Two Sundays ago, we got together with two church families for our first book meeting, in which we discuss Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation. We thought the easiest way for us to be able to meet and chat was to hang out poolside, letting our young kids aged 9 months to 6 years old to splash around at the pool while we snack on fruits and sunbutter sandwiches and talk about the impact of social media and screen time on young minds.
We had a good discussion, but I also felt myself feeling rather agitated and frustrated– not because of the content, or the company, which was wonderful, but because I was watching my friends’ toddlers, both several months older than Tov, hang out close to the snack table while Tov was way more interested in splashing in the pool.
By then I knew that Tov had skipped breakfast, had eaten one mini dried fruit bar in the car after church, and then had consumed nothing else. Meanwhile, these two other healthy toddlers, both bigger and chunkier than skinny Tov, grabbed fistfuls of blueberries, downed a bottle of juice, and chomped on not one, but three, four pieces of sunflower butter sandwiches. All the while, Tov was expending all the calories he didn’t ingest by scampering and jumping around, totally disinterested in the food.
“Tov, you want to eat something?” I called out to my son, and he shook his head and said his new favorite word to every question: “No.”
Eventually he came by my side to the snack table, drenched and sunburned, and I was able to get him to eat some watermelon, on which he nibbled a few squirrely bites and then handed the rest of the chewed-up chunks to me.
“Try some sandwich,” I begged, holding out a small piece, and he shook his head, “No.”
He licked on some blueberries, spat some out. Nibbled on some watermelon, and then tossed most of it onto the table. The sandwich I had offered to him sat crusty and dry before me.
He was driving me INSANE. He’s got to be hungry by now! He’s eating 1/5 of what other kids his age eat, and using up three times the energy! Why the heck wouldn’t he just freaking EAT!
I had been noticing Tov’s declining appetite for a couple weeks by then. Because he still was his happy and energetic self, I didn’t worry much at first. He’s always been a good eater; some days he ate less, but he naturally ate more the next day. He’s been getting pickier about what he eats, but that’s pretty normal for toddlers his age, and I just did what the experts advised: Keep offering new foods, including vegetables and meat he won’t touch, but don’t ever pressure him. Simple breezy easy.
And then one day of not eating became three days, and then a week, and then two weeks, and by the time we were at the pool for our book club, I was observing every morsel touching his lips like a hawk. I was starting to do what the experts told me not to do: I was starting to stress, and the stress steamed off my pores like fresh-boiled potatoes, burning both me and Tov and others around us.
I told our nanny that he hasn’t been eating, and she shrugged. “He’s never been a breakfast person,” she said.
I gritted my teeth. “He’s not eating lunch either.”
“I don’t like fat babies,” she said. “He looks fine to me.”
“The doctor said he’s pretty underweight,” I said, feeling an irritation heating up into a volcanic rage. She sees how little he’s eating, doesn’t she? He’s not eating breakfast, he’s not eating his snacks, he’s barely touching his lunch. “He’s not really been eating much for dinner, either.”
“Oh!” our nanny said, starting to look concerned. “I didn’t know he’s not been eating dinner either. I didn’t know it was that bad.”
From then on, she made a concentrated effort to get Tov to eat. She chased him with a piece of bread in her hand, going, “Mmmm! Bread! You want some bread?” and it turned into a game for Tov, who ran in circles around the living room giggling, and of course refusing to even taste the by-then soggy, wretched-looking, wholly unappetizing bread. In the end, she would put him down for a nap with his stomach empty, his breakfast and lunch plates still full and congealing and attracting fruit flies.
A week after that poolside hangout, his appetite dropped even lower, if that was even possible. He didn’t even want his milk. He had a low-grade temperature and was clingy, simply wanting to be held and rocked. I took him to the doctor, and turns out, he has strep throat. His pediatrician said the back of his throat is swollen, which makes sense why he completely lost his appetite, but she said it doesn’t really explain why he’s been eating so little for the past few weeks. That just might be normal toddler behavior, she said. She put him on antibiotics and Tylenol/ibuprofen, and said he should be feeling better in about three days.
The next day, after a full day of not eating again, our nanny tried to wake him up from his nap, and he barely stirred. She rubbed his back, stroked his cheeks, called out to him, but he lay like a stone in his crib, eyes shut tight. She got frightened and called me and David. When David picked Tov up from his crib, his head lolled backwards, limp, but thankfully, he later woke up crying, and we were able to get him to drink some water and milk.
I took him to the pediatrician again, and we found out not only does he have strep throat, he also developed hand foot mouth disease. He had no sores or rashes on his body, but there were two painful-looking white ulcers on his tongue and uvula.
“No wonder he’s not eating,” the pediatrician said, eyes filled with pity. “He’s in a lot of pain.”
I felt my heart break, held the poor boy close. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Tov.”
Even then, I could not break from my obsession with making sure he eats something. I ran to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s and paid too much money buying things that I rarely let Tov eat: popsicles, juice, sweetened yogurt drinks, ice cream, soft white bread– anything that would be cooling and easier to eat. What kid doesn’t like popsicles and ice cream?
Well, Tov.
He licked the popsicle but then let the rest of it melt into a bright purple puddle. He would not even touch the bread. He took a few sips of the juice and then left it sitting on the table. He spilled the yogurt drink into another bowl and smacked his hand into the pink liquid, splashing the sticky substance everywhere.
My friends and the internet gave me advice on how to get a sick, low-appetite toddler to eat or stay hydrated, and I got frustrated because I had already tried it all. None of them works.
How does he not like popsicles? One friend exclaimed.
Because, I thought, he’s torturing me. He’s being a stubborn ass. He won’t even try it because he knows how much I want him to eat, and that makes him even more stubborn not to.
Stubborn…like his mother? one friend joked.
Ha ha. Touche.
But it was really eating at me. I was worried, but my love and worry for Tov stormed out in the form of rage. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I wanted to scream every time Tov said “no” to anything I offered him. I wanted to smash things when Tov left his plate untouched, when he squeezed the juices out of his watermelon without bringing it anywhere close to his mouth, when he spit out whatever I was able to put into his mouth.
And at times, I did throw a mini-tantrum. My voice sharpened. My face turned smoky. “Fine, just starve!” I exclaimed at him. I smacked his plate over the trash can to dump his food out and flung the dirty plate into the sink. I stormed into my room and banged the door shut before I completely erupt in front of Tov. I retreated to my desk, my body shaking with frustration and anger.
“Mama gone,” I heard him tell our nanny.
I sat at my desk, trying to return to work, but heart and mind swimming with mad, pulsating emotions and thoughts: Why won’t he even try to eat? What if his eating is always going to be like this, because I’m pressuring him too much? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me? Why am I so angry? Why am I acting like a bitch? What if he senses my displeasure and frustration, and gets scared of me? What if he develops an eating disorder because of me?
I knew Tov is sick. I knew it probably was uncomfortable for him to eat. He did nothing wrong, but for whatever reason, a part of me still blamed him, thinking it was a behavioral issue, for the simple reason that he was not doing what I wanted him to do. I could not bend his will to mine. He was his own person, and no matter how much I wanted to force something that I know is good for him on him, he ultimately makes the decision.
I got a bitter taste of parenthood then. So much of parenthood is accepting the fact that I cannot control my kid, cannot control the situation, and often, cannot even control myself. It’s also acknowledging how selfish I am. Even my love is selfish, and can oppress my kid in self-serving ways. I want Tov to eat for his sake, but also for my sake. I want to feel the relief. I want to be appeased. I want to feel the satisfaction of feeding my kid well.
It bothered me, how selfish I am even as a mother. I’d always thought with motherhood comes this supernatural, self-sacrificing, all-giving, all-encompassing holy love. A mother’s extraordinary love is fabled in the news and social media and novels and poetry and songs. I have a powerful, instinctual love for my child, but it’s also a broken kind of love. It’s a love that can get twisted, can oppress, can consume, because the lover herself is a broken person.
I thought about this a lot this week, praying through it, asking God for help and patience. I also repented.
Last night, before I went to bed, I crept into Tov’s room while he was fast asleep on his stomach, his little fist crooked beneath his chin. I stroked his unruly hair, his smooth cheek, his sweet eyelashes. Even though he was deep in sleep, he subconsciously sensed my presence, and he stirred, reached out, and grabbed my hand. My love might be broken, but he was still made to receive my love, and my love I will give, though Lord help me, purify and sanctify this love I have for him.
I sat next to Tov’s crib, holding my precious son’s hand, and felt tears drip down my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Tov,” I whispered to him. “Omma is so sorry.”
He breathed, in and out, in and out. And I sat there for a while, stroking his little hand, simply loving him for who he is.
Writing for Sophia 