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If You Love Them, Feed Them

Last night at the dinner table: My insanely picky eight-year-old cooperated, sort of. Sometimes Mamma has to pull rank to get things done.   Under duress, he scrunched up his chubby little nose—whose tip gets tiny kisses from me whenever he'll tolerate it—narrowed his huge brown eyes, and ate a small bite of beef and gravy.  8: Not too bad...kinda pretty good.  Me: Good job, buddy.  He then went on: Mamma, why can Santa bring big gifts but Cupid can’t?  With no good explanation, I told him to Google capitalism.  Dinnertime in my home isn’t an exact replica of my childhood, where my mother held no quarter. There was no option to even think of rebelling. My mom, a bonafide Appalachian beauty with a hot bod and a hot head of bottle-born auburn hair, is the ultimate nurturer of children, animals, and anyone who doesn't cross her. I have followed in her footsteps, mostly; my storm is a bit calmer due to a dose of my dad's rational nature. In the 80s, Mom worked for an Iranian gy

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