But my darling daughter, dinner you must eat!
Food is to digest, to help you grow,
Tis not for practising your pitcher's throw.
I spent hours preparing the menu, shopping at the grocery store,
A gourmet pureed feast I concocted that you deemed fit for the floor.
As for the meager few bites that made it to your mouth,
Rasberry-blown out with little food bits that trickled down south.
Pasta and chicken are to be eaten with grace,
So please stop spitting it in mommy's face.
Chewing each bite slowly is considered polite,
Young lady it's unbecoming to start a food fight.
While you may disagree with mommy's fashion choice,
Wearing baby food was never in season says Ms. Wintour's voice.
Going to bed hungry my infant is a notion quite absured,
You'll wake up too quickly, mommy's sleep will be disturbed.
A struggle to force feed you seems pointless at this junction,
Off four hours of sleep tonight I will find a way to function.
And while you will go to bed with an empty belly,
Eight hours later you'll awaken with a full diaper, quite smelly.
The sun will greet us bright and early with breakfast anew,
My nightly prayer hopefully answered, no food struggle with you.
The chaos of baby-food fusion I have resigned to accept,
Each abstract expressionist food floor tableau away will be swept.
Humour now found in the joy you have making a food-nami,
A paparazzo of your performance art is now your mommy.
The parental battle with baby to eat is a time-honoured tradition,
One comes to learn that children must eat of their own volition.