Once upon a time, my toddler would eat anything. Pureed peas? Loved them. Steamed carrots? Couldn’t get enough. I remember patting myself on the back, thinking, Wow, I must be raising a future chef.

Fast forward to today and apparently, I live with the toughest food critic in town. She examines dinner like it’s a suspicious package. “What’s that?” she’ll ask, pointing at a speck of seasoning. Or she’ll hold up a green bean like it’s personally offended her existence.

Yesterday, she declared her favorite food—mac and cheese—was “yucky.” Yucky! The same mac and cheese she begged for the day before. The betrayal.

So here I am, cutting sandwiches into heart shapes, removing invisible onion pieces, and negotiating bites like I’m at a high-stakes business meeting. (“Just three bites and then we can talk dessert, okay?”)

It’s exhausting, but if I’m honest, it’s also a little funny. Because deep down, I know this picky stage won’t last forever. And someday, when she’s a teenager raiding the fridge at midnight, I’ll probably miss these dramatic dinner stand-offs.