A Letter from a Worn-Out Parent
Dear Fellow Grown-Ups,
Christmas is coming. You can see the festive lights twinkling and hear Jingle Bell Rock on high rotation (no complaints here). But if you’re like me, you’re also feeling the weight of a thousand meal plans, pressing down on you like a pile of Nana’s Pavlova and Aunty Jen’s crispy noodle salad.
I love the magic of this season—I really do. But sometimes, it feels like the tinsel is wrapped around a big ball of pressure. You see, I’m parenting a child with paediatric feeding disorder. And while I adore my kid and would slay dragons for them (or politely decline cob loaf for the 20th time), this season can be… a lot.
Every year, I brace for the inevitable questions:
“Why won’t they eat this?”
“Can’t they just try it?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if they ate with everyone else?”
Easier? Well, maybe for you, Nana.
Because here’s the thing—I’m not raising a perfect dinner guest for your Christmas table. I’m raising a human. A curious, headstrong, and incredible little human who’s still figuring out how to world, one bite at a time.
And yes, it’s exhausting. Oh, so exhausting.
I spend my days as their hype squad, advocate, sensory interpreter, and sometimes human shield against well-meaning but wildly off-the-mark advice. (No, Uncle Rob, ice cream won’t magically make roast pork less overwhelming.) By December, I’m ready for a nap, a hug, and a snack. Preferably one I don’t have to share.
And why do I do it? Because it isn’t just about food. It’s about teaching my child that their needs matter. That their voice matters. That their comfort at the table (or on the lounge) matters. And trust me, it takes patience, strategy, and more eye-rolling than I ever signed up for.
Apparently, feeding differences don’t come with an “opt out” button.
So this Christmas, I’m doing things a little different. I’m setting some ground rules for myself—and maybe for you, too, if you’re listening:
Let’s keep it simple, shall we?
Rule number one:
• No “just one bite” pep talks.
Trust me, if it were that simple, we’d be eating lasagne and singing carols in perfect harmony by now.
Rule number two:
• No need for the “have you tried” suggestions.
Whilst I appreciate the thought, we’ve probably tried it. What works for others might not work for us, and that’s okay.
Rule number three:
• Stop moralising food.
Christmas cake isn’t “bad.” Pumpkin isn’t “good.” Food is food, and we’re all just trying to figure out what works for us.
Rule number four:
• Grab a nugget and join the fun.
Yes, my child’s plate might look like a pop-up fried chicken shop. No, it’s not up for debate.
But you know what?
It’s not all battles and compromises. There’s feel-good juju in our mealtimes, too.
Like when their eyes light up because we found a new biscuit brand. Or when they take a brave nibble of something new, and we celebrate like it’s New Year’s Eve (bad example—I’m definitely in bed by 9 p.m.).
It might look a bit unconventional. I know some of you think I’m too lenient. Or maybe too stubborn. But every tiny step my child takes toward trusting food, trusting themselves, and trusting me? That’s the best Christmas gift I could ask for.
So, let’s make a deal: This year, let’s focus on what really matters. Not the food, but the memories. The belly laughs. The terrible bon-bon jokes. The love that fills the room. And if my child brings their peanut butter sandwich to the feast? Well, let’s roll with it.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not about what’s on the plate. It’s about the people around the table.
Cheers to letting kids be kids (and to parents being human),
A Drained but Determined Parent