You Are What You Eat: Are my Kids Turning into the Hamburgler?

I recently found myself praising my daughter for eating a spoonful of peanut butter. Later that day we were jumping up and down while she ate some Gorton's fish sticks. I recently bought a 64 oz. bottle of ketchup and I am not sure if it will last three weeks. I am beginning to wonder, what happened to the nutritional visions I established while my babies were in the womb?
Shortly after my son was born I realized that eating does not always go the way we plan. I had to stop nursing my son after four months because he was allergic to dairy and anything else slightly abnormal in my diet. He still cried even when we switched to soy formula, but things were much better. I had dreamed that my kids would eat food that would nourish their minds and bodies; I had hoped that they would ask to eat raw carrots as a snack or plead with me for a second helping of delicious beans at dinner. But when I began scanning the tiny glass Gerber jar choices in Bi-Lo when my son was six months old, I realized we were both in for a long and scary journey.
My pediatrician recommended starting with bland vegetables: squash, carrots, sweet potatoes. I remember gagging when I opened the first jar and I remember my son gagging as I attempted to make him eat a few bites. As a first time mom I was persistent, semi-patient and in time he became a good eater with the help of dipping everything in ketchup or eating one bite of pickles for every bite of meat.
Although my son eventually ate his baby vegetables, my daughter was apparently born the arc-enemy of anything grown in the earth and a champion to all vegetable haters. She was a happy and content baby, she was compliant and even-tempered and I nursed her until she was one. I thought she was going to be my easy kid and my good eater. Shortly after I started her on solid baby food I decided to make my own food for her from organic fruits and vegetables, just like my heroes (the pioneer women) did. I excitedly made some baby carrots and applesauce and sweet potatoes. It was not hard, I was saving money and I thought it would be better for her since all the store bought jar-fillers were absent.
At first she was eating well and a few weeks passed, but suddenly she didn't want anything to do with squash or carrots and eventually turned her head from my applesauce. I started to panic. She was supposed to be eating almost 75% solids by that point and I could barely get her to eat applesauce, let alone chicken or beef. Long before she turned one, I finally resorted to serving meals that she could eat along with us, and she started gobbling up tacos and chicken with rice, and bananas. As I reluctantly scraped untouched beans or sweet potatoes into the garbage I started to wonder about this battle that is surely as old as time. Did Moses eat his chick peas? Did Napoleon turn up his nose at asparagus while asking for crepes? I have a feeling the pioneer mothers did not cater to their toddler's picky eating habits, but I was already caught up in the downward spiral.
I always heard people say, “if they're hungry enough they'll eat,” and I really try to present healthful options to my kids, but if they are eating some meat and some dairy and some fruit, is that good enough? I give my kids daily vitamin supplements, but I wonder sometimes—does any of it really matter? My Aunt once told me that as a baby she was fed Carnation canned milk with Caro syrup instead of milk or formula and she became a very intelligent woman who was actually a lobbyist in D.C. for many years. How much smarter would she have been if she had been raised on Similac Advance with DHA/ARA? I have a hard time with this question and sometimes I feel like I've been sucked into a baby nutrition conspiracy.
I want to do what's best for my kids and I want them to eat their vegetables, I want them to be prepared to be polite when faced with a “new” meal at someone else's home, but I don't want eating to become an obsession for any of us. There are obviously very serious things to consider when feeding our children, especially since childhood obesity is such a huge problem in America. According to NACHRI, “Nearly one-third of U.S. Children aged 4 to 19 eat fast food every day, resulting in approximately six extra pounds per year, per child. Fast food consumption has increased fivefold among children since 1970.” Those statistics are frightening and make me regret the Chick Fil-A we had for lunch and the Hungry Howie's Pizza we had earlier this week. Feeding toddlers is a balancing act just like everything else in parenting; I want them to eat food that is good for them, but at times I just want them to eat—period.
I have been feeling guilty the past few weeks for letting my kids eat more chicken nuggets and hot dogs than usual, for being hit-or-miss with my organic produce purchases, and for allowing everything to be dipped in mass quantities of ketchup. However, it is hard enough to come up with a meal for two adults to eat, let alone picky kids who are happy to play with their fork and stare at the ceiling. And when I hear stories about great and intelligent men and women who were raised in poverty without many vegetables or any organic produce, I realize that although nutrition is important, it probably isn't everything. In the meantime please don't ask to see our collection of Happy Meal toys, because it is frightening even to me.

When Dog Hair Took Over The Apartment.

I am happy to babysit or cook or clean; I am here to serve and flexibility is my middle name, but please don't ask me to watch your indoor pet. I will gladly recommend a few great people for the job, but the combination of pet dander and drool is not for me, and I'm sure I fall into the category of “horrible person” for kicking my husband's best furry friend to the yard six years ago.
In order to redeem myself, let me explain that I was born into a family that never owned an indoor pet. We were taught early on that animals belong in the barn or the woods or the zoo. We lived on a large farm in South Dakota until I was five, so there were animals everywhere; I remember playing with cats and dogs and riding our Shetland pony, and there were pigs and cows in the fields. I wasn't particularly an animal lover, but they were a part of our lives, and most of them were serving a purpose: chasing mice, scaring strangers, bacon.
When we left the farm and moved to Ohio, I started school and heard rumors of friends who had pets in their houses. “My dog sleeps in the bed with me.” “My cat wears doll clothes.” Soon my brother Chad and I began asking for a pet. Although we were hoping for a dog, we were living in my grandparents' basement at the time and settled for a few goldfish in a tiny bowl. When the goldfish died and we moved into a small house in town my parents eventual let us get some hamsters. We were more than disappointed to learn that hamsters are boring, stinky, and don't do tricks.
In 5th grade my parents bought a house on 12 acres with a creek and a red barn and my dad decided we could finally buy a dog—an outdoor dog, and the stipulation was that we would breed her and sell the purebred puppies. We did some research and finally found a beautiful purebred Golden Retriever puppy named Megan. She became my constant outdoor companion and we spent countless hours roaming the woods and creeks around our house together. I don't remember being disgusted by her breath or worrying about her having worms, I just remember being outside and running fast in the overgrown weeds. We would shoot down our creek when it flooded in a tiny raft and we were always up for an adventure. She gave us many litters of beautiful purebred puppies before she died; she was the closest thing I ever had to an actual pet.
Although I loved Megan—my hiking, dirty, burr-stuck-in-the-fur outdoor dog—I noticed that I still wasn't fond of indoor animals when I visited other homes. The dog hair that somehow wound up in my brownie, the cat fur that got all over my pants when I sat on the couch. It grossed me out. I had a hard time petting strange cats or dogs, and I had a particularly hard time when a hyper dog jumped in my lap or barked my ears off. I think my entire family feels the same way; once when we were visiting my Great-Aunt Dot her wiener dog peed on my sister's lap shortly after we arrived for our visit. On the two hour drive home after that experience, I think we felt more justified than ever about our disgust with house pets.
Hopefully some of this background information will explain why things got a little hairy in our two-bedroom apartment with my husband, his dog, and me during the first 9 months of our marriage. Shortly before I became engaged to my husband Steve, he excitedly bought a cute purebred Golden Retriever puppy that was only a few months old. My husband is an animal lover and had been wanting a dog very badly for a long time. He named her “Max”–which is subsequently why I am allowed to name all our children. She was cute, and I was genuinely happy for him and this little puppy that would soon be ours.
In the beginning, I turned a blind eye when my soon-to-be husband kissed Max's nose and let her lick his face. He was cleaning up after the messes and taking care of her and it was all very paternal and sweet. The wedding day moved closer and Steve eventually moved into an apartment with an almost full-grown 50 lb. Max. I was nervous from the start about our set-up, but we didn't have any alternatives at the time. Before I knew it I went from a single girl in a clean and quiet environment to a married girl in a semi-bachelor two bedroom apartment with a guy and his Golden Retriever.
Because Steve knew I had never owned an indoor pet, we tried to establish some guidelines for our co-existence from the start. Max was not allowed in our room, or the kitchen. I thought I would be able to contain the dog hair if I could keep her out of my room and away from the food and dishes. Steve, who had been letting Max sleep in his bed at night up until we were married, was being a good sport; married life was blissful and wonderful and everything I had imagined it would be. My husband was almost perfect and our apartment was cute and full of mish-mashed hand-me-down furniture and lots of candles and Glade-Plug ins--just in case there was any hint of dog smell. And also to cover the smell of curry from our neighbors downstairs.
A few months passed and I noticed the walls began closing in on me. It was late Fall, and we were trapped inside the two-bedroom apartment staring at each other and listening to the dog panting behind the couch. We didn't have cable and 2/3 of us enjoyed romping around on the living room floor every evening after supper while 1/3 of us cleaned up the dishes. Large puppies and new husbands seemed to have extra energy to burn in the winter; in the meantime my energy was being spent vacuuming at least once daily and going through bulk quantities of lint roller tape on the couch. The winter grew cold and bleak, and I grew more and more annoyed and resentful toward the other female living in our apartment.
I am typically a laid back person, but by the end of 8 months in that apartment I was ready to pull my own hair out and let it blend in with the other blond fur that had permanently ground into the fibers of our carpet. Thankfully we closed on our house before our 9 month lease was up and moved into our current home on 2.5 acres before I went bald. I was back in the country and everything seemed familiar and peaceful and right. I assumed immediately that Max would permanently move to the back yard, but there was no fence and too many new acres to explore. Max took up her places behind the couch and in the guest room, and I tried to keep her out of the newly renovated kitchen.
I feel I should clarify that I've never thought she is a bad dog. She is a good dog, and as a Retriever is constantly seeking my approval. In the beginning we were equally jealous of each other; we both wanted Steve's attention, but I was determined to only have one girl in my house, and it was going to be the girl who cleaned up after messes and not the girl making the messes.
After one month in our house the fence was complete, and Max was finally free to chase squirrels and bark at the neighbors and lick herself in strange places. She began looking fit and happy and I was elated by our new set-up. Suddenly I was able to watch Max running in the yard without worrying how much hair was falling off along the way or if she had eaten a dead bird earlier in the day. At first Steve would bring Max back inside in the evenings and at night, but once she became accustomed to being outside with the birds, squirrels, ticks, mud, etc., he agreed that she was officially an outside dog. To this day she sleeps in the garage at night (on a heated pillow in the winter) and has had a comfortable 7+ years of life so far. I retired my couch lint roller and special hair-sucking vacuum, and other than the replenishing of disposable fish in my son's fish tank, I am confident we will not be visiting Pet-Smart for an indoor friend anytime soon.