Messy Minded Momma

Is there anything more frustrating than a child who just won’t eat? I truly don’t think so. I would rather step on a LEGO barefoot than negotiate one more bite of dinner.

My 4-year-old has been deep in the beige diet era for almost a year now. You know the one—chicken nuggets, French fries, toast, Goldfish crackers. Sprinkle in fruit, a few select vegetables, and yogurt (so I can sleep at night), but otherwise… beige. So beige. And yes, I’ve tried everything. Foods I don’t even like myself have been offered with enthusiasm and a smile, because apparently that’s what good parenting looks like. (For the record, I am also a picky eater, so this feels very much like karma.)

My OCD is largely centered around my son’s health and wellbeing, which means feeding him is not just dinner—it’s a full-body emotional experience. Something that should feel instinctual has always felt incredibly hard. I remember being terrified when we introduced solids. I was convinced he would choke on literally everything, including air. Mealtimes filled me with so much anxiety that I spent months working with a registered dietitian—meal plans, milk transitions, toddler mealtime behaviour, how to cut grapes and blueberries exactly right, feeding workshops… the works.

My son has always hovered around the 5th percentile for weight, so I obsessed over calories and growth. Countless pediatrician visits later, I was repeatedly told the same thing: he’s healthy, he’s thriving, please breathe. So I did. For a while.

And now here we are again. Back at square one.

Dinner goes like this: one bite (if I’m lucky), “I’m full,” followed immediately by “can I have a snack?” He pushes away the plate of food he loved last week. He refuses anything new. He asks for Kraft Dinner like it’s a human right. I am stuck in an endless short-order-cook loop and I am tired.

Then, the other day, instead of battling him, I sat with him. I watched. I listened. I asked why he spits food out or makes that face. And it hit me—he has sensory issues. Just like me. And suddenly, I couldn’t be mad. How can I expect him to push through textures and flavours when I struggle with the exact same thing as a fully grown adult?

So here’s where I’m landing: maybe this isn’t a failure. Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe he’s fed, loved, and learning to listen to his body—and maybe I am too. One day he’ll eat more than beige foods (probably). And if not? He’ll still grow, thrive, and know his mom tried really hard… even when dinner felt like a battleground. For now, I’ll keep offering the food, and keep my expectations realistic. And hey—at least chicken nuggets have protein.