The True Hunger Games

"Non riesco a sopportare quelli che non prendono seriamente il cibo." (I can't stand people that do not take food seriously.) -Oscar Wilde

Apologies to those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of getting totally engrossed in the thrilling hit trilogy by Suzanne Collins featuring reluctant heroine Katniss Everdeen. I promise the title to this post and the previous sentence are the only references to the books and now, the movie.

For a different kind of revolution is budding nightly at our dinner table. And Peanut is playing the role of the strong, silent, accidental leader of the cause. She plays her own coy game most nights. It starts with a distraction. She asks us how our days were.  She lures us in by asking follow-up questions that make her seem interested. First mommy: How many meetings did you have? With how many students? What were their names? Then me: How many guests on your show? What were their names?

There have been times where not even a
 Disney birthday treat has amused her.

While all of this back-and-forth is taking place, Peanut is eating very little of her dinner. But My Director and I are. So we remind her, "If we're done and you're not, we're going to get up and you're going to have to sit by yourself." She initially protests. Then, recognizing The Hunger Games are life or death, she nods her head like a good soldier. And unenthusiastically shovels a bite of food into her mouth. All while trying to show her strength by staring you down.

When you finally look away, she gives you a subtle roll of her eyes, a direct act of defiance to what she considers typical parental propaganda. And she does this regardless of whether she likes the meal. It could be one of my delicious stews, or hamburgers and tater tots. (Don't judge.)

But why? Why this deliberate act of defiance from a rebellious child? What happened to her telling me how hungry she was as I was cooking? When she begged me for another snack and I said no because dinner was almost ready? Then throwing a fit as if I were torturing her.

And snack time is another opportunity for a mini-Hunger Games. She states she's hungry. I offer a banana. She asks for a cookie. I say no, have a banana, She freaks out. I say you must not be that hungry if you don't want a banana. She freaks out even more.

But there is usually no tantrum at dinner. It's all psychological warfare. A survival of the fittest. She'll try to entertain us, balancing a piece of spaghetti on her nose and tongue. And when I respond with, "I'd like you to stop playing with your food and eat it," she'll shut down. We know we've broken her when she gives us the elbow-on-the-table/hand-on-the-head pose, a pose I perfected when I refused to eat my pasta e fagioli growing up:

Reenactment. (And Go SU!)

I admit, I am totally the I-worked-all-day-then-cooked-you-a-healthy-and-delicious-meal-so-you're-going-to-eat-it dad. Still, she plays her game. One day she'll understand that the object of the game - what will make her strongest - is simply to eat her dinner.