I wasn’t kidding when I said I hate bananas. And that I always have. My Mom says it was that way from the beginning.
I can remember leaving a banana that she had sent to school with me in my bag until it became a mushy brown disgustingly sweet mess at the bottom. When she found it after a week, I think she finally realized that I was never going to voluntarily eat one.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from feeding them to my kids. And they’ve all liked them. I think it’s my husband’s favorite fruit. And my youngest son claims he likes monkeys because “you know why? Tus monkeys like bananas and so do I.” (And here I was thinking it was because he acted like a monkey.)
The point is, I buy bananas by the dozen on a weekly basis and have not even told my kids I don’t like bananas so as to not influence them negatively.
I’ve been working harder this week at trying more solid food with Miss F. And she’s been less than enthusiastic. Though she did start eating those weird little puffed sweet potatoed thingies, so there’s that. After a few days of those I decided to smash up a banana again and see if she would eat it.
I scooped some up with a spoon and gave her a little taste.
She made a face.
Then she made a sound not unlike a gag.
And then she spit it out.
Fine. Whatever. It was only her fourth try. She might come around, right?
Later, as I was cleaning up, I decided to give it one more try before throwing it out.
I held the spoon up to her lips, which she pursed tightly shut.
And I felt just a little bit proud.
Because she doesn’t really look like me.
Her hair is straight and light colored.
Her eyes are dark brown like her father’s.
Everyone thinks she looks like her brothers.
But hating bananas?
That’s all me.
edited to note: Thank you for no one mentioning that HUGE mispelling (that I’ve since corrected). I was sitting down to lunch when I realized I’d mispelled it. I shudder to think what would have happened had I left it.