Anyone else reminded of Albert Einstein's definition of insanity?

The other night, Ethan made me pinkie promise that there were no potatoes in the soup I had cooked for dinner. I pinkie promised, pointing out to him that he had offered me his thumb - I wouldn't want to look like I was cheating, now, would I? After we locked pinkies, he reminded me that you can't break a pinkie promise. Yes, I understand the sacred nature of a pinkie promise. I think he's been hanging with too many girls at school.

But the solemn ritual reminded me of the reason Andrew and I no longer force our kids to eat potatoes. Not even a taste. Not a bite.

When Cameron was four and Ethan two, we grew fatigued at trying to persuade them to eat their starchy vegetables. We demanded one bite of mashed potatoes, and the kids fought it for ages. There was screaming and wailing and a veritable flood of tears. Finally, as bedtime approached and threats of having mashed potatoes for breakfast were unleashed, Cameron took a bite of those cursed mashed potatoes and gagged as though it were pig droppings, then threw up all over the table. I considered making him eat the regurgitated potatoes, but was distracted by Ethan vomiting up his own bite. Two plates full of second-hand food. So not only had they not truly eaten their potatoes, but the rest of their dinners came up along with it, and the result was two boys with entirely empty bellies. We growled and sent them to bed.

About six months later, the memory of that night had faded enough that we went for it a second time. There were spuds on the menu again, though in some other form perhaps. Again, we forced one bite. "Just try it!", we pleaded.

We got the same result. Puked up potatoes everywhere.

We don't make them eat potatoes at all anymore. But we do inflict pain upon anyone who makes gagging noises or uses the words 'nasty', 'gross' or 'disgusting' in front of Drew, and so far, Drew likes potatoes.