I would often think that my first born was a fussy eater. From the earliest age he would take a spoonful of the lovingly prepared broccoli and tuna paste I had whipped up and spit it back out with such delight, perhaps pausing only to rub it into his hair or hurl it across the kitchen.
“What’s wrong Sam?” I would ask, pretending that the heaving spoon full of pulverised cauliflower and chicken was a train and his mouth the tunnel. “Choo Choo here comes the dinner train!”. He looked at me with such distaste and promptly closed the tunnel for maintenance works.
The meals were nutritionally balanced and everything that a growing boy would need. They were also a bugger to get out of the carpets.
I once managed to persuade him to eat a Tuna, sweet potato and sweetcorn mush, and proud as only a new father can be I rewarded his with time In the bouncer which we hung from the kitchen door frame. Once I had finished cleaning up my wife was quick to remind me that I should have known that allowing a child to bounce so wildly so soon after eating would “quite obviously” result in throwing up.
Oh how I wish Pizza was a vegetable.