What's Wrong with Broccoli?

My kids are breatharians. Breatharians don't believe in eating. They think that they can exist on nothing but some kind of light they derive from air. Hence the name: breatharians. I'm quite certain my kids know nothing about this light from air business, but I'm just as sure that they are practicing this form of nourishing oneself. How else would I explain the amount of poop exiting two bodies that nothing but air enters?

Tonight, I tried to employ the old reverse psychology technique recommended by my friend Dana to get Reilly to eat some broccoli. The trick, according to Dana, is to get the toddler to think that broccoli is something special, not to be had by the toddler. Liken it to candy even.

I made a big to-do about the broccoli. I talked out loud to myself as I washed and cut it.

"Mmmm... I love this stuff. Broccoli is so good. I like it almost as much as I like chocolate. Yum. I can't wait to eat this." I was smacking my lips and licking my chops.

Even I knew this technique would not work without a healthy, or rather UNhealthy dose of good, old fashioned, full fat, homemade ranch dressing. I put out a big bowl of the artery clogging concoction on the coffee table, where we munch snacks while watching Animal Planet.

"Don't touch this," I warned. "This is for Mama only. You can have some cheese and crackers while I eat this with my broccoli. Don't touch it, please."

She didn't even look up from her beloved Crocodile Hunter (pronounced "crock-a-doddle" for those of you who don't know). Steve was in the midst of getting bitten by a snake and Reilly Kate was enthralled.

"Hmmm... I can't decide if I want some chocolate or some broccoli. I think I will have the broccoli. You can't have it, though. It's not for you. You just eat crackers."

Still I got no response.

I sat down with a plate of broccoli, artistically presented in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a star, and started noisily munching with the ranch as dip. I was quite dramatic with my slurping and crunching and yummy yummy noises.

"I know you shouldn't have this till you are at least six. But today is a special day. It won't hurt if you have just a little. Would you like --"

"NO!!!" She didn't even let me finish. I was cut off before I could even finish making my case. Not to be deterred, I forged on.

"Just as well. It's not good for you anyway. I just thought a little bite wouldn't really --"

"No!!!" She interrupted again. "I can't like that at all." She gets her "can'ts" and "don'ts" and "won'ts" mixed up. "I can't like that rrrrrrrright NOW!!!!"

She has picked up some of my speech habits. I use "right now" quite often apparently. As in "Come here right now," and "Put that down right now," and "We're leaving right now." It gets reflected back to me and with the same tone of voice as well. It's not flattering, let me tell you.

"Just try a little piece. It's better than chocolate. Much better. Mmmmm..." I slowly wilting like a salad gone bad. My ranch dressing ploy wasn't even working. She had now put me on "ignore."

I sat silently crunching broccoli florets with ranch dressing as I contemplated my next move. I waited till a commercial break and then I went and got her Easter candy off the kitchen counter and sat it down next to me.

"I'll tell you what," I was about to make a deal with my two year old, "You eat a few bites of this broccoli and you can have a piece of your chocolate."

Her little ears perked up. I had gotten her attention.

"If not, I'll eat all the broccoli AND all the chocolate." And to prove I was serious, I popped a ranch drenched floret in my mouth along with a fat chunk of chocolate Easter bunny ear. I clenched my lips into what I hoped looked like a deliriously happy smile rather than the repulsed sour puss the combination was eliciting.

Reilly Kate leaned over me, picked up two big broccoli pieces, dredged them through the ranch dressing bowl and held them up in front of her face. Before I could even suggest she take smaller, bite sized pieces, she shoved them both in her mouth. She chewed and chewed as I sat and fretted over the choking possibilities posed by that large an amount of roughage.

When she finished chewing, she turned to me and announced, "I did! Chocolate now, please. May I please have my chocolate right now. Rrrrriiiight NOW!!!"

"One more piece and then you can have some chocolate." I was still wheeling and dealing, so I thought.

I extended a much smaller, toddler sized piece to her. She again soaked it in the ranch and popped it in her mouth. She chewed this piece for a much longer time.

"Isn't it good?" I asked as I crunched on some myself. "Isn't it as good as chocolate?"

"Mmmm hmmmm," she agreed.

"You can't have too much, though. It's for Mama." I was still playing my game even if she didn't want to go along.

"Mmmmm hmmmmm," she nodded and began looking at her Easter basket.

"You want your chocolate now, huh?" I needlessly asked and dug to find a nice small chocolate egg.

"Mmmm hmmm."

I handed her the chocolate and she merrily skipped away toward the kitchen. I sat and watched Steve handle another snake on television while I grabbed some more of the green stuff. I too was engrossed as I watched that crazy Crockadoddle Hunter take on a spitting cobra. It was making my palms sweat.

Just as the cobra started hooding up to take a swipe at Steve, I hear the sinful sound of a toddler's delighted giggles coming from my kitchen. I get up to take a look and this is what I see: Reilly hunched over, as if she were puking, spitting out globules of gooey green sludge onto the floor where the awaiting Truman (our perpetually dieting dachshund) eagerly lapped them up.

It would seem that she hid the chewed up broccoli in her cheeks, fooling me with her bright smile and the "Mmmm hmmm." I started to say something, but before I could even formulate a response, Reilly spat out all that was remaining in her mouth and shoveled in the chocolate.

Score one for the toddler. She won that round. But I'll get her. I'll get her tomorrow. I'll fool her into eating eggs. I'm going to hide them in a chocolate cake. I have a recipe that calls for four large ones.

Roman's food refusal story tomorrow...