Pick Your Stories- Part 2

This is the second post in a series inspired by a conversation on crusts.  Yes, I’m talking about the things you cut off your kid’s sandwich.  Or not.

You can read the beginning of the series here.

Actually the series is about the stories we tell ourselves and it turns out that for me anyway, there were all kinds of stories tied up in the whole crust debate.

One of my stories was that I would not raise a picky eater.  Another was that that kids who won’t eat sandwich crusts are either picky eaters or on their way to becoming picky eaters.

When I stopped to ask myself why being a picky eater was such a problem, I saw more stories:

• Picky eaters make life difficult for others (because it takes extra effort to work around their dietary whims.)
• Picky eaters have a hard time when they are in environments that aren’t prepared to deal with their quirks.
• Picky eaters are fussy and demanding in other areas of their lives and make things difficult for those around them.

And then there were the stories about moms:

• Moms who cut off the crusts are overly indulgent and are enabling picky eating.
• Moms who cut off the crusts have no backbone and will get run over by their kids in all kinds of ways.
• They are setting themselves up for years of catering to someone else’s preferences and creating more work for themselves.

But one of the most surprising stories I uncovered was the idea that if my kid turned out to be a picky eater, I had failed somehow as a mother.

When I see all these stories spelled out in this way, I can see that some of them are a little absurd.  (like raising a picky eater would mean I’d failed as a mother?  Hmmm…)

But still these stories persist.

Even though AJ no longer insists on having the crusts cut off his sandwiches, I don’t consider myself out of the woods yet.  I still worry that he’s going to end up being a picky eater, and here’s why.

AJ has never liked tomatoes or onions and as much as I’d hoped he’d outgrow these aversions, it hasn’t happened yet.  These are pretty basic ingredients, and for the most part, I still cook with them.  (Because I’m not going to be that kind of mom.)

But it does kind of annoy me to see him pick them out or hear him complain about their presence.  When I dish up a bowl of soup and he’s nudging aside the tomato and asking if this little bit is onion or celery, I begin to think I’ve failed in my goal to avoid raising a picky eater.  (Triggering the ‘I’m a failure as a mom’ story.)

The Usual Error…

I love tomatoes and so find it completely baffling that anyone, especially a kid of mine, could not like them.  For a while I thought it was that he hadn’t had a really good tomato.  After all, who can be blamed for not enjoying the pale imitations of tomato that one finds in the grocery store these days?  So I kept trying.  I bought the luscious heirlooms from the farmers market.  For the last few years he’s helped to plant and water the candy-sweet cherry tomatoes in our own garden.

And still…. Not a fan.

The funny thing is that his reluctance to eat mushrooms seems perfectly normal to me.  I would never apply the label “picky” to a kid who didn’t eat mushrooms, because honestly, who could expect a kid to enjoy mushrooms?  I don’t especially enjoy mushrooms, but that doesn’t make me a picky eater, does it?

You see where I’m going with this?

We all have preferences, likes and dislikes, and to us these are ‘normal.’  Anyone who shares these preferences isn’t likely to trigger a reaction because they aren’t challenging our familiar story.

When I assume that because I enjoy tomatoes, my son will as well, I’m making what Pace and Kylie call  The Usual Error.

The Usual Error is the assumption that other people are just like you.  This is just another one of our stories- and one that we’re usually unaware of.

The possibility of choice

When I become aware of this story, my perspective shifts.  Or more precisely, when I become aware of this story, there is the possibility of shifting my perspective.

If I choose a different story, his picking around the tomatoes isn’t evidence that he’s a picky eater, but rather evidence that he has preferences that are different from mine.

As shocking as this revelation might be, it gives me much more flexibility in how I respond.

If I stick to the story that my kid is a picky eater, my attitude about accommodating him is very different that if I shift to the story that he has preferences that are different than mine.

I still have to decide whether to put the tomatoes in the soup, but all those other stories that come with ‘picky eater’ and ‘failure as a mom’ drop out of the equation.

The advantage of reframing things in this way is that it becomes much less personal and the judgments much less permanent.

It may be a fact that my son prefers not to eat tomatoes, but as we all know, preferences can change over time.  But more importantly, this story leaves his essence (and mine) out of it.  A kid’s preferences about food needn’t have any implications for his character or his ability to get along as an adult.

Nor does this preference call into question my success or failure as a mom the way that ‘raising a picky eater’ does.

Neither story is ‘right’

And neither story is wrong.

But these stories have very different consequences for my relationship with my son, and for my understanding of myself.

I can stick to my stories about picky eaters and the moms that enable them if I want to.

Or I can change my story.

What about you?  What’s your story?  Are you sticking to it?

Please share in the comments!

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