I remember being so afraid that my daughter was going to choke while she was eating her Cheerios (it’s never to early to start worrying about your heart health) that I would break them in half.

Once, she projectile vomited her baby food, a jar of peas, just like Linda Blair did in The Exorcist. It scared the holy crap outta me, for real.

She still hates peas to this day.

My kid (almost adult daughter, sorry) had an extremely picky palate her first 4 years of life on this planet. Her diet consisted of about 10 things during that timeframe:

Hot Dogs (with ketchup)

Pizza (which also happens to be my favorite food)

Ketchup

Ham and Cheddar Hot Pockets

Macaroni and Cheese

French fries (with sugar laden tomato liquid)

Goldfish crackers

Grilled cheese sandwiches

Spaghetti and meatballs (Chef Boyardee)

Chicken nuggets (with catsup)

She’d sometimes go days without really eating anything substantial (or as she likes to call it now, dimensional.) I’d stand over her anxiously, practically begging her to eat something, anything!

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Oh shit, please don’t let her eat the peas!!Β 

Momma is having a conniption over here, my little sweetie poops.

She’d look at me with her big blue eyes and say, “I done now, can I go?”

What could I do? Hot Pockets taste like shit ice cold, so I’d shrug and watch her run off to go play, waiting for the day when she’d finally pig out. I really shouldn’t have worried so much.

Let’s just say that nowadays, she can hold her own at a buffet.

Ever since she got her own car almost two years ago, I have little control over what kind of garbage food she eats. I always offer her a plate of whatever we’re having for dinner, although she’ll often just grab a burger at work or get a sub sandwich instead.

She prefers my cooking over my husbands (can’t blame her.)

I’m just kidding. (No, I’m not.) No, he’s a good cook. He’s just not as good as moi.

What? I’m allowed to be a little arrogant. We all do something (or a few things) particularly well.

Because of my physical limitations (fucking damn it!), I honestly don’t get to cook as often as I’d like to anymore. It’s a real pisser but I still have all of the knowledge in my head from my many years of being a cook. And when I do prepare something, it always makes me feel wonderfully accomplished.

B asked me recently to cook something special, her favorite comfort food.

Macaroni and cheese with hot dogs cut up in it. But wouldn’t you know it, of course now she’ll only eat beef wieners.

Sigh. Those suckers are pricey! I guess it’s because they don’t have mechanically separated chicken in them.

Trust me on this, do not Google “mechanically separated chicken.” Just don’t.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be blessed enough to be a grandmother, but if I am, I’ll probably still be breaking those already tiny Cheerios in half.

We can never be too careful when it comes to our little ones.

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