The scene that ensues is always the same. After a few minutes of pointless prodding, he will declare, “I’m done. Can I have dessert now?”

By Alison Lebovitz

The story of The Boy Who Cried, “Full!”

I am sure you know the story about the little boy who cried, “Wolf!” So let me tell you a lesser-known tale about the little boy who cried, “Full!” I am fortunate in that I am not the mother of picky eaters. I am the mother of just one picky eater—our 4-year-old son, Levi. His three favorite foods are hot dogs, pizza and ketchup. And yes, apparently ketchup is a food.
Nevertheless, in our house there is a longstanding dinnertime decree that you will eat whatever is being served. If you want something else, you must fix it yourself. As a matter of principle, I refuse to accommodate five individual tastes by cooking five separate meals. (Frankly, they’re lucky if I even get around to cooking one.) And it’s not like I’m a gourmet, either. I usually offer up a meat, starch and vegetable option in any given meal. Sometimes it’s as simple as tuna fish or grilled cheese. And when my husband goes out of town, I subscribe to the “breakfast for dinner” plan: Lucky Charms for everyone! You get the point. But even though my family fully understands that “what you see is what you get” in our house, at least once a week, as I put a plate of food in front of Levi, he’ll screech, “What? I didn’t order that!” To which I usually respond, “This is the Lebovitz House, not the Waffle House, dude. Eat it.”
The scene that ensues is always the same. He will pick at his peas, stab at his steak and even mess around with his mashed potatoes, so it looks like he’s actually eaten something. And then, after a few minutes of pointless prodding, he will declare, “I’m done. Can I have dessert now?” I will look at his plate and respond, “You are not done, and only boys who make a happy plate will get dessert.” (I know—even I can’t believe I really use that line.) And that’s when I prepare myself for his dramatic finish, as he insists, “But I’m FUUUUUUUULL!” As if making him eat another bite on a full stomach is just plain torture.
But since I am a mother and am clearly smarter and always one step ahead, I retort, “Great. If you’re full, then you don’t need to eat dessert.” And that’s when I hear the 10-minute dissertation on his “level of fullness” and how he isn’t all-the-way full, just enough full to be able to eat dessert, but if I make him all-the-way full, then he really won’t have room for dessert, and wouldn’t that be a shame.
In the event that Levi’s very passionate plea is not persuasive enough, he has one last trick in his belly: “But I have a stomachache!” At which point I usually send him crying to his room, where he no doubt sneaks a Kit Kat or some other treat he has been hiding under his bed since Halloween.
So it should come as no surprise that a few weeks ago we went out to dinner with the grandparents and, in the middle of eating his pasta with sauce, Levi decided he was done. Thus the battle and the bargaining began, predictably ending with his insistent, “I’m FUUUUUUUULL, and I have a stomachache.” A small tantrum and a few tears later, I eventually broke down and agreed to take him home early.
“But you don’t get dessert, and you’re going straight to bed,” I threatened, to make sure he was committed to the plan.
“Will you at least read me a book?” he asked.
“Faker!” I thought to myself.
And then, about a mile from our house, Levi started complaining that his throat hurt. And then he said that he felt like he was choking. “Choking?” I asked. “Do you think you’re going to . . . ” But just as the words were leaving my mouth, Levi’s dinner was coming out of his. He puked all over my car. By the time we got home minutes later, he had thrown up twice more. I felt sick to my stomach. And not just because there was pasta and sauce all over my floorboards, but also because my baby was legitimately sick, and the whole time I thought he was just crying, “Full.”
I apologized to him profusely and throughout the night, as he was up every hour for the next 10 hours. And, to his credit, only once did he say, “I told you I had a stomachache, Mommy.”

The next morning, still writhing in guilt, I let him lie on the couch and watch cartoons all day. I even set up a TV tray and gave him Sprite to drink. But I knew we were both on the road to recovery when I gently put a blanket over him, placed a warm toasted bagel with butter in front of him and said, “There you go, Levi, I love you.”

To which he responded, “What? I didn’t order that!”