The Saga of Little Miss Picky Eater, the Chocolate Stash, and a Parallel Universe

My daughter has a stash of chocolate that's accessible to her 24/7, but she rations it with the sensibility of someone who lived through the Great Depression. Surprisingly this stash isn't touched unless she asks us first. I marvel at her will power. If I had a chocolate stash, it would be reduced to wrappers strewn about the house. In every nook and cranny there would be spangles of foil, serving as miniature monuments to my gluttony.
However, my daughter rations her candy, and each night after dinner she carefully selects just one of her Hershey miniature candy bars, delicately unwraps it, and savors each nibble of what she refers to as dessert. She milks 16 ounces of enjoyment out of these little 3/8 ounce bars.

(This page from Mo Willem's book Knuffle Bunny Too mirrors dinner at our household.)

Last week we banned our daughter from desserts. We resorted to this drastic measure after Little Miss Pickyeater refused to eat her omelet for supper. After polishing off her fried potatoes, she informed us that she was too full to eat the omelet, but that she probably had room in her dessert pocket for a little chocolate. Since my wife and I like our logic to be grounded in science, we scoffed at her claim and delivered an ultimatum, which eventually led to a ban of desserts and dips into the chocolate stash for an entire week.


During her week of probation, I'm sure my daughter wished she had different parents who indulged her every whim. I'm sure she wished she had a father who would always choose to don a black robe and play Harry Potter with her rather than one who tells her, "Not now. I need to blog." It's only natural. I thought of this frequently while reading Neil Gaimen's book Coraline.

In the book Coraline encounters a passageway that leads to a parallel universe where she encounters other parents who appear perfect and who focus their collective attention solely on Coraline. These ideal or other parents even bring their "A-game" to the dinner table:

They sat at the kitchen table, and Coraline's other mother brought them lunch. A huge, golden-brown roasted chicken, fried potatoes, tiny green peas. Coraline shoveled the food into her mouth. It tasted wonderful.

It was the best chicken that Coraline had ever eaten. Her mother sometimes made chicken, but it was always out of packets or frozen, and was very dry, and it never tasted of anything. When Coraline's father cooked chicken he bought real chicken, but he did strange things to it, like stewing it in wine, or stuffing it with prunes, or baking it in pastry, and Coraline would always refuse to touch it on principle.

I'm sure my daughter will relate to Coraline. I'm sure my daughter would love a other father who served conventional childhood meals consisting of Kraft Mac & Cheese and hot dogs, but better or for worse, she's stuck with me, a father who blogs, prepares strange dishes like jalapeno-lime sorbet, and occasionally transforms into Mr. Crankypants.