The Eternal Game

My daughter isn’t shy about what she wants. She wants to cry when she is stressed. She wants to sleep on top of an army of stuffed animals. She wants to do things herself, including cooking, driving, reading and surgery. She also wants ice cream.

Fish sticks and peas were served for dinner. She likes fish sticks, especially with ketchup. No problems there. She gingerly licked a single pea she had taken from the plate. The Doctor and I watched the reaction.

She chewed and swallowed, and went for another pea. That one was eaten as well. We were about to focus on other things when my daughter demanded ice cream.

Aha! I recognized this as the opening gambit of the parent-child eating game. I played the “maybe if you finish your peas” card.

She recognized the gambit, and responded with “no.”

I parried, “you can’t have ice cream without eating more peas.”

My daughter tried a new strategy tonight, “all done!” she said as she pushed the plate away. She gave us the stink eye to let us know she's serious.

“If you’re all done, you’re all done, but you can’t have ice cream without eating more peas.” She clearly wasn’t expecting this tactic. She looked confused, ready to argue the point.

I had prepared for an argument consisting of, “I understand your position, father, but I’m really just not that fond of the peas that you have chosen to serve me tonight. Perhaps if you have some other vegetable that I might find more palatable, I would be more inclined to eat it, rather than the peas. In the absence of another vegetable tonight, might I partake of a serving of ice cream, in exchange for eating a double serving of tomorrow night’s vegetables, whatever they may be?”

Instead, my daughter blundered forward. “All done! Ice cream!”

“Not unless you eat more peas.”

Miraculously, my daughter actually picked up a spoonful of peas. She wrapped her mouth around the spoon, and started chewing the peas. Then she made to cough, raised her hand to her mouth and spit the peas all over her hand. It was a sloppy attempt to conceal the fact she didn’t eat her peas. I’m going to have to teach her better technique someday.

“All done! Ice cream!” How do you explain to a two year old that what she just did doesn’t count?

I took the plate away.

“ICE CREA-A-A-M.” The Doctor and I sat there, looking at our daughter. “Not unless you eat more peas.” “Ice Cream!”

“Peas first.”

“Ice Cream!”

“Peas first.”

It occurred to me that this test of wills could last a while. In time, she would grow, go off to college, get married and have children of her own before ever tasting these peas.

So the three of us sat, there, taking stock of the situation. If this were poker, the time had come to reveal the cards.

As it turns out, my daughter didn’t have a great hand, after all. “Peas!” She actually requested the peas.

I got a spoonful of peas, and she ate them. She even opened her mouth so The Doctor and I could see that they were swallowed this time.

My daughter ended up licking the ice cream bowl clean. All of us have never been happier. As happy as I am now, I know she'll be outsmarting me soon enough. For now, I'm also happy she'll go off to college knowing what it takes to get some ice cream.