Last night my eldest child ate a taco, an actual-honest-to-god-whole-taco. Not only did he eat it, he did so willingly, I did not force one single bite into his mouth.

For those of you who know Chase, you understand how monumental this is.

It’s the first time he’s ever willingly eaten beef (outside that one time he took *A* bite of roast). It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve gotten him to eat something besides pizza, cheese, crackers or chicken. The child’s diet is just this side of insane.

It’s a constant battle in our house. At least once a week I find myself vowing to make him either eat what I fix or go hungry. I’m being generous when I say that I succeed in standing my ground 15% of the time. When he comes to me crying at 9:00 at night holding a box of cereal crying “eat, Mama. EAT”, I usually cave. Most days I avoid the situation completely, letting him choose what to eat or making him his favorites. Meal time is just generally not a pleasant time at our house.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things it’s not a big deal, Chase is happy, healthy, and loved. I realize that picky eaters and poor diets is not something I alone struggle with, it’s a battle for a LOT of parents. I don’t know though, somewhere in the deepest darkest corners of my mind there is a little voice telling me that this is just another way that I’m failing him. That little voice whispers that it’s my fault he won’t eat, that it’s something I’ve done wrong in the past two years. I know that’s not really true but trying being rational when you’re bone tired and having a battle of wills with a two year old.

When I somehow convinced him that he should just TRY that taco I felt like it was a breakthrough. It felt a lot like the day he finally decided to stop torturing us all and walk.

Of course my parenting-pride was quickly dashed today when he refused to eat anything besides Oreos and fruit snacks. I guess I’ll just have to hold on to yesterday’s win.