9to5to9: So Big Guy wants to write about food
"What's the matter, Mommy," Big Guy asked.
"I need an idea. I don't have any ideas to write about tonight."
"I'll write you a story," he said.
"Go for it."
"Once upon a time there was a little kid named ... what's his name going to be?"
"How about Big Guy?"
"OK. Once upon a time there was a little kid named Big Guy. He wanted ice cream, but his mommy said he couldn't have any until he ate his good food.
Arggghh. Do I really have to blog about that again? Because I'm as sick of writing about it as I am of dealing with it.
Yes, I know. Part of my problem is I make too big a deal out of it. But in the two weeks since my last bout of angst over the hunger strike, the situation hasn't gotten any better.
He hasn't eaten at school since he found out he could get away with leaving his lunchbox in his backpack. Not even the day the principal joined him at his peanut-free table, a move that has curbed the wise-cracks from the older boys who thought the set-up was a laugh riot.
The challenge there is lunch comes only an hour after snack. I pack more of a snack than I should because ...
He quit eating breakfast other than his beloved chocolate milk after I gutted the house of Nutri-Grain bars in keeping with my Kellogg's boycott.
He's ended his after-school binges because we either haven't been home or he's found something else more exciting.
And he's no longer interested in any of his "I hate this dinner" staples -- Cheerios, Kix, apples, bread and butter.
That part I at least recognize, because he's done it before. He gets bored with his default food options and can't figure out what to move onto. Except for pizza. But I can't make pizza every day.
The other factor coming into play: He gets skittish after an allergy scare like the one Monday that led to the Kellogg's ban. He did the same thing two years ago as the garlic allergy was emerging. Memories of the attacks -- the splotchy face, itchy arms and tightening throat -- leave him not knowing what he can trust.
He always eats eventually -- scarfed a six-inch roast beef sub at dinner and then scavenged everyone else's tray. Sadly, he doesn't get interested until after the low-blood sugar blues have set in.
It's another of those "it's just a phase" things.
I hope it ends soon, though. I have enough trouble keeping the boy in blue jeans. The economy being what it is, I can't afford to replace his shirts after his ribs start poking holes in them.
Copyright 2008 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.