In defense of (good) food

Dinnertime in our household is a major battle. We don't care if Edith eats. We don't even care if she sits with us for terribly long. But we do want her to sit down with us at the beginning and for that sitting to be a relatively painless affair. For some reason, it's deeply objectionable. It appears that the whole concept, Dinner, is anathema to her. We've tried a few varieties on the general model, and we've even asked her if she can explain what's so awful about it. No luck. Most nights see whining, yelling, spitting out of food, dropping food on the floor, standing up and leaning back in the high chair, sticking her fingers in our glasses and plates, and every other limit-testing behavior she can muster. It all usually ends in tears and timeout for her, exhaustion and indigestion for us.

Thus it was almost a relief the other night to have Edith resort to verbal objections rather than out-and-out defiance.

"No!," she yelled after taking a bite. "This is poison!"

I told her it wasn't poison.

"Well, it's not healthy. I need healthy food."

I told her it was reasonably healthy. (Beef stew.)

"Well, it's just a little bit healthy. It's not healthy enough."