FEEDING THE GRANDLADS, part three.
Somewhere during all this time, the waitress reappeared, chirping that our dinners would be out soon, that they were just waiting for the child's pizza that Alex had ordered. Huh? That kitchen must really be in the weeds tonight, if everything is backed up because of a child's pizza.
But more of a problem are Alex and William's manners at the table, when the food does arrive. William takes his fork, spears as much of his fettuccine with his fork as he can, and then tries to stuff it in gobs into his mouth. Der B is appalled. I simply sigh: this is exactly how he has seen his father eat, and he is simply aping the behavior.
Alex, meanwhile, eats part of one slice of pizza, and then picks off the pepperoni and maybe some of the cheese, leaving the rest. Out of the entire time at the restaurant, he has eaten little more than six slices of pepperoni.
And then he sulked because he was finished, and I had barely started my own dinner. He had to wait for der B and I to finish our meals, and couldn't run away.
And, again, I could only sigh. This is how he's been taught to behave at the table.
He's been taught that dinner will already be at the table, that he never needs to wait. He's been taught that he can run away from the table when he's finished, and that he doesn't have to wait for everyone else to finish. Worse, his parents, particularly his mother, has taught him that he "doesn't have to eat it if he doesn't want to." So, he gets to snack like crazy on whatever he wants (fortunately, mostly fruit roll-ups) between meals, and then when it's time for dinner he gets a special plate fixed for him because he doesn't "want to" eat what the rest of the family is having.
And this is how his parents have trained him.
Mommy's response? "Well, you can't expect a child to sit still in a restaurant." "Well, you can't force a child to eat what he doesn't want to."
Strange, my parents did exactly that. When I was eight years old, Alex's age, I knew exactly how to behave in a restaurant, in places several notches above the Olive Garden. (The Smoke House, which BK has mentioned, comes to memory.)
What bothers me is that Mommy has such low expectations for her son. And right now, it's almost a hopeless case; I have no idea how der B and I can correct the problem, when the problem starts with the home environment.
Did I mention that Alex also suffers from constipation? Badly? That he's admitted to me that his "butt hurts" after he manages to handle a stool? Think this might have something to do with his diet? His Mommy sure doesn't.
I'm at a loss.