Life with a three-year-old has been interesting so far. My son has all the defiance of a two-year-old, but with the calculation of a child much older.
Brushing one’s teeth and eating one’s food have been rather large bones of contention as of late, endless battles of wills that end in flailing on the floor and crying. And that’s just me.
It started late in the afternoon.
“What would you like with your chicken?” I asked foolishly.
“No, Mommy! I no want chicken. No chicken. I no want chicken.”
The chicken was defrosted, sitting in the fridge. I had to break it to him gently.
“Oh, honey, we’re having chicken today. Let me know what you would like to have with your chicken, okay?”
I returned to cutting and attempting to figure out a side.
“Potatoes? Do you want some potatoes with your chicken?” I asked from the kitchen.
“No chicken!” was the only response I received.
When the chicken was cooked. I tried one last time.
“What would you like with your chicken, Matthew?”
“Apples!” Michael yelled from beyond the gate.
“Chicken and apples! Fantastic! Let’s have apples!” I said, relieved.
I sliced the chicken breast, which I had seasoned lightly with olive oil and Montreal Chicken seasoning, added a few apple slices, and put a stick of Colby-Jack in each child’s bowl.
Dinner proceeded as usual. The twins ate, Matthew protested. When he was finished with his apples and had bitten his cheese into tiny squares and spat them into his bowl, he asked me for more apple.
I told him, quite matter-of-factly, that I would need him to at least try his chicken before I got anyone seconds.
Matthew has this evil Howdy Doody face he breaks out when he’s not picking up what you’re putting down. He’s uses this face to grind you down like a spent cigarette. And I hate it. He even blinks like a marionette, which is not only infuriating, but also downright creepy.
I looked over at him and there it was. Evil Howdy Doody.
I had a long day, was very tired, and mentally exhausted from having to sort through and pick my battles.
“One piece of chicken. Just one. And then you can have more apple,” I said, keenly aware that I was squandering all my remaining energy.
“No, it’s too crusty. Chicken’s too crusty. Makes my mouth feel funny,” he eyed me.
“One piece, Matthew.” I hung on like a greedy bulldog.
I cleaned and changed the twins, cleaned their chairs, the table, the floor, all while Matthew, shifty-eyed, slid the bowl back and forth across his mouth, mock chewed, and repeatedly stuck his face in and out of the bowl.
“Mommy’s tired. All you need to do is try one piece. Let’s just do this, because Mommy wants to come sit with you.”
He squealed with mischievous delight.
I had visions of throwing the piece of chicken into his mouth and manually operating his jaw, kept mentally willing him to give in, just to end the journey down this road, but the child would not acquiesce.
“If we have to do this all night, Matthew, we will,” I warned.
He picked around his bowl picking up pieces of food and then putting them back down.
I walked by the fridge and spied a plump, pristine piece of breast, hardly touched at all by the offending seasoning. I ripped it off and brought it over.
“Here!” I offered enthusiastically, “This one’s good. No crust!”
His eyes lit up and he took the entire piece into his mouth. I ran to the sink to refill his cup and slid it over to him.
I tried not to relish his tiny jaw begrudgingly gnashing the meat. I pretended not to notice when an involuntary, “Mmmm!” slid out. I attempted not to stare when he reached back into his bowl for more.
I allowed the boy to finish over a few squares of Newman’s Own Mocha chocolate, because a woman can only handle so much, and took a few measured breaths before I headed back in.
“All done!” he said proudly.
“Well, gee, Matthew. You know, you’re going to school soon. And I don’t think they like little boys and girls who don’t listen to their moms. And it seems like you haven’t been doing a whole lot of listening to your mom. What are we going to do about that?”
He sat back so I could unbuckle him from his seat. He didn’t answer.
“What are we going to do about not listening to our mom, Matthew? I want you to go to school and have a good time, and I’m really going to need you to listen to your teacher. What’s the plan, Matthew?”
He stood up, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Not make crusty chicken.”
