Many many years ago, when I was but a wee lad in rural Nebraska, my folks were trying to get me to eat some peas. Not garden-fresh peas, but the cooked shriveled peas that I can’t imagine anyone in the world enjoys. I fought with them over these peas. I didn’t like them and had no intention of eating them.
At some point, everyone else was done with their dinners but I couldn’t leave the table. I finally gave in and ate the peas. Well, I didn’t really eat them. They went into my mouth. I chewed. But the repulsiveness of it all caused me to barf. As soon as my parents saw this, they decided they’d never force me to eat peas again. That deal holds true today. This is common, because my Dad randomly came across this blog with a similar struggle.
The funny thing is it’s all come full circle. We were eating dinner this week and Abby started eating baby carrots. Fresh, mind you. These weren’t those mushy cooked pieces of crap some people eat. I thought she was enjoying it. This was toward the end of dinner, so I started cleaning up the table. Abby got up, went into the front room, and suddenly Jen proclaimed “Abby just barfed.”
All over the carpet. On our chair. I guess she was storing the carrots in her mouth and didn’t in fact like them. She stored them as long as she could and then, like her daddy, decided she couldn’t take it anymore.
I get what I deserve.