It finally happened.
I went on strike.
After five years of fighting to get my children to eat their vegetables; five years of pureeing them into sauces and hiding them in pasta; five years of battles when I served anything other than mac and cheese or pizza, I finally went on strike.
Being a single mom isn’t a whole lot of fun. Especially at dinner. After a day at work, the last thing I want to do is come home, cook dinner and then clean up the mess. Still, because I felt it was my obligation to ensure my children are eating healthy, well-balanced meals, I cooked.
And then fought.
And then found myself getting frustrated as dish after dish was turned away.
I tried it all. For some reason, nothing worked. I’m sure a therapist would say their rebellion was some sort of bid for control, to push the boundaries in their newly restructured world.
But I’m not a therapist.
So I went on strike.
For two weeks, dinner was cereal. And we’re not talking Fruit Loops. We’re talking Rice Chex or Cheerios.
The first few nights, they loved it. Then, I started to notice a lack of enthusiasm. Finally, when I felt the time was right, I offered to make tuna casserole and green beans. Joseph looked at me, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t like green beans.”
“Yes you do. You ate them at Thanksgiving, no problem.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Okay. Then I guess I’ll just make cereal.”
“No!! I’ll eat them!”
Sure enough, both kids ate their dinner that night. Every bite. And they’ve eaten every meal since. Some might think going on strike was a harsh reaction to a tough situation. I say it worked.
Have you ever taken such drastic measures?