I was in a tattoo parlor with the needle buzzing at my arm when I got an email from my son’s preschool teacher. My eyes started welling up uncontrollably. The tattoo artist stopped and asked if I needed a break. I shook my head no, gulping down tears. There was no way to explain to him that it wasn’t the physical pain of his needle, but the text: “One mini muffin is an appropriate serving size. Please do not pack two mini muffins for preschool in the future.”
I wept until it was time to pick up my son. I could barely look at his teacher as I signed him out. I was mortified. His teacher couldn't have known when she sent the text, but feeding my preschooler completely consumed my life.
From the time my son was around three years old, he started eating a very short list of things: boxed mac and cheese, Goldfish crackers, and oranges. I tried desperately to coax his appetite with even slight variations, but he held his ground. When I packed his lunch, I included these things and added performative cucumber slices and carrot sticks that I knew would come home untouched. When I discovered he would eat mini muffins, I threw an extra one in his lunch, thinking a satiated child was better than a hungry, screaming one. The teacher assumed I was encouraging him to eat a sugary treat over better options, when I was desperately trying to get him to eat anything.
I was completely lost. If I couldn’t give my son more of the foods he would eat, and he wouldn’t try anything new, what options were there?
When I confided in people about the challenges I was facing feeding a picky eater, they would dollop advice onto me.