Fewer things chap my backside more than constantly hearing how family dinners are a panacea for everything from teen pregnancy to better grades in school.  Ok, family game night is right up there with it.  Watching my kids get all Cain and Abel on each other over a game of Sorry! isn’t my idea of fun.  But meal time?

Break out the wine, because it goes great with whine.

“What’s that smell?”

“I don’t like that!”

“I hope you are making something we eat!”

And so on.  I don’t know where the boys get their aversion to food.  My husband and I certainly don’t have it.  I bear no resemblance to Kate Moss.  Truth be told, before my wedding I had the silhouette of Spongebob Squarepants (thus the running screaming to Weight Watchers).  My husband wooed me with food.  Food I did not have to cook.  He still does.  When I was pregnant, he would toss a bag of Arby’s or Taco Bell into the bedroom and wait for the paper bag to stop rustling before he entered.  Even now I am very forgiving if you present me with something deep fried.

Not my kids.  They are gold medalists of the Picky Eating Olympics, especially Linus.  Tater recently ate pork chop, though it was inadvertent.  He was under the impression it was a chicken tender, which is merely a big nugget.  Baby steps.

I remember when they ate anything.  Jambalaya, crock pot beef and carrots, chicken noodle soup, and Tater loved carrots so much I always had to add double the amount to a recipe.  Now they are wary of anything that hasn’t been processed beyond recognition.  Meal time resembles an episode of CSI, as they dissect what I have put on their plates with scientific precision.  Yogurt will be deemed inedible by Linus if there are visible chunks of strawberries.  Pancakes and grilled cheese better be the proper shade of cooked as well.  A bit too brown?  They’d rather starve and whine until the next meal than take their chances eating a darker than acceptable grilled cheese sandwich.

Linus has reached the point where he no longer eats cheese pizza or macaroni and cheese.  Or hot dogs.  Recently he gave up waffles.

I press on, serving something they like along side the many things they don’t.  I am puzzled to no end how the smell of what I cook makes them hungry, but they refuse to sample it.  How a child who adores bacon refuses to see it on a slice of pizza.

I dream of Kid Chow.  I could probably make my fortune teaming up with General Mills (or Purina) to design such a thing.  Complete nutrition in kibble form.  It could come in fun boxes with prizes inside!  A nice nondescript, inoffensive beige color.  All the protein and vegetables and vitamins a little picky critter needs to grow.

And yes, I just might serve it in bowls on the floor.

I realize I have probably made great mistakes in parenting.  I was too lenient.  I didn’t want them to starve to death.  I offered alternatives, not realizing what a slippery slope that could be.  I would watch Jon & Kate’s brood eat whatever was put in front of them and just want to weep.  I can’t even take my kids to a pizza party and think they will come home full.

I suspect family dinner is just another way to make moms feel poorly about themselves.  Those images of families eating and chatting about their day?  Ha!  Fiction!  Because we can’t handle the truth.  You slave over a meal for an hour (or less) only to have your family either come in like locusts, eat, and flee; or in my case, the seagull family.  They come in, make a lot of noise, crap all over the table about what they were served, and leave you to clean up the mess while they go off to destroy another part of the house.

Norman Rockwell, it ain’t!

But I am hopeful.  One day we will sit around the table and eat food together and perhaps even talk about our day.  I just hope the kids aren’t 25 before it happens.