Coup D'etat

Last night I plotted my own sudden and decisive exercise of force against the pickiest eater in the solar system -- my daughter. And it worked. And victory felt good. It felt oh, so good.

This, my friends, is a tortilla of the fresh variety.

It has cheese in the middle.

It is about to fool you, just by receiving a new name. Brace yourselves.

I would like to introduce you to the "quesadilla."

Word choice is the most important form of military strategy against unsuspecting two year olds.
Feeding my daughter is like playing chess against Bobby Fischer. You just. can't. win. Nothing sounds good, except perhaps "Meat!" "Cheese!" or the ambiguous "Dinner!"

Mom: What do you want for breakfast, Livi?
Daughter: Meat!

Mom: What else might sound good?

Daughter: Meat! Cheese!

Mom: Okay, but what breakfast foods sound good?
Daughter: Dinner! I want a dinner!

She loves to torment me. Her most favorite phrase goes like this: "I not a like bread! I not a like bread! I not a like tort-ee-a! I not eat yucky tort-ee-a!"

I once tricked her into eating zucchini bread by calling it a muffin. That worked like a charm, she was chowing down "yum, mmm, yum" (she is a very vocal eater) until Brother asked her how she liked her bread. Suddenly her face twisted, her mouth opened, and the partially masticated food fell right out onto the table: "I not a like bread, Mama! Yucky!"

So, please... imagine if you will my trepidation as I made dang quesadilla's for dinner last night. I'm trying to enforce a policy where if little miss picky eater doesn't want what's for dinner, that is fine, but I'm not going to make her a whole other meal. This can be tricky, because for some strange reason, I want her to eat enough to sustain life. But I had to be strong! I cooked the tortillas then spread cheese all over, feeding Brother first. He is also a vocal eater "yum, mm, oh I like this. Can I ... yum... have another before you make one for Daddy?" To which I replied "Why yes, yes you can. Thank you for asking so nicely for another quesadilla, Kaje." I saw her little ears perk up as she sat submarine style in the laundry basket. Now was the opportunity to strike. These are war games, people.

"So, Livi. Would you maybe like a really yummy and delicious and cheesy quesadilla?" I asked. It's all about the poker face at this point. She seemed suspicious, but agreed to give it a try. I thought I saw her eye twitch as she picked up a quarter slice to eat it, and her mouth chewed most hesitantly, reading to spit it back out at the first sign of a trick. She kept chewing. Then she swallowed. Then she ate a whole THIRD of a magic quesadilla! It was like the seventh happiest day of my whole life! I did a victory dance behind the wall so she couldn't see it. I ran down the hall in Ecstasy to share the joy with the Double B. And... he just wasn't as impressed as he should have been. He doesn't have to try to feed the little bird three meals a day. But I made him do a victory cheer with me, anyway. 'Cause nothing could stop my happiness! I had won! The revolution has begun! Muh-ha-ha!!!

Here's the little darling after her full belly lulled her into a dreamless slumber.

Not really. This is her in my bed this morning after roughing me up all night.

But it's sure fun to pretend!