Sometimes a Sandwich is Just a Sandwich

My daughter is getting kind of sloppy with her food. She makes messes of her meals now. On purpose. I'm all in favor of creativity and everything, but sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich. Up till now she has been a very, very neat eater. She is careful, wipes her hands and mouth, and rarely spills crumbs. If she came close to making the slightest mistake (such as missing her mouth with the spoon) her dad would have a spike in his blood pressure. We used to argue a little bit about it, because I didn't want her to feel afraid to make mistakes. Ever. Ever in life. And often I would smile that knowing little smile to myself because I clean the table, and his spot is often messier than hers.

So I've been pretty loose about food rules. But there is a time and a place to play with your food, and it's not all the time. And it's starting to bug me. Take the sandwich example. As requested by my beloved daughter, I made her a sandwich. I love sandwiches. They are like architecture sometimes. And every bite can be different. I love that. Anyway, she promptly took the sandwich apart, tore the bread into pieces, and arranged the other ingredients on her plate as she saw fit. And I could just tell she was going to sit there and move it all around for about 6 minutes, and then say, "I'm done!"

Well, I just couldn't have this. I built that sandwich with my own two hands! I think the thing that makes me the most angry in this household is when I lovingly and sometimes laboriously prepare food for the other people who live here, and then they don't appreciate it. It makes me burn. I think there is a chapter in the "How to Make Your Wife Really Pissed Off" manual for men that addresses this tactic head on. "After your wife makes your favorite meal (but more healthy, because she cares about you so much), serves it at the time when you are ready for it, and then sits down with you to listen to your mind-numbing work stories, then you should go grab the barbecue flavored chips, because that is just what this meal needs." And that, my fellow man, is how you piss off your wife.

I'm not naming names, I'm just saying, that happened to someone I know.

Food issues, food issues. There are countless things going on in my head when I attempt to write about food. Food is symbolic of so many cultural and psychological things. It has an immense amount of meaning, every thing that you put in your mouth. Think about it. But you just came her to see pictures of Ariel & the cake.

As long as your still here, slogging through my "brain traffic," as MamaLucy's blog is titled, I will continue with my literary tidings.

I spend much of my brain power thinking about what, when, and where to feed my child. She is hungry almost all of the time. This is a good thing. Food makes her grow, and it's my job to provide. These are the things modern moms think about: hormones, pesticides, herbicides, bacteria, factory farming, price, high fructose corn syrup, whole grains, how to get to the store, frequency & quality of bowel movements, water intake, hand washing, and how to get them to eat vegetables. To name a few.

Yesterday Ariel and I had a wonderfully blissful morning, the kind of morning mothers dream about before we are mothers. I was elated, and so when she asked for cake at 10:00 AM, I said, "Sure! Why not?"

This morning at 10:00 AM she asked for ice cream.

ME: "No, we can't have ice cream for breakfast."

ARIEL: "Why not?"

ME: ?????... I read somewhere that people in China sometimes have ice cream for breakfast. Why not? "Um... because we have to eat other healthy food first. I'll tell you what: if you eat some broccoli for breakfast, then you can have ice cream." Of course she will forget all about this ridiculous promise.

A half hour later, Ariel is asking for broccoli. She eats broccoli, carrots, cucumbers, and red bell peppers. Plain and just par-boiled. I am astounded, having forgotten about my earlier promise.

ARIEL: "I want ice cream."