Food, Grown-Ups, and Babies in Tummies

Since the Doublestein family has officially kicked the stomach flu, we have been eating everything in sight. Even our usually-picky children have been quite adventurous, going so far as to, say, try the item in front of them on their plate and find that they might like it. This week, I made these island quesadillas and everyone loved them. Today, Jemma ate some black beans from Jason's fish tacos at The Green Well, our fave local restaurant, while Annie happily dipped her grilled cheese in a yummy tomato-basil soup. Annie found that she likes edamame. And Jason and I have been sneaking to the kitchen every spare moment we get to pop one of these treats into our mouth. Make them, and write me if it is not the easiest and best approximation of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup you have ever had.

All the praise we've been heaping on Annie for breaking out of her food bubble and trying new things has had a few interesting results. For one, she's much more eager to help in the kitchen. Even though it takes longer to let her "help," she tends to eat more chicken lasagna if she got her little hands dirty taking the roast chicken off the bone. So we let her.

Additionally, she's very proud of herself and is doing a lot of talking about how big, strong, and healthy she is becoming. Because what Annie really, really, really wants to be is a grown-up. And the reason she wants to be a grown-up is . . . so she can have a baby in her tummy.

Here's the conversation we had a couple nights ago as she got out of the tub:

Annie: "Mom, I ate so much chicken that I'm a GROWN-UP now!" (huge eyes)
Me: "Well, yes, you're getting much bigger and growing a lot."
Annie: "Mom, no. I AM a grown-up."
Me: "Mmm hmm."
Annie: "And Mom, guess what?" Pauses for effect. "I have a baby in my tummy!"

We have been having some version of this conversation nearly every day for the past month or two. I don't know if it's because several of the grown-ups she knows have recently had babies (or are newly pregnant with subsequent children) or what, but it's her main form of fantasy play. (Side note: If the movie Cinderella ended with Cinderella having a baby, we would really never get Annie to stop watching it. She'd wear a blue dress with Dinah shoved up underneath and live in a happy fantasy world all the time.) I've tried and tried to tell Annie that she has to be much, much older (I have mentioned 30 as just a nice, round number to aim for) to really have a baby in her tummy, but to no avail. Here's the conversation we had as she was leaving preschool a few weeks ago, right in front of both her teachers:

Annie: "Mom, did you know, I have a baby in my tummy!"
Me: "A pretend baby, right?"
Annie: "No, a real baby. I do!"
Me: "Annie, you're too little to have a real baby in your tummy."
Annie: "Well, when I'm six years old . . ."
I cut her off: "Nope, that's still not old enough to have a baby."
Annie pauses, thinking, then tries again: "When I'm eleven . . ."

I know this is her silly fantasy and it's perfectly normal, but I'm spending part of almost every day delivering little mini-lectures about how there are so very many things she'll want to do when she's a grown-up. Go to college! Travel! Get married! Travel some more! Have a job she loves! Make new friends! Learn interesting hobbies! Alas, nothing I say has yet deterred her from simply wanting to grow up and birth children.

Now, having children (and raising them) has been the most challenging, rewarding, magical thing I've ever done. I hope she has the chance to do it, too. But sometimes I think back to my "old" life - the freedom, the spontaneity, the weekend laziness - and I want to grab youngish-looking single women or couples with no children by the arm as they walk past and yell, "You! You don't even know what a gift this is! You're just walking down the sidewalk with nobody needing a single thing from you! Treasure it!"

So Annie, for goodness sakes, don't keep wanting a baby in your tummy quite this much. Not yet, and especially not during your teenage years. I look forward to you telling me there's a baby in your tummy in, oh, about 27 years. Sound good? Good.