Power Play

Oh my Robby Roo.  He has so much of me in him, it isn't even funny sometimes.  The other day, about 1 hour into one of his many rants, Michael looked at me exasperated and said, "I don't remember being like this as a kid."

I smirked and said, "I do."

He likes to fight about what to wear, who will dress him, what to play, going to bed, how many bedtime stories, how many bedtime songs, going to sleep.  I've said more than once, "Today, Robby woke up screaming and didn't stop till he passed out at night."  It may be a slight exaggeration, but there is an element of truth to it too.

There was always one thing I never thought I'd have to battle Rob about.  Eating.  He has always been a good eater and has always loved to eat good food.  In fact, this past Christmas, he was ecstatic to find a green pepper in his stocking.  Eating battles with Robby were more about eating his meal in order to get more veggies.  The worst food related battle I could recall involved me running out of carrots.  How could I do such a thing?!?!

The first time I remember Robby turning his nose up to food was this winter when he decided he "HATES ravanoli.  Ravanoli is gross!"  (To which I replied, "Then it's a good thing I didn't make ravanoli and made ravioli instead!")  I've since made ravioli sparingly and have enough other stuff with it that we don't have to argue too much.

Things were moving along well on the dinner front.  (Were being the opportune word.)  I found myself having to tell him more and more frequently to eat a little more of his meat, hot dish, or whatever meal so he could have more carrots, broccoli, green beans, or whatever vegetable I was serving.  Still not too big of a deal in my mind.

And then, one night, I served: PASTA! duh-nuh-nuh!

Sometimes it's like has a switch and one can never be sure what will flip that switch, but that night, it was pasta.  He screamed.  He flailed.  He kicked.  He was carried to his room numerous times.  He demanded to be made a different meal.  He reasoned.  And for the most part, we rolled our eyes, ignored, carried him off to his room, and ignored a great deal more.  But the reasoning what was really got me rolling.

"I can't eat pasta.  I'm allergic!"

"Don't you know I hate pasta?!  I've ALWAYS hated pasta!"

"I can't eat pasta.  It makes me sick.  Do you want me to be sick?  Do you want me to have diarrhea and throw up in my bed?"

"Why do you ALWAYS make pasta?  You made it last night, and the night before, and the night before.  You make a hundred million times!"

On and on he went giving at least 1 dozen different reasons why he can't eat pasta.  Then there was the one that had me literally doubled over in hysterics: "I can't eat pasta!  When I eat pasta, it makes my penis grow in my undies!"

Michael missed that one and was asking me what was wrong.  I tried answering, but couldn't catch my breath long enough to speak a full sentence.  After a few attempts, I managed to relay the kid quote of the day to Michael and then thanked Robby for his constant contributions to my future book.  Now if I only had the time to write it...