AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Hungry Tiny-Pillar DATE: 10/18/2004 05:16:00 PM ----- BODY:

When it comes to trying new things, Caramia is a terrific eater. She likes all sorts of foods, including fruits and vegetables that her older sister refuses to even consider. Olivia has always been a ferocious little carnivore; Caramia is an adventurous omnivore. The problem is, she's omnivorous to the extreme - every meal had better be a buffet or we're in trouble. Like Eric Carle's famously hungry caterpillar, Caramia likes to eat one bite of everything on offer. Dinner might be one bite of chicken, one bite of cantaloupe, one bite of rice, one bite of green bean, one bite of cheese, one bite of banana, one bite of cracker, one bite of yogurt, and one glass of milk. Meals at our house are kind of frantic and insane, though we do all sit down together every night and at least try to have a nice family conversation. It sounds something like this: ME: See if Tiny will eat a bite of that carrot. MARK: Olivia, do not put all of that in your mouth at once! OLIVIA: Mmmpphh. TINY: Dat! ME: Hey, Tiny Bear, how about a little taste of mommy's pork chop? MARK: No, wait. She's already got a mouthful of rice. OLIVIA: Can I watch When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth now? TINY: Aaaak! MARK: Champ! Get down! Bad dog! OLIVIA: I want to watch When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth now. ME: You need to eat those peas, Olivia. Peas are your favorite. OLIVIA: (bursts into tears) No peas! I want When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth! Let me watch it! MARK: Don't you throw that fork Tiny! ME: That's enough, Olivia. Pull yourself together or you'll go to the Sassy Chair. MARK: Is there any more wine? This is the part where I tell you what fascinating dinner companions my husband and I used to be back in the early days of our courtship, but that idyllic period unfortunately happened to coincide with Eric's slow-eater phase. The boy could spend an entire evening contemplating a boneless chicken breast and a piece of broccoli. It was a marvel to behold him at work. He'd start off by staring at his plate in baffled wonder. His beautifully serious four year-old brow would wrinkle as if to say, poultry? Your earth ways are strange to me. He chewed dreamily, masticating each bite as though it were his last. A single broccoli floret would be probed, dissected, carefully nibbled. Meanwhile, the sun would set, the moon would rise, the earth would turn in its orbit and still we'd sit, waiting and hoping for dinner to end. In desperation, I called his mother. She suggested that we use her solution: set the timer on the microwave, give him 25 minutes to eat, then do the dishes and get on with life. Never doubt that mommies always know best -- and forget having much in the way of scintillating dinner conversation until your kids are older. I wouldn't worry over Tiny's hungry caterpillar routine if our pediatrician hadn't mentioned her weight. Caramia is, well, tiny. Short of putting her in a headlock and forcing mashed potatoes down her gullet, we've tried everything we can think of to encourage her to eat more. Variety, calorie-rich foods, portable snacks -- if she'll taste it, we've offered it to her, one bite at time. As pint-sized gourmands go, she's very independent and determined. She'll stomp over to the pantry door and bang on it till we open it and let her browse the shelves. The other day she happily munched down half of a Clif bar, of all things, followed by a single yogurt-covered raisin and one square of Life cereal. Yesterday she demanded a Fig Newton; tomorrow it might be a bite of peanut butter sandwich. It's impossible to predict what she'll consent to eat next. But then, why shouldn't she keep us guessing? Like a finicky empress perched in her royal booster seat, she has only to gesture and we hasten to serve. Her nibbling hasn't affected her energy level one bit. Tiny gets into mischief that Olivia never even thought of. She can hear a cabinet door being opened on the other side of the house, drop whatever she's doing, and be tossing the contents of the cupboard in every direction before you have a chance to realize that she's even come into the room. Her favorite game revolves around seeing how many cds she can yank out of the entertainment center before one of us can get over there to stop her. Based on her expert wrist work with those plastic jewel cases, we see a potential Frisbee champion in the making. Certain closets, like the one in our bathroom, are so tempting to her that she stalks them; waiting patiently for us to leave a door just a little ajar so that she can get in and enjoy a thorough ransacking. My favorite part of these raids is the expression on her face. She'll stare you down, never cracking a smile, as she heaves bars of soap, spare toothbrushes, bottles of nail polish, and first aid supplies all over the room. She's a toddler Terminator: methodical, focused, unstoppable. Only after she's certain that havoc has been fully wreaked will she barrel back to the kitchen to resume her crunching and munching. In the book, the hungry caterpillar eats and eats until he gets a terrible tummy ache. Then he spins himself into a tight cocoon and sleeps for a long time, before emerging as a spectacular butterfly. Lately, Olivia has become upset when we reach that part of the story. "But where did the caterpillar go?" she asks worriedly. "Where is he, Mommy?" She doesn't yet understand that the caterpillar and the butterfly are the same. While Tiny grabs at the book and babbles and points to the pictures, Olivia questions me, wanting and hoping for a different ending, one in which the caterpillar peeks out from his cocoon at his friend, the butterfly. I know just how she feels. Once upon a time, I had caterpillars of my own, babies, small and helpless, with pink, tightly curled fingers and warm, downy heads. Babies who lay for hours snuggled in my arms, content and dreaming. Then one night they went to sleep, and awoke as two beautiful, high-spirited little girls. They have wings of a different sort, but no lesser capacity for flight. And someday, we'll be left behind on the ground, watching them soar, remembering our babies, and asking each other, "But where did they go?

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