Should I Comment On Another Parent’s Feeding Practices? What I Learned From a Park Birthday
The vanilla cupcake frosting was already smudged across 5-year-old Leo’s cheek when his mom Sarah said no to the third one on the table. It was mid-May, my kid’s classmate’s birthday at the city park, the air smelled like charcoal from the nearby grill and someone was blowing giant iridescent bubbles that drifted over the picnic tables. I was holding a half-empty iced coffee, about to sit down, when another mom I recognized from pickup leaned in, laughing. “Oh c’mon, it’s a party! Let the kid have a treat. You’re way too hard on him.”
I froze mid-step toward the bench. I’d chatted with Sarah enough to know what happened when Leo ate too much sugar. She’d told me two weeks earlier, while we waited for the kids to get their coats after school, that she’d spent three straight nights up with him after a Halloween party, his ADHD making it impossible for him to settle down even when he was exhausted. I knew she wasn’t being cruel—she was trying to avoid a week of meltdowns and missed sleep. But I didn’t say anything. I brushed a crumb off my jeans and looked away, and Sarah just shrugged and handed Leo the cupcake.
When most of the kids had run off to the playground and the other mom had left to pick up her older kid from soccer, I wandered over to where Sarah was leaning against an oak tree, picking at a potato chip. Her smile was tired. “This happens every single time,” she said before I even asked. “I say no to a treat, and suddenly everyone’s a child feeding expert. If I give in, I’m up for three nights. If I don’t, I’m the mean mom. Can’t win.”
I get it. When my oldest was two, I lived on pre-cut cheese sticks and goldfish crackers because it was the only thing he’d eat without throwing a full-on screaming fit in the high chair. A woman I’d just met at library story time leaned over and said, “You know that’s full of preservatives, right? My kid only eats organic pureed vegetables.” I drove home, pulled over into a grocery store parking lot, and cried. I was six months postpartum, working part-time, sleeping four hours a night, and that one little comment felt like everyone was judging me for not being good enough. I hadn’t realized how much that memory stuck with me until that day in the park.
Over the last few years, I’ve worked out a little mental checklist I go through before I open my mouth about another parent’s feeding choices. It’s not fancy, but it keeps me from putting my foot in it most of the time. First, I check if the kid is in immediate danger. That’s the only time it’s okay to speak up unprompted, and even then, you frame it as a shared tip, not a correction. Once I saw a parent give their 18-month-old a whole hot dog while the kid was running around the playground. I’d just had a first aid class where they talked about choking hazards for toddlers, so I walked over with the picnic knife I had in my bag and said, “I just learned whole hot dogs are such a common choking risk—I cut mine into little sticks, do you mind if I cut that for you?” They were grateful, no hard feelings.
But if it’s just a choice that’s different than what I’d make? Like, they let their 7-year-old have soda with dinner, or they won’t let their kid have any gluten even though there’s no allergy, or they’re still spoon-feeding their 4-year-old that I think should be feeding themselves? I pause and ask the second question: Am I close enough to this person that they actually want my input? If we don’t text each other about kid problems, if we only chat at pickup, the answer is almost certainly no.
The one exception is when someone else is criticizing the parent. I’ve started adding a quick line to back them up instead of staying quiet like I did at that birthday. If someone says “why won’t you let your kid have cake?” I can say “Oh yeah, my kid gets such bad stomach aches from too much frosting, I get it” instead of looking away. It doesn’t start a fight, it doesn’t call anyone out, it just takes the pressure off the parent who’s already making the choice that works for their family. If I am close enough to the person to ask, I frame any question around my own experience, not their bad choice. Instead of “Why do you let him eat that?” I say “My kid has been super picky lately, do you find that works for you?” It gives them space to vent if they want it, or change the subject if they don’t.
Last week, I saw Sarah at school pickup. She told me Leo had gone to a birthday party the weekend before, and she’d let him have two cupcakes. He only woke up once that night, which was better than she expected. She laughed and said “Maybe I’ve been stressing over nothing, maybe not. Either way, it’s my call, right?” I agreed.
I still mess it up sometimes. Last month, I almost commented on a friend letting her toddler eat candy for breakfast before I remembered her kid has autism and extreme food aversions, and that candy is the only thing she can get him to eat some days. I caught myself and changed the subject. I still stay quiet sometimes when I should back someone up. But this little routine keeps me from being that lady at the playground who makes a new mom cry in the parking lot. That’s good enough for me right now.
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