Make Yourself a Dang Quesadilla

Parenting is hard. So very hard. Everyday I'm amazed that people actually choose to have kids. Yep, even amazed at myself. I don't even like to think about the "If I knew then what I know now, would I make the same decision about having kids" question because I'm afraid of my answer. Clearly parents (including me) love their children because we do it again every day.

Rhett. Funny, imaginative, expressive, accented-at-times (!) Rhett. This kid is hard. I thought that 3 was supposed to be hard and Poof!, when he hit 4, it was smooth sailing. Not with Rhett. Oh no. 4 has been nearly as hard as 3. Someone lie to me and tell me it does get easier some day.

One of our biggest obstacles with this boy is food. Rhett only happily eats food he LOVES, barely tolerates things he likes, and doesn't touch things he dislikes or thinks he dislikes. Unfortunately his loves include only four things: peanut butter sandwiches, noodles, pizza, and anything served with syrup. Of course, his loves also include any dessert, but I don't serve those for dinner (very often).

Enter: The Quesadilla War. I frequently make quesadillas for him for lunch, and we often have them for dinner. Tuesday night was one of those nights. However, that Tuesday, Rhett decided he no longer liked quesadillas very much. (See previous paragraph to know how he handles food he only "likes.") He decided he wasn't going to eat it. And because that very day, I decided I'm DONE with this behavior, I thought that it was fine for him to not eat it, but he was told it was also going to be the next food he ate. I feel like he needs to learn how to eat food he only "likes." And something as innocuous as a quesadilla? He has to eat it. Something crazy like the Japanese soba dish that was a bit too spicy for little ones? I'm fine with him not eating it. But a quesadilla? Something he's eaten scores of times? I'm not having it.

At breakfast the next morning, I gave him oatmeal. But morning snack? Leftover quesadilla. Lunch? Leftover quesadilla. Afternoon snack? Leftover quesadilla. Dinner? Leftover quesadilla.

How did it turn out? Horribly. How's this for math: starving + tired + being 4 = HORRIBLE. He was ornery and grumpy and crying from about 3 o'clock until 6 o'clock when the threat of a cold shower in his face (and maybe Chuck and I were a touch unhappy with him) finally coerced him to eat that dang quesadilla (which was, admittedly, pretty gross 24 hours after being created). But eat it he finally did.

Was this the right decision? Who knows. Did this teach him to eat what's served? No idea. Will he learn anything other than his parents are cruel beings? Not a clue.

I repeat: parenting is hard. Thankfully being blown kisses as I say goodnight to the dude, sometime buoys me up for the next day.