Dinner and a Show

“All this late night eatin’, doo doo doo doo doo doo.” — Auntie Kate, on the verge

Let’s get one thing straight: I’ve earned my honorary degree in Toddler Negotiation, Food Edition. I’ve sung “Baby Shark” so many damn times that I could do it in my sleep, backwards, with a fork in one hand and a sobbing toddler in the other.

There was a glorious era—grumpy, chaotic, weirdly sweet—where the only way Sis would eat was if every bite was accompanied by a song. And not just any song. Oh no. She demanded custom content. I had to invent an entire musical universe starring every family member she’d ever laid eyes on.

“Mommy shark, do do do do do do...”

“cousin shark, do do do do do do...”

“kitty meow, meow meow meow.”

You want lunch? Better warm up those vocal cords, bitch.

She couldn’t talk yet, but she could make the sound of every animal known to man. She mooed for cow, quacked for duck, and shrieked like a banshee when I dared to pause. This baby was nonverbal but fluent in boss bitch.

And when she got bored of sharks and farm animals? Oh, we leveled up to Harry Styles karaoke. I’d hold the fork like a mic, lean in close, and croon, “All this late night eatin’…”—and she’d open her mouth like it was gospel. Not even kidding—there were days I’d be belting “Matilda” into a spoonful of pasta.

Fast forward to today.

She’s three. She can talk. And now she just… won’t eat. The doctor calls it “typical toddler appetite behavior.” I call it a masterclass in psychological warfare.

She’s hangry as hell, but refuses everything. “I don’t like that,” she says with a dead stare—to foods she inhaled yesterday. I’m like, “You literally cried when we ran out of this last week,” and she shrugs, “I changed my mind.”

If I push too hard, she suddenly has a stomach ache. She’ll rub her belly and whimper like she’s in a telenovela. Five minutes later? “Can I have cookies?” Girl.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. And she also knows exactly who’s weak. I’ve watched this child run a full psychological operation on the adults in her life—testing for weaknesses, measuring response times, watching who caves first. Spoiler alert: it ain’t me.

Cave once, and she clocks it. Toddler brain activated: Auntie is strong. Grandma is weak. Uncle is a wildcard. Use accordingly.

You think she’s just playing with blocks? Nah. She’s playing us.

But I’ll keep fighting the good fight. I’ve fed her with song, with spoons, with sass, and with sheer stubbornness. I’ll do it every damn time. Because that kid may be small, but she’s got a hunger for power—whether or not she’s actually hungry for lunch.

✨ Auntie’s raw take:

Listen. I’ve sung for my supper, begged like a street performer, and danced the delicate line between Mary Poppins and Gordon Ramsay just to get a bite of food into this child. And for what? So she can glare at her grilled cheese like I just served her roadkill? This kid has opinions—flexible as hell when it comes to cookies, immovable when broccoli enters the chat.

But here’s the kicker: I still do it. Every time.

Because this twisted, infuriating ritual isn’t really about the food. It’s about showing up. It’s about teaching her that someone will always try—even when she’s in full meltdown mode, rocking a princess dress and a fake stomach ache. It’s about consistency. About connection. About letting her be moody and mouthy and still completely, unconditionally fed.

And yeah, I know she’s running a social experiment on us all. She’s got our weaknesses mapped out like a CIA op. But I’m onto her. I’m not just the snack supplier—I’m the war strategist. The one who won’t flinch, won’t cave, and definitely won’t hand over cookies just because she fake-rubbed her belly like an orphan in a soap opera.

She might not always eat what I give her. But she’s always fed. Always seen. Always loved.

And let’s be honest—if I wasn’t part of this ridiculous dinner drama? I’d miss it.

She’s a tiny tyrant, but she’s my tiny tyrant.

And I’ll sing that Harry Styles line until the day she rolls her eyes and says, “Teetee, stop.”

But she won’t mean it. Because deep down, she knows: dinner’s not the same without the show.