All hail independence.

Sometimes a mom has to take a stand.

Occasionally I'll get into a little tiff with my mother about the amount of independence I am encouraging Spawn to have at the tender age of Six. It seems my mother would enjoy seeing me doing things like pack the kid's suitcase for little overnight trips until the kid is, oh, twenty five. Mox don't play that shit. Spawn packs. I check the packing. Usually we're good to go with only minor adjustments to the contents of the suitcase (i.e., removing the flip flops and packing tennis shoes, it is still winter, after all).

But I encourage the independence because I know that 1) it will help the kid to leave the nest someday and 2) cut me a break. Because I want the kid to be able to leave the nest without the guilt that is still visited upon me periodically (why do you think that I still live in Podunk, I cannot leave because they would follow me) and I am determined not to play the martyr card.

As of late we have been having a struggle with dinnertime. I recognized that the Martyr thing was starting to rear its' ugly head when I started feeling used for cooking semi-fabulous dinners that Spawn would summarily declare "disgusting." Oh, the culinary rules of Six -- no gravy of any sort, not even on mashed potatoes, no green veggies ("Mom, how about you give up asparagus for Lent?"), absolutely no tomato sauce of any kind, which lets out spaghetti and pizza as quick-cook substitutes on nights I don't have time. The kid would exist on Wendy's cheeseburgers if I allowed it. And I don't.

So last night I decided: enough. I'm tired of cajoling the kid into eating, tired of witnessing the pained expression of someone who is forced to eat Salisbury steak oh the humanity, tired of enforcing the eat-your-vegetables rule. I knew that Spawn had the upper hand in this little struggle and I made up my mind that I was done fighting. The kid could starve for all I cared.

I gave my husband a brief heads-up -- we were not going to talk about food at the table, we were going to go on and eat our dinner and if Spawn turned up a nose at the food then the kid would just sit there with an empty plate and watch us eat.

Which is what happened for the first five minutes of the meal. Spawn sat there and looked at the empty dinner plate and at the food that was on the table ("gross" and "disgusting" and "I don't like that") and then asked me to fix a PB&J. When I didn't leap up to fix it, the kid did it personally.

So okay, the kid ate, got some protein in, and I didn't leave the table exhausted from a battle over food. If Spawn wants a PB&J for supper then I've had a demonstration that I am not the only one around here who can make one.

My mother was mortified. How could I not plan and cook my dinner around those few foods that her precious only grandchild would eat? What kind of a mother am I? After all, she fixed me Spaghettios whenever she cooked Navy beans for supper when I was a kid. (Side note: Spawn will not eat Spaghettios. I have no idea what is wrong with this kid.) But I am a hardnosed mom when it comes to suppertime. I fix what I fix and the chips just have to fall where they may. Imagine, me subsisting on Kraft Mac 'n Cheese every night because that is one of the "safe" foods that Spawn will eat. Nuh-uh.

Please do not tell me that I am doing this parenting thing wrong because I happen to believe that short of abuse and neglect there is no wrong way to do it.




-- Mox