Mini Minx is rapidly developing into a
right little madam bloody-minded sod assertive little girl.
She’s spot-on average length and weight for her age. So when she sometimes goes on food strike, I just repeat the Mummy mantra of “It takes 64 days of no food for a toddler to starve”. Sometimes I know she refuses to eat because it’s too bloody painful (evidence: red, inflamed gums and a happy, druggy, shaking of her head when I rub her sore gum with a finger). Other times I think it’s because she wants me to know who’s boss. I think I prefer a food strike to the ultimate Top Trump of pooing on you, which Midi Minx used to devastating effect (yes, L, you’re the boss, you win).
Tonight, though, Little Miss Gum-Clencher was refusing to eat because she obviously thought that being fed was too babyish and beneath her dignity. She sat hissing at me and blowing razzberries, absolutely refusing her favourite roast chicken dinner. Every tempting spoonful of food was met with a wilful little pout and turn of the head at the very last minute, just as the spoon reached the target of her mouth. Eventually I gave up decorating her head with soft butternut squash and roast carrot, and let her wave her bowl and spoon at the wall. She scoffed/washed in the lot. I was impressed at her munching on strips of roast chicken breast with her single tooth. I guess my roast chicken is juicier than I thought.