Dinner and a Show

There was an era when Sis would only eat if I sang. Every bite, a performance. “Mommy shark, cousin shark, kitty meow meow.” She couldn’t talk yet but could moo, quack, and shriek like a boss when I stopped. Nonverbal, but fluent in dictatorship.

Then came the Harry Styles phase. I’d sing, “All this late night eatin’…” and she’d open her mouth like it was church. I’ve serenaded pasta, people. Fast forward, she’s three. She can talk. Now she just refuses food altogether. Doctor says it’s “typical toddler behavior.” I say it’s psychological warfare.

She’ll reject what she loved yesterday, claim her tummy hurts, then ask for cookies. Girl, please. She’s got the whole house profiled: Auntie-strong. Grandma-weak. Uncle-wildcard. She’s not stacking blocks, she’s studying us. I keep showing up. Singing, spooning, and strategizing.

It’s not about food. It’s about showing her someone will always try. I’ve begged, sung, and negotiated like I’m defusing a bomb just to get a bite of grilled cheese in her. But I’ll do it every damn time. She’s a tiny tyrant, but she’s my tiny tyrant. And dinner’s not dinner without the show…