Babies & Toddlers

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

Meet my son, the pineapple.

It’s just about the only thing he eats.

My boy, who was so big in the womb that he had to be air-lifted out of it, is now my house’s finickiest eater. He’s a healthy weight, thanks to the boulder-thick thighs he inherited from me. He wraps himself around me with a python’s intensity because he dreads being fed as much as I dread feeding him. It’s especially tough on my husband. He spends an hour after work each week trolling the grocery aisles, hoping that this would be the night that our little citrus-monger would eat a chicken nugget, chocolate chip waffle, or some thin cut French fries. The endgame stays the same. The chicken nuggets go cold on their tray, the waffle wedges wait while my son doodles in the maple syrup, and the fries are foregone for his own fingertips as he prods a pile of ranch dressing, smearing it across his cheek and finally into his mouth. That’s when he yells for his fruit cup or Greek yogurt. My husband and I have no choice but to appease the little dictator, anything to bring the meal madness to an end.

As he savors the cold, creamy yogurt, I think back to last Easter, when we first learned of his peanut allergy. My son was 16 months old at the time with no previous allergic reactions. My husband thought nothing of it when he gave my son a small piece of a chocolate-covered peanut butter egg. My son enjoyed it and asked for more. Thankfully, by the time he did, my husband already eaten the rest for himself. (Really, who can resist a Reese’s?!) So we got my son back home between family celebrations and put him down for a nap. Within an hour, he woke up screaming, “Mommy, Daddy!” and we raced upstairs, sure that he’d had a bad dream. Nothing could have prepared us for what awaited when we turned on the light. My son’s face was peppered in red hives and both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut. My husband cradled our boy and I frantically our pediatrician’s “Ask a Nurse” line.

“Is he able to breathe?” spoke the faceless nurse. I nervously confirmed – yes he could breathe. By that time, my husband had force-fed him some Benadryl. As long as he was breathing normally, we did not need to go the ER. She advised us to follow up with our pediatrician on Monday but it sounded like an allergic reaction to peanut butter.

I could devour peanut butter straight from the jar but I purposefully eschewed it during my pregnancy. Everything I’d read said that it could predispose babies to peanut allergies. I swore my OB said the same thing! When a blood test finally confirmed the diagnosis, our new allergist said that not exposing a young eater to peanuts could actually trigger an allergy. I didn’t know what to think, except that I’d failed my boy. Every kid eats peanut butter! What was he going to eat now? Was he ever going to grow out of this? Repeating his blood work in a year will tell us for sure, but more than likely, if he tests allergic next year, then he will carry the peanut allergy for the rest of his life.

The allergist gave us pamphlets explaining the different types of food allergies, enough to numb my brain, and a prescription for an Epi-Pen Junior. It broke my heart to give one to each grandmother, his primary caregivers during the workweek. “I hope I never have to use this,” my mother-in-law said. “If you do,” I told her, “you may as well call 911 for two ambulances because you’re going to need one for me!” I felt so totally defeated and worthless when it came to protecting my son.

A few weeks later, I noticed my dad casually finishing up a to-go order of Five Guys Burgers and Fries. He had his wrappers balled up in his fry carton and was slurping down a milkshake when I noticed another carton containing the shells of peanuts. My son was sitting at the other end of the table, intently watching Old MacDonald videos on You Tube, his arms still faint with initial red patches that took weeks to dissipate. I erupted, “What the hell are you doing with peanuts, Dad?!” I made Joan Crawford and the wire hangers look like kindergarten. “Calm down, hun; he’s fine.” Once I caught my breath and the blood pumped back to my face, I realized he was fine. I saw firsthand that my son could be exposed to peanuts without incident. (He was only in danger if he ingested them.)

I was relieved but we still had no idea what safe foods to feed him that he would actually eat. That’s when my husband discovered no-nut peanut and sunflower seed butter. They’re easy to spread with a smooth, mild taste and were right in our local grocery store. From the first night we tried them on crackers, my son loved it. We rejoiced at finally getting some protein into his limited diet. Of course, instead of using crackers, he decided to use his fingers for dipping sticks and tongue the butter off each one. But he was happy and so were we.

My son is wired to be the way that he is, never one to make things easy on his parents. He comes around on his own time, not on our time. Each day I learn to digest more of him – his ways, his charms, his quirks – and I realize it’s all a part of loving him; it’s all a part of letting him be a pineapple in a world full of nuts.

 Jeanne Gyr is a university academic advisor living in Baltimore, Maryland. She is a mom to two young toddlers, aged two and one, though her preferred child is her miniature labradoodle, Phillip. She credits her husband for the modicum of sanity in her world and believes that “Golden Girls” actress Bea Arthur is her spirit animal. She thanks you for reading, and hopefully, for laughing.

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. The deadline to submit essays for the upcoming July Topics (Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility & Secondary Infertility) is just a few days away (June 10th)! 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! 

I should have known better.

I tried to sneak something into the recycling bin without my toddler’s notice. I try this maneuver often, but my success rate is abysmal. I’ve done it with Halloween candy and preschool crafts, coloring sheets from church and Happy Meal toys. On this particular occasion, it was a book.

Earlier that morning, we trekked out to an early childhood education fair. We were on the hunt for a preschool for our son, Ian, to enter that fall. When we entered the gymnasium, a woman at the registration table handed me a reusable grocery bag stamped with the school district’s logo and stuffed with promotional materials. Among them was a paperback book about the “My Plate” program. You know the one, right? It replaced the food pyramid I grew up with; a round plate is divided into colored sections, each of which represents a food group. It’s a visual that always makes me think, “Crap. I haven’t eaten enough vegetables today. Or ever.”

In this book, a mother cat encourages her son and daughter to go on a scavenger hunt for foods from each food group. The little girl cat, Anna, is nervous to try these unfamiliar foods, but her mom and brother admonish her to try just two bites. Two bites from each food group, they say, will land her in the “Two Bite Club.” Anna’s eagerness to be in included in the Two Bite Club is equivalent to how I would have felt to be in the Mickey Mouse Club circa 1994.

I stood in the kitchen, flipping through the pages. I imagined some poor intern at the Department of Agriculture tasked with creating this book. What good would this cheesy, pedantic story do for my picky eater, whose stubbornness manifests itself most prominently at the kitchen table? Nothing, I concluded, and pitched it into the recycling bin.

Mealtimes with Ian have been a struggle since the first time we tried to introduce baby cereal. He comes by this pickiness naturally, because I am certainly not a “foodie” and my husband’s pickiness is the stuff of legend in his family. His Uncle David tells a story of wrestling with him on Grandma Shannon’s dining room floor, trying to force him to swallow one bite of rice. My husband won that round. And because the proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Ian has been winning the food battles too. We don’t literally wrestle, but many tears have been shed around our kitchen table (only some of them were Ian’s).

I guess I didn’t hide the book well enough because a few hours later, Ian came up behind me and proclaimed, “Read this, Mama!” I turned to find Ian’s blue eyes and that flimsy purple book staring back at me. Despite my best efforts at distraction and sleight of hand, I read it aloud approximately one million times over the next several days.

Children’s books tend to work their way under my skin and into my brain just like the catchiest pop song. At dinner just a few days later, I heard myself saying, “Ian, you can be in the Two Bite Club! Just two bites of that broccoli, and you’re in!” Lo and behold, he took two bites. And then a few more. Abra Cadabra! The broccoli had vanished from his plate.

The next day at snack time, he was begging for a second helping of pretzels.

“How about strawberries?” I said.

“Strawberries are not a snack!” he protested.

“Well, you already had enough to eat from the grain group today. You need a fruit or a vegetable.” Did I just quote that book again?

“Ok.”

Record scratch. Wait, what? I quoted that book again, and it worked? Again?

I couldn’t believe it. I had finally broken through the wall of my son’s pickiness, and I had that stupid book to thank for it. I was eating a big, giant piece of humble pie. (In which food group does humble pie belong? Can I call it a vegetable?)

We went on like this for weeks. When unsure about something on his plate, Ian could now be convinced to take two bites. Like Anna the Cat, he’d proclaim with surprise, “I like it!” and gobble it up. Needless to say, at this point, I could have been running seminars and writing parenting books. (I mean, I’m a writer. Surely I could do better than the Anna the Cat story, right? Right.) Ian’s sudden willingness to try new foods was a like shot in the arm; it buoyed me in all areas of my motherhood, but especially in the kitchen. Suddenly, I was winning the dinnertime wrestling match.

So, there we were a few weeks later at lunch time. Chicken nuggets and broccoli, warm from the microwave, with some apple slices on the side. (I do what I can. Mom Cat never really spelled out the recipes.) Shocked–and a bit satisfied–I watched Ian work his way around that plate.

“Ok, Mom!” he said. “I ate the vegetable group!”

“Great job, buddy,” I replied, more proud of my parenting than of his risk-taking. And then, Ian looked at me with the biggest smile, and in all seriousness, made a proclamation:

“Now, I need something from the cookie group.”

Somebody pass the humble pie.

 Lindsey is a writer, reader, and mom who is slowly learning to trade perfectionism for freedom. A Florida-to-Michigan transplant, her faith and sense of purpose are shifting as she experiences seasons in the world and in her own life. Lindsey is also the co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a newsletter for anyone trying to pursue grace instead of perfection. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett.