important caveat is the difference between calm parallel play and making colourful prison shivs.) Colouring lasts five whole minutes, which is exactly how long it takes to get laundry into the washer and address a Crayola stabbing. I can only throw in one load. Don’t think for a second that I have time to fold anything. In fact, I try not to think at all.

Thinking wastes time.

2. Right after school, the boys get a snack and a drink. This is prime dish washing time. They can go as long as 15 minutes if I turn on the TV.

3. If I want a morning sleep-in, I’ll give the kids my iPhone. I can gain an extra 30-minutes and will only have to replace half of my apps. I can sleep right up until the eldest pokes me in the face and announces that he called Tokyo. He’ll mis-pronounce it so it seems cuter.

4. Sometimes, not often, I wake up before my kids do. I realized a long time ago that I would never sleep through the night again, so I don’t fight it. It’s prime time to steal a shower, brush my teeth and start breakfast. Typically, I only make it to the shower before tiny hands and arms are poking my flabby bits through the curtain.

5. On weekends, we run our kids pretty hard. Swimming, skating, soccer – we let them off their leads whenever possible. My four year-old gave up his naps a long time ago, but every once in a while he’ll crash. If it’s time right, there’s a perfect intersection between his nap and the baby’s nap. We call this time the Mythical Unicorn Happy Pants Dance. In theory, there is no limit to the things I can accomplish. Usually, the list is so overwhelming that I implode and sit down to watch non-cartoon related TV.

There are times when 100% focus is not an option – driving, using the stove, operating a forklift, shopping online during Cyber Monday, etc. When it comes to the small stuff (and 85% of it is small stuff), I resign myself to leaving it half done. My older child will ask me to help him count the coins in his piggy bank, or my youngest will drag a book twice his size to the kitchen, calling “Mama! Dis!” I’ll stop what I’m doing and sit with them.

It would be terribly boring and sad to look back and say: “My kids fought really hard for my attention, but damn I had sparkling plates!” Life is about more than keeping a clean house. It takes far less effort to enjoy my kids than to figure out how to distract them.

Keep Calm and Don’t Forget The Snow Pants

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

If I were to measure my success as a parent by the number of things I had to remember in an average day, I would be, at best, a mediocre caregiver. You might let me walk your dog and water your plants while you were on vacation, but you probably wouldn’t let me use a spreading knife to butter little Johnny’s toast.

Today was the first bitterly cold day of the season, marking the arrival of that frigid winter we were all promised. I bundled the kids in hats, winter coats, boots and mittens (which is to say I wrestled with the baby for a full ten minutes trying to get them on his hands for more than a nanosecond. Nate laughed and pointed, in case you were wondering whose child he is.) In an unrelated thought, if you have any tips on how to fuse mittens to a screaming toddler’s hands without the use of staples, I’m all ears. So, out the door we went, with everything we needed to brace ourselves against the cold.

Everything except their snow pants.

Kid crying in snow

It was the first thing my mom noticed. “Where are the boys’ snow pants?” she asked with alarm. Crappity craptastic, I thought.

“Um, I think Ben’s pants are in the closet and Nate’s…ah, I’m not 100% sure. Maybe…he doesn’t have any?” I was starting to sound like a teenager who was about to get into some serious trouble.

Needless to say, after dropping the kids off at school we both went back to our respective homes and went digging for snow pants. I tore my place apart, cursing myself the entire time. Why can’t I get anything right? Why can’t I remember anything? What kind of a parent am I? Snow pants were found and my father very graciously drove them to the school. Crisis averted – until next time.

For some reason, I couldn’t let it go. What the actual hell was my problem?

There are measured degrees of success. On the one hand are the moms who have it all together, like elusive rainbow unicorns with nice handbags. The other end of the spectrum…well, it makes me too sad to talk about really. Let’s say that just because some people give birth to humans doesn’t mean they’re innately programmed to raise them.

I’ve come to realize that I’m square in the middle of the scale. I don’t have staff. No one to clean or cook for me or help me get the kids ready in the morning or to remind me about the damn snow pants. I don’t begrudge people who do (believe me) but it makes me 100% responsible, all the time – good, bad, ugly or otherwise. There will be mistakes. The challenge then lies in not repeating them.

The other challenge is being kind to myself and moving on. Am I tired? Yes. Are our belongings distributed among several content cleaning companies across the GTA? Yes. Do I have forty loads of laundry and dishes to do? Check. Between putting my house and my life back together, things have slipped, not the least of which is my Swiss-cheese brain. I have to remind myself every.single.day. to forgive myself, let it go and move on. Tomorrow will be a better day.

“You know honey,” my mom reminded me. “The kids are fed, dressed and loved. You’re not doing too badly.” That’s high praise. I’ll take it.

 

The scary part of Halloween? Making the costume!

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

“I need a cardboard box big enough to fit a four year-old.”

Don’t we all? That line has earned me my share of raised eyebrows this week.

I’ve been dreading Halloween this year. Over the summer, my precocious Nathan saw the Disney movie Wall•E.

Five hundred times. On repeat.

He can recite the entire script by heart. So can I. The animated feature chronicles the life of a small trash-collecting robot who, over the course of 700 years and a syrupy Disney script, becomes a sentient being. It was 90 minutes of my son’s favourite things: trash, trash compactors, robots, guns and trash compacting robots with guns.

Last month, when we were eagerly discussing Halloween (or as I call it – send your kids to work day), I asked him what he wanted to be.

Wall•E. He wants to be the robot. Crap.

I realize I’ve been lucky enough to coast by over the past three Halloweens. The first year, Nate wanted nothing to do with the freaky ghosts and vampires that came knocking at our door. He hid behind me the whole time, screaming.

The next year, he wanted to be a fireman, but only went out for 20 minutes before collapsing with exhaustion. Last year he was a fireman again, and finally made the connection between the length of time spent outdoors and the size of his stash.

It was a good year.

halloween-candy

So now Halloween is two weeks away and he has asked his Mama, a walking craft-phobic Pinterest Fail, to make him a robot costume. I am to arts and crafts what Trump is to temperament. Foreign and awkward.

This is what Wall•E looks like:

wall-e

I spent the first week of October paralyzed, unable to draft a simple plan. I knew I should have studied to be an Imagineer.

Pinterest offerings

Pinterest offerings

Finally, with Halloween fast approaching, I’ve been galvanized into action – collecting supplies, anything I can get my hands on, praying that I have enough paint to hide a multitude of mistakes.

I’ve watched YouTube videos, dissected pictures on Pinterest (damn you Pinterest), even checked online to make sure there wasn’t a Wall•E costume available (There isn’t. Unless you want to be a slutty Wall•E.)

As I get underway, I ask that you wish me luck.

Also, do you have a reciprocal saw I can borrow?

The lunch lady cometh

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

My four year old couldn’t wait to go back to school. Frankly, I encouraged the enthusiasm.

We had quite a busy summer (in much the same way that ants get busy once someone follows them around with a magnifying glass and sets their ant hill ablaze) and I think we could all use some back to school routine. He has a new backpack, new socks and a new outlook on life – mommy and daddy know nothing. But that’s another post. Continue reading →

Parenting solo for one day: A timeline

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

There are typically two of us on the weekend, but when my husband has a big work event, his evenings and weekends get slammed. The following is a timeline of one day of parenting alone. I don’t know how how single parents do this.

Respect.

  • 8:30 a.m. – Daddy leaves to go to work
  • 9:30 – We spend the morning with family, enjoying the great outdoors and watching people make maple syrup. Nate eats his body weight in maple sugar candy, but I’m not worried. What can go wrong?
  • 11:00 – We get home. Nate has pushed the car all the way home while shrieking like an ambulance. That first part is mostly untrue.
  • 12:00 p.m. – Nate wants lunch. I make the lunch. Nate does not recall ever asking for lunch and would never EVER eat anything I make and refuses to touch it. At least he doesn’t throw it.
  • 1:20 – I suggest we go to the park.
  • 1:22 – I smell something.
  • 1:40 – After changing the baby (aka Poomicus Colossus), we pack up and 30 minutes later are on our way.
  • 2:20 – At the park, some older kids start laughing at Nate when he tries to initiate a game of “Good Guys/Bad Guys”. It’s a struggle not to interfere
    a) because he doesn’t know they’re laughing at him and
    b) apparently it’s considered bad parenting to fight all of your child’s battles for him. Pfft.
  • 2:30 – I will not step on their necks, I will not crush them like bugs, I will let my son figure it out.
  • 2:32 – Consider writing my own parenting book called “Mess With My Son And I’ll Come At You Like A Cracked-Out Howler Monkey.” I would buy that book.
  • 2:35 – Good news: no tears, no fights and he found another kid to play with. Crisis averted.
  • 4:30 – Home again. Nate wants to do arts and crafts. I set the dining room table up with every conceivable craft accoutrement imaginable. He writes the numbers “1” and “0” over and over again on a piece of paper. I wonder briefly if he’s writing binary code for “my mom is phoning it in today. Send backup.”
  • 4:35 – Nate is done with arts and crafts. He spends the next 15 minutes helping me make toast. It should be noted that no one actually wants to eat toast. He just enjoys putting bread in the toaster and pressing the lever down.
  • 5:30 – Dinner. Nate eats a cream cheese bagel and I make macaroni with tuna for me and the baby. He eats none of the macaroni, but has a lot of fun decorating the floor. I get one lukewarm mouthful and eat the rest off his chin. Surprisingly, no one wants fruit.
  • 6:15 – Nate wants to watch cartoons on my phone, even though his favourite show is on TV. Ben’s running around with a bowl on his head and eating a FreshCo receipt. I take this opportunity to drink my last glass of wine. It was left uncorked and I detect notes of both fruit and stale vinegar. I give zero poops.
  • 6:16 – We’ve officially gone feral.
  • 7:00 – I go to the washroom by myself, lock the door and spend 10 blissful minutes alone.
  • 7:00 – None of that happened. I peed with the door wide open, the baby in the bathtub and Nathan on the stool, asking me why I don’t have a penis.
  • 7:45 – Bedtime. Nate sleeps in my bed and the baby wakes up 14 times before I give up and bring him into the bed with us, where he proceeds to nurse happily for the rest of the night. Everyone sleeps.
  • 8:30 – Daddy comes home, wakes me up and tells me how exhausted he is.

Surviving The Threenager

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

I have a Threenager. This summer, he’ll be a Fournado – but let’s deal with one emotional apocalypse at a time.

My son has feelings. Big, big, nuclear feelings. They are spectacular to witness, in much the same way that the good people of Nevada were awed by hydrogen bomb testing.

Threenagers are an enigma, wrapped in Tasmanian devil on crack and surrounded by mess. Our morning routine used to be a recipe for disaster: Add a dash of dawdling and stir in a healthy cup of I-will-not-do-anything-you-ask-me-to-do-until-you-reach-a-pitch-that-only-dogs-can-hear. Our mornings used to be an endless power struggle that started the moment we woke up.

1668573905_a27440fed1_o

I knew there had to be a better way to communicate with my son, a method that empowered him and enabled us to parent him in a way that achieved long term goals. My partner and I took a class led by an Adlerian Parent Educator.

After applying some of her techniques and following her suggestions, we saw an almost immediate change in our oldest son. I’m not advocating one school of thought over another, or that this method works with every child across the board. In my home these suggestions worked for my child and ultimately, for our entire household. Here are just a few things we learned:

1. Let It Go (don’t sing the song. Just.Don’t.)

hqdefault

This was a hard one for me. I manage everything in my home. And it’s exhausting. My morning monologue used to sound like this:

“Time to get dressed, get dressed please, here are your clothes, do you need help? Get dressed get dressed please get dressed, please brush your teeth here let me help you with the toothpaste stop eating the toothpaste brush your teeth top AND bottom, stop chewing the toothbrush, please sit down and eat breakfast, sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, eat your breakfast, eat it please god just eat it please eat your breakfast, time to get your coat on get your coat on get your coat on are you listening to me? Stop pushing your brother and get your coat on fine I’m leaving if you don’t get your coat on in 5 seconds…”

And so on…

After the class, we just…stopped. Stopped arguing with him, stopped the power struggle, stopped trying to tell him what we think is best. This is closer to what I say now:

“Your clothes are on the bed for you. See you downstairs when you’re dressed and we’ll have breakfast.”

“Time to get our coats on. Here are your boots, I’ll meet you at the door.”

We’re letting him do as much for himself as he is capable of. The results were amazing; as soon as we stopped telling him what to do, he became more amenable to doing for himself. The process took time (about two weeks of script-flipping) and it’s not perfect (he intentionally wears his shirts or pants backwards and getting him to sit through breakfast can be challenging), but he’s making more of his own choices and he’s learning to live with the consequences of his actions in an age-appropriate way.

2. We Know His Limits

There was a brief period of time when we didn’t go out with other people. The thought of scheduling a play date sent me into b*tch-panic. And forget restaurants. I remember taking the threenager (along with his baby brother) to his first birthday party for a school friend. I only remember a whirlwind of chasing, spilling and endless “no thank you’s”.

At one point, I had tied a balloon to his wrist so I could find him. Now, we give him limited choices, prepare him for the day in advance and watch for early meltdown signs (fatigue and hunger are the main killers.) I still get anxious when we go out, but as long as it’s early enough in the day and in a controlled environment, weekends are much, much more enjoyable.

3. Respect Yourself

Ultimately, I can’t control my threenager – and I wouldn’t want to. Do I want him to grow up to be a compliant people-pleaser? Of course not. But I can control me and my reactions. Sometimes, he acts up and lashes out (remember big feelings?) A few months ago, we had Wafflegate. My son, who will only eat waffles if they are whole and un-cut, was barely picking at his breakfast. I asked him if it might be easier to eat if I cut it up for him. He said yes (he was distracted. I take full responsibility.) Well didn’t that child take one look at his easier-to-eat waffles and flip his s**t – along with his syrupy plate full of food – all over the floor. The old me, who never fully healed her inner child, would have agonized and freaked out. But at that moment, I realized that I couldn’t make him see my point of view or apologize, but I could respect myself enough to walk away.

“Here,” I said, returning with a cloth. “You can clean up.”

Him: “Make me another waffle!”

Me: “Ohhh, no…no more waffles. Breakfast is over. You get nothing.”

Him: “I get…nothing?”

Me: “Well, not nothing. You get to clean up the mess.”

I didn’t yell, I didn’t fume, I didn’t resent him. But I wasn’t about to give him another chance to treat me poorly. And he wasn’t going to starve over it either.

I’m not perfect. Sometimes I lose my patience and yell. Sometimes, I sit in the bathroom with the door locked and cry for five minutes. Sometimes I feel like it’s a threenager’s world and we’re all just surviving in it, Lord-of-the-Flies-style. But the limit-testing, the challenging behaviour and the button-pushing are all signs that he’s developing exactly as he should be.

At the end of the day, I’d rather have a child who stands up for himself and has loads of confidence.

Having said that, come talk to me when he turns four…

Random thoughts at 3AM

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

I compiled this list during a time when the baby was very new and still waking to eat during the night (the situation has since improved. Now he only wakes me up for really important things, like a crease in his blanket or he heard someone pass wind in Kapuskasing.) Continue reading →

The Hunger Games: How my three year old survives on yogurt and air

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

Several months ago, my son comes home and asks me, “What’s for dinner?”

“Well,” I replied, “We’re eating roasted chicken, grilled rapini and mashed potatoes.”

“Sounds yummy!” he declared, wandering into the living room.

Translation: “I will be eating none of that, but as long as you have goldfish crackers, we’ll get along just fine.”

My son is such a picky eater that at one point I considered buying groceries and then just throwing them out. Among the things I’ve tried in the past:

  • Food songs
  • Food games
  • A giant toy kitchen with a bin full of plastic food and cooking utensils
  • Praying
  • Crying
  • Googling “nutrition through osmosis”

My son appreciates food in the abstract. He knows which foods are healthy and make you strong. Once, he licked a pea and said “Look how strong I am!” as he flexed his tiny biceps. He understands the notion of food, just not the consumption of it.

Hand in hand with his limited palate is the particularity with certain foods and how they must be prepared. Highlights include:

  • Raisin toast, so long as there are absolutely NO raisins in it
  • Peanut butter on toast, cut into SQUARES, NOT strips
  • Toast that is not brown
  • WHOLE bananas (I once had to pretend to surgically fuse two halves of a banana back together) that may or may not be pre-peeled, depending on the day of the week and whether or not Venus is in retrograde.

I am NOT a food expert. I’m not a registered dietician or a child psychologist. I’m just a mom. I’m just “The Help.” I did a lot of observing, paired with even more trial and error. While I will forever be on the outs with Pinterest (curse you and your Bento-Box lunches (see The Bento Bitch) and cookie-cutter sandwiches with strawberry floral arrangements and pint-sized Kombucha tea drinks!!) I have come up with a strategy of sorts. It won’t work for everyone, but it has worked for us so far:

  1. Grazing: While we still encourage him to sit at the table for longer than a bug’s breath, we also acknowledge that right now, he’s not a sit-down-and-eat-an-entire-meal kinda guy. Going to a restaurant is a bicentennial event. I compromised by giving him a selection of the healthiest foods I know he will eat, in small bite-sized pieces on a compartmentalized dish. We call it “smorgasbord” dinner. Most of the time, he’s totally game (apple slices, banana, cheese cubes, crackers with hummus or peanut butter – whatever he’ll eat that doesn’t come from a package with a cartoon on it.)
  1. Drinking his food: Confession. I buy the drinkable yogurts (cue collective gasp from the Judgey McJudgesteins). Since it’s one of the preferred food delivery systems, I mix it up by occasionally offering blended fruit smoothies. I can stick whatever I want in there, and more often than not, he loves them.
  1. Helping: The theory is, if he helps prepare the food, he’ll be more likely to eat his own creations. We’re not quite there yet, but I figure if I can keep him involved in the doing, he’ll make the connection to eating what he makes.
  1. Relaxing: Me, not him. I come from a long line of “Thou shalt not waste food” – Depression-era survivors on one family side and WW2 survivors on the other. Throwing food in the garbage gives me the sweats. I had to redirect my focus on what he was eating and give him smaller portions, replenishing when he finished what was on his plate.

After a lot (a LOT) of reading, I realized that toddlers are naturally picky eaters. Just because they watch you buy their favourite foods and then announce they will no longer eat any of them, doesn’t mean they’ll hate them forever. I cling to the hope that one day, he’ll return to a much wider variety of food, one bite at a time.

alexis-head-shotAlexis Nicols is a marketing specialist, actor and freelance writer. She lives in urban Toronto with her husband and two sons, but is definitely suburban at heart. She regularly dodges the slings and arrows of parenting boys, considers herself a connoisseur of stretchy pants and hopes that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train.

For more musings from a mom who wonders when everything below the neck went National Geographic, visit her blog: stopstopcomehere.ca