People always say to look for and appreciate the little things in life. I try. Sometimes I can, and do; other times I just can’t pull myself past the glass half-empty way of thinking.

The other day, though, I heard and appreciated a little thing. For me, it was more of a great big thing; something only parents of picky eaters could understand or appreciate.

My husband and our 18 year-old son were out of town together, and during a call home my husband told me, “Man, this kid never stops eating.”

Such a short string of words — this kid never stops eating — and my heart warmed over. I smiled and exhaled a huge amount of motherly relief. I’ve waited a good 15 years to realize this momentous occasion. The child who lived on French toast with no crust, peanut butter and jelly with no crust, jelly sandwiches with no crust, and, eventually, plain chicken, grew into a young man who eats like a horse.

Hallelujah.

Over the years I complained about my son’s rotten, sometimes sparse, eating habits. My father always remarked, “No child has ever starved in Boca Raton.”

I just smiled at my Dad and said, “Yeah, I know.” Ha ha ha.

To myself, though, I thought, “Whatever you say, Dad, but how is my kid supposed to grow into a strapping, intelligent young man if his dietary intake consists of French toast and chocolate milk? Doesn’t he need carrots for his eyesight and broccoli for his brain?” I would turn to my son, who was staring at his plate, stubbornly and with an empty mouth. “Eat your darned green beans!” I’d quip.

I tried everything to balance my son’s diet. Hiding minced vegetables in ground hamburger. Calling all meat chicken because he only liked chicken. I tried the realistic approach and explained the benefits of eating healthy. I threatened. I coerced. I bribed. I begged. Finally, I ignored.

Looking back I now theorize the picky eating issue was more of a control issue. What began as a young, anxious mother’s attempt to feed her son a well-balanced diet had turned into a mother/son power struggle. Family dinners were peppered with threats: “If you don’t eat what your mother cooked …”

Yes, what I cooked. Me. It’s only fair to point out that cooking is one of my many domestic weaknesses. Still, I gave it my all, and nothing drove me crazier than spending hours suffering at the stovetop, only to have my peep snub his nose at my creation.

Thank goodness this stage of our lives is over.

I admit my dad was right. My son never starved. He got taller and fuller. His teeth and eyes are healthy. His brain works perfectly fine. Now, 18 years later, he eats everything in sight. To think I worried all those years for nothing.

Well, that’s what Mommas do.