I am no Martha Stewart!! My family can probably count on one hand (ok, maybe two) how many times I've cooked for them. "How do they eat?" you might ask. I'll save that for another post.
Anyway, today I felt somewhat Rachel Ray-ish and busted out some chicken from the freezer. After it thawed, I marinated it in something barbecue-y and sauteed it for a few. It looked quite tasty to me.
Espy, Espy, my picky Espy sat down at the table and declared, "I smell something." Her nose was scrunched in disgust. Oh how she encourages the chef in me!
"Just try it Espy, you might like it."
"I don't think I'm gonna like it, Momma."
(By the way, who taught my child to call me "momma"??)
Here we go.
My oldest has thrown more dramatic fits over what's on her plate than I care to remember - as if Bill and I are torturing her when we have anything other than grilled cheese or chicken nuggets for dinner.
"Please eat your food, Espy. Remember what mommy & daddy say."
"Yes, momma."
(There's that "momma" again!)
"Don't say my eyes hurt, or my neck hurts, or my leg hurts."
Every part of Espy's body starts to ache when she doesn't like her dinner - it really is an amazing phenomenon. I should probably ask her doctor about it.
I start to feed SweetBabyGirl, and there is complete silence (very rare in our home!). Espy and Gianna are eating, chewing, and swallowing. They do it again - eat, chew, swallow. And yet again - eat, chew, swallow. I'm quite amused.
With her plate completely clean, my precious firstborn looks across the table and says, "More, please." Oh how my heart brimmed with joy! No really, it was brimming. I kid you not.
So maybe I should cook more often for my little ones? Because really, who can resist a "happy plate"?
Anyway, today I felt somewhat Rachel Ray-ish and busted out some chicken from the freezer. After it thawed, I marinated it in something barbecue-y and sauteed it for a few. It looked quite tasty to me.
Espy, Espy, my picky Espy sat down at the table and declared, "I smell something." Her nose was scrunched in disgust. Oh how she encourages the chef in me!
"Just try it Espy, you might like it."
"I don't think I'm gonna like it, Momma."
(By the way, who taught my child to call me "momma"??)
Here we go.
My oldest has thrown more dramatic fits over what's on her plate than I care to remember - as if Bill and I are torturing her when we have anything other than grilled cheese or chicken nuggets for dinner.
"Please eat your food, Espy. Remember what mommy & daddy say."
"Yes, momma."
(There's that "momma" again!)
"Don't say my eyes hurt, or my neck hurts, or my leg hurts."
Every part of Espy's body starts to ache when she doesn't like her dinner - it really is an amazing phenomenon. I should probably ask her doctor about it.
I start to feed SweetBabyGirl, and there is complete silence (very rare in our home!). Espy and Gianna are eating, chewing, and swallowing. They do it again - eat, chew, swallow. And yet again - eat, chew, swallow. I'm quite amused.
With her plate completely clean, my precious firstborn looks across the table and says, "More, please." Oh how my heart brimmed with joy! No really, it was brimming. I kid you not.
So maybe I should cook more often for my little ones? Because really, who can resist a "happy plate"?
