You Said I Could!

       I've underestimated my 4 year old. If you know me well enough, you know she is the child that is capable of pushing all my buttons.

       I feel like I constantly have a weary eye on her, waiting for her next move, like a chess opponent in a game that I do not quite understand all the rules. She is sweet but a diva, her attitude and spark spawned from nature and not nurture for certain, her raising and rules having not been different from her very dissimilar older sister's. 

       Our biggest hurdle since she was barely nine months old has been her eating habits. Noting early on her preferences and picky eating, we as parents and others as caregivers attempted to train and retrain her palate. It has been an epic fail since the very beginning. We've discussed it with pediatricians and read up on strategies to manage her behaviors at the dinner table. A few weeks back it came to a head with an impressive display on all our parts. 

       How shall I set the scene? I had set the table for a family dinner, an infrequent though not rare occurrence. It was simple fare: chicken, fruit, bread, milk, and fingerling potatoes roasted in olive oil and sea salt. My diva loves salt. She tolerates chicken and will always devour the fruit and bread, but we knew she would balk at the potatoes. I made the typical arrangement- eat 4 pieces of the least favorite food on the plate- even putting the minimum number of bites on said plate. Halfway through our dinner she started a fit over the four chunks of potato and her dad allowed some wheeling and dealing to get the pieces down to fingernail size- pinky fingernail on a four year old size. 

       My annoyance built early on in the dinner as she was struggling with slow eating and early complaining. My youngest even ate the "french fries" despite the fact that she generally won't touch potatoes either. My oldest had scarfed her entire dinner and was ready to be excused. I could feel the exasperation bubbling up for me as I asked, no begged, the diva to eat her potatoes. The big sister cheered and the little sister goaded. The simple exchange started just a moment later. 

       Her big sister asked to leave the table to go to the bathroom. I could see those blue eyes light up across the table. "I have to go to the bathroom too," she exclaimed, already wriggling in her seat. 

       I set the tone,"You didn't have to go a minute a go; it can wait until you eat your potatoes." 

       I swear she squinted her eyes as the showdown music started up in the background. "I have to go real bad," she threw down. 

      Sounding particularly fed up, dad spoke up, "Eat one potato then go and come back for your other one."

      " I'm not eating the potato." The exchange staccatoed. 

      "Then you can't go to the bathroom."

      "I'll just pee right here at the table then."

      "Then you'll get a towel and clean it up and then eat your potato."

None of us was backing down. 

And the unthinkable happened in a split second. She took a breath, looked us square in the face, and peed. She peed on her stool, at my dining room table, in the middle of family dinner. 

       A moment later, realizing the gravity of her decision, her defiant face blushed, her eyes welled. I held my breath as her dad sat next to me, hand over his mouth to hide his smile and almost- laugh, then groaned as I knew the next steps were unpleasant but necessary. 

       Before we could be angry, she dismounted from her chair. "You said I could!" she cried indignantly as she took herself up the stairs to change her clothes, put on a dry dress and bring down a towel. 

       My husband looked at me and asked, "Do we need to take her in to see someone? Like a therapist?" I shook my head. She was right...we gave her permission in that choice. We hoped she was thinking it through and capable at four years old of making the better choice, alas, we all  learned a lesson. 

       I elected to follow through as dad cleared the table. She mopped up her mess and sat back down. I watched as she climbed back onto her now dry counter-height chair. I assumed she would seem contrite, would have looked at me all melancholy and sad-eyed, like a hound dog in a mope. I should not have been shocked, should not have been unprepared for what came next. 

       She forced those two tiny bites of well-salted potato onto the tines of her fork. Looking up at me, she shoved them in her mouth and in one quick swallow, they are gone. Brazenly she says to me, "I didn't even taste them." Triumph cleared her eyes then, that checkmate moment won, despite her personal struggle not long before. She kept total control of the situation and even had the last word. I hung my head in defeat, utterly lost in my mothering, knowing I had been bested and I could scarcely watch her hop down, a true skip in her step as she took her plate to the sink and went to play. 

       When I say I learned my lesson I wasn't lying. It seems that she is actually better behaved since this incident as well. Or maybe we are walking on eggshells around each other, neither daring to sit at the chess table again so soon, recognizing a worthy opponent and not in the mood for such a battle.