Consistency, Consistency.

She's not a great eater. She's really not.

Will has always been a great eater, and I don't know if this is because he's just like that, or because we were kind of Nazi-parents there in the early days and nigh-on fanatical about the whole cleanyourplate thing. I honestly don't remember how it developed, but he always cleans his plate-- with the rare exception of some Very Challenging sweet potatoes or butternut squash (I think it's their consistency).

Everett has come along quite nicely in this regard, though I do remember a harrowing evening during which we were trying to implement our Nazi-parenting rules on him, after which he cried unrelentingly and in Absolute Despair for so long that we had to call our pediatrician-friend because we wondered what in the world to do for him. He recovered (I think I haven't), and has gone on to be a really good eater almost all of the time.

But maybe our Nazi-parenting stamina wore out somewhere between children 2 and 3, because Emma just isn't a good eater. What's worse, I am Perfectly Dreadful about attending to this fact and even now will fail to monitor her milk intake for the first half of the meal or her Italian bread ingestion on spaghetti night and so am no help to her Whatsoever. By the time I realize what has happened, she's refilling her milk cup or taking the last bite of bread and her tummy is (surprised?) "so full" and she can't eat another bite. Which results in her not eating her dinner and my (once again) realizing that I Am Not A Very Good Mother.

*sigh*

One of our problems is that she invariably returns home from school "starving." This is a Real Hassle for me, as we don't (Ever) eat dinner as soon as we get home and I am not (Ever) ready to cook something as soon as we get home and she is a child with an Iron Will. "Mommy can I please have a snack?" No. "Mommy, I just want a little something." No. "Can I just have three crackers?" And three crackers doesn't seem like so much and I know it's inconsistent and I am Breaking All the Rules by being inconsistent but Oh Heavens I am so tired.

I've tried wising up in this regard. No Snacks At All of late. I've been firm and she has heard me and we're getting along just fine. Empty belly at the dinner table and the careful monitoring of milk intake. And this consistency is good for her. It's good for me. She learns that I mean what I say, and I remind myself (with practice) that I do, in fact, mean what I say. Not so difficult.

Tonight I cooked up something I've been wanting to make for about two weeks. We still have some sweet potatoes left from our delightful CSA, and I found a recipe in my new cookbook called "Sweet Potato and Lentil Curry." I made this tonight for dinner, along with an accompanying recipe for sauteed red cabbage, and I served it with a whole wheat nan. Yum.

I knew she was hungry. I knew we were all hungry. Yes, vegetarian. Yes, containing the (oh, so odious) sweet potatoes. Yes, delicious and Good For You. I served it with a smile.

She touched it not. She drank her milk. She ate her bread (oh, Inattentive Mother!). And she let the rest of it Grow Cold.

But I was steadfast. That meal was it. The congealing lentil curry, the cooling cabbage-- these things sat on the plate, available to her At Any Time, until she was All Tucked In. Bathed, combed, dressed, having read, having been read to, teeth brushed, lights out, Done.

And then.

Down she comes, peering at me over the stair banister: "Mommy, I'm hungry."

Of course she is. And it's her own fault. I gave her a good dinner and she turned it down. These are the repercussions; here are the consequences. You don't eat? You're hungry. That's how it works.

Still, it pulled at me-- the hungry belly rumbling behind her Little Mermaid pajamas. The blond hair, the pale face, the large blue eyes blinking, unaccumstomed to the living room light. Sweet, dinner-rejecting girl.

In the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed its busy tune: that plate is long since scraped. Dinner time was a Long Time Ago.

So I told her. Yes, I did. I stuck to my guns. I delivered the Truth: "There's nothing more until breakfast."

She went back to bed.

I managed to be Consistent.

But it's no small comfort (not small at all) that tonight she drank her milk and ate her bread. All of it.