They give him THE BUMPS.
At this very moment he is sitting at the dining room table, crying. He wants them warmed up. Nope. Sorry. It's not my fault that when I gave them to you, 65 minutes ago, they were steamy and smothered with melted butter and sprinkled with salt and now they are cold and rather clammy looking.
I LOVE sweet potatoes. Therefore I cook them.
It's extremely difficult to sit here and "ignore" my sons pleas.
As I listen to the sniffles I think back to my own lima bean nightmares and I shudder.
Hmm. Maybe I should have given him a smaller piece... Did I do the right thing? How do I handle this situation? Please God, let my son learn something even through my weakness!
The crying subsides. The whimpers are few and far between.
As I type this, my son is calmly reaching for a paper towel, covering his plate, sticking it in the microwave, punching 3-0-start with a forced smile on his face, a hint of "Mom do you approve? See, I am trying?!" in his curled eyebrow.
He makes his way through the four remaining bites. [The same bites that have been sitting there for over an hour.]
He takes his plate to the sink.
"It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"What did you learn from this experience?"
I don't know.
I didn't learn anything.
Can I go play trains now?
Oh well. I tried.
Parents who are afraid to put their foot down usually have children who step on their toes. ~Chinese Proverb