Ken wasn't around for dinner tonight, so I "celebrated" by enjoying a huge salad. See, Ken isn't one of those salad-as-a-meal kinds of guys. Of course, he'd never complain if I served him one, but I know that no matter how much chicken and cheese and croutons I pile on, I'd still see that look that says, "Okay, that was lovely, now where's the main course??"
After serving Elliott his trayful of avocado, Banilla yogurt, and Moosewood frozen beef with macaroni, I dug into my big bowl of spicy spring greens (from a bag) and roasted chicken (Perdue Quick Cuts).
Then I noticed that I was being watched.
Elliott was watching each forkful of salad from my bowl to my mouth.
"Mama eat leafs?" he asked. "LEAFS?"
He kept repeating it, over and over, seeming more incredulous each time.
Now, this question was coming from the kid who derives great pleasure from stretching out his little arms to defoliate the leaves off every tree, flower, bush, and moss-encrusted stone wall he passes by. On buggy rides, I find myself practically sprinting past bush-lined lawns just to give the plants a fighting chance and to spare myself the joy of fishing half-chewed leaves out of Elliott's mouth. The kid seems to think the world is his personal salad bar.
And now, it seems, Elliott has discovered the bitterness of double standards.
Yes, Elliott, Mama eat leafs.
Unless it's the one you insisted on trying, dipped in Banilla yogurt, then in ketchup, masticated briefly, then held out to me, insisting, "Mama eat leaf!!"
Nope. Sorry. No can-do.
I can't wait until the next time Elliott tries to sample some fresh-caught wild leaves. I can already hear him screaming, "MAMA EAT LEAFS!!" as I try to rationalize with an almost-two-year-old.
Maybe Ken had the right idea about eschewing salad.
Nieka
