a true story about autonomy
The Floor Noodle
She won't touch the dinner I just made, but the noodle that's been on the floor since yesterday? Delicacy.
the realization
I was so busy trying to win the meal that I forgot she gets to decide what goes in her own mouth. My job was the food on the table. Her job was the eating. The second I stopped counting, she started.
She wouldn't touch her dinner. Sat there with her lips pressed flat, plate pushed back about two inches with one finger, like it might come after her. And then she spotted it. A noodle on the floor, from yesterday, dried and curled under the edge of the table. She went for it like it was something rare.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did the thing. Every parent does the thing. Three bites, then you can get down. I put the fork in her hand and closed her fingers around it. Three bites. THREE. I said it like a countdown, like I was negotiating a hostage release, and I heard how my own voice had gone tight. She just held the fork and looked at me. Dinner had turned into something we were both losing.
So I put the fork down. I asked her, the one on the floor was better, huh? And she nodded. Completely serious about it. Fully committed. And I laughed, because what else do you do when your kid picks the floor over the food you spent an hour on.
Then I got a little bowl, her own one, and put a few noodles in it. This one's yours. And I sat down and ate my own dinner and didn't watch her out of the corner of my eye, which was the hardest part. She ate one. Then one more. I didn't say a word.
what I found myself saying
""The one on the floor was better, huh?" And I laughed with her, not at the plate."
"I put the fork down and said, "This one's yours." Then I let it be hers."
"She ate one, then one more, and I said nothing at all."
