What's For Dinner?

I have a picky eater.  She's 5.  Our family dinners have been taken hostage by obscure rules created a la minute by ruffles and blue eyes:  "I don't eat white food," she sighs, flouncing away from the plate.  Oh!  I didn't know...I feel apologetic;  I feel frustrated;  I feel like a failure.  Why haven't I, her mother, tapped the code to fix her?  What game have I missed?  What phrase has not crossed my June Cleaver lips, understanding and patient, to get her to sit down and take one bite?  She spins away, nightly, in her sing-song way, from the plate of ratatouille with polenta to my revered Mediterranean pasta.  (...sigh...)

She's not starving.  She's not fixated.  She's just matter-of-fact.  Somehow, without tasting--and sometimes without even looking!-- she knows deep down that polenta is not her thing, that roasted potatoes are yucky, that my Mediterranean pasta makes her head hurt.  (...deep sigh...)

We've created a small list.  Some things are acceptable, but these things are awesome:  rotisserie chicken, quesadillas (no fancy stuff, please!) tortellini, ...........corn dogs..... I know!  The shame!  It's the corn dog that really brings my head down.  I must've been truly desperate...

I sigh.  I ponder.  I scheme.  Sometimes I bite my lip and worry.  I'm in a constant whirl, trying to bend and bend my philosophies, my food morality, without breaking.  (Okay, let's be honest, the corn dog broke me!)
But after 5 years, I think I've figured it out:  I give this girl an awesome breakfast, varied, warm, healthy, which she eats with enthusiasm, because she's really hungry.  I pack her a ritualized lunch:  obligatory PB & J, fruit, cheese, cookie (yes, it's homemade).  She has a snack of her choice after school.  I present these good choices all day, and if she won't or can't eat Mommy's dinner, that's okay.  She sits at the table.  We talk, we giggle, we whine.  We feed the dog!  We spill our water --"that's okay, get a towel," I sing.  She has a small plate in front of her.  It's usually untouched.  I clear her plate.  I've stopped sighing and stopped worrying.  Instead of changing my daughter, I rise to the challenge and change myself.  Smoothies for breakfast?  Yes!  Bacon and eggs at 6:00 in the morning?  I'm up for that!  Pancakes?  Absolutely, just let me sneak some wheat germ in the batter...