MenGetPregnantToo

What is it with Fathers and Physical Violence?

Rage.
Anger.
Aggression.

What is it which causes this type of destructive physical passion to be so close the surface in some men? Upbringing? Genetics? Nature? Nurture?
 After witnessing two recent altercations, I realize how much even the risk of physical violence tempers many interactions between men:

On the local toboggan hill:

There is one lane to the side of several runs specifically designated for walking to the top of the hill.
One father ignores this designation and returns to the top of the hill via a lane reserved for tobogganing. He has two sleighs and his small children in tow.
Another dad, already at the summit, yells down suggesting the father use the side of the hill for his ascent, thus not keeping anyone waiting.
Immediately the conversation escalates to an argument, personal insults, and a shoving match. It was on display not only for the dozen families present, but, most of all, for the young children of the two aggressors involved.

 In a cafeteria after skiing:

A discussion between a woman and an adolescent mutates into a shouting match. The woman's husband becomes involved. More yelling and swearing; all parties have to be restrained as a chalet full of families with young children, including my own, look on.

There are times I've been angry, very angry, although I don't know if I've ever experienced true rage to a degree which would cause me to physically challenge another person. There is certainly an element of fear in me, but more so what I would identify as sensibility. As much as I would not want my children to witness my being insulted, or my character diminished by another; nor would I wish for them to be by my side during a physical altercation. Whether I was the victor or not wouldn't change my perspective; I would want them to see me beaten anymore than I would wish for them to watch me beat on someone else. I can't imagine what a traumatic experience that would be.

With men, there is always an undercurrent of potential violence.
It manifests itself in incidences of road rage, where shaking fists often lead to invitations to pull to the side of the road. For what? Driving too slowly? Some imbecile being too aggressive?
This undercurrent also gives pause to those just looking for peace. In a movie theatre, I think twice before asking someone to whisper, please; or to darken the backlight on their phone. One can never be sure of the reaction of that man in front of you. Instead, I sit, I huff a little loudly. If the behavior continues, I may mention it to an usher - a poor sixteen-year-old who now has to deal with this dimwit. But, most likely, I'll let it go, or move myself out of the way.
Similarly when someone steps in front of me in line: if it's a woman, I'll risk an "excuse me", but if there is friction in the response, I'll give up. If a man wedges into line, I most likely won't mention it at all. It's not worth it.

Perhaps I'm a pushover.
Weak? Victim?
I don't know. I seem to be doing alright.
And when my kids ask me why those two men are fighting, I say: "Some kids never learn to use their words. And that's what happens." 

 

 

 

Men, Aren't You Tired of Women Saying You Won't Open Up?

 I mean, what's with that??

Granted there are many of us who won't. For the sake of fluid writing let's refer to them as 'They' for the duration of this post.
They are plentiful. They have been the purveyors of the male stereotype for 10-thousand years, give or take a Father's Day.

But, They have a light underbelly; a secret kept hidden even from themselves. That secret is: Us...
They may be like pit bulls, but we are that spot near their hindquarter which makes their paw flap when you scratch it.
When someone offers us a lollypop, we don't think of "suck this" jokes...we think of cavities.
When our shirt is wrinkled, not only do we insist on ironing it (ouselves!) before heading out the door, we pad the Sunbeam with a facecloth so it won't burn the fabric.
Sure, we like ordering pizza, but you know what we really like? Making it from scratch, with quick-rise yeast, and fresh basil, and sun-dried tomatoes, and Bocconcini cheese (which doesn't make us think of testicles).
On our Facebook pages: sure, we like Spartacus and Dexter, but we also like the movie Fame (the original, not the remake), and Saturday Night Fever, and Dances with Wolves....because we cry at the end...those poor Sioux. (Don't believe me?…check out my page here.)

But my real point, which I hinted at in this post about fathers and daddies never being included in page headers, is: it's time to gather as an online community and have a voice. Not as an isolated group of metrosexuals, but a blend of women and men, mothers and fathers, Cro-Magnons and...Me....Us...We. It's not about finding a platform on which we can separate ourselves from others; it's about giving opportunities for contrarians to share points of view.
Dads, join the mommy groups. Moms, join the daddy groups (hang on, I've got to go start one with all my free time).
I'll bet you all a Beaches movie night you'll be surprised at the quantity of common ground. At the very least We can defend ourselves to Them, and They to Us.
Until then, I'll continue to sign up on pages with pink backgrounds and perfume giveaways, and to file my posts under "mommies and babies" because I certainly am more welcome there than at "pregnant and breastfeeding." 

And, by the way...we do have nachos and beer during the Super Bowl while watching these behemoths smash into each other...22 men in tights heaped in a pile. Yeah, like We're the ones with the problem. 
Gotta go...my weekly recipe just popped into my inbox. 

 

 

Why Is It Sometimes I'm Aching to Criticize My Spouse?

After dinner, we divide and conquer. Generally, I tidy the kitchen and my wife prepares the kids for bed.
The hind-end of kitchen duty includes the preparation of my son's school lunch. As some of you may be aware: I hate making school lunches. So, sometimes I fish for suggestions, which my wife happily provides.
Monday night's suggestion:
"How about turkey and cheese roll?"
"I thought we were out of wraps." I countered, already mentally dancing like a boxer.
"We are. Just use the turkey slices and cheese." she explained.
"What!? Just a slice of turkey rolled around a piece of cheese?? What kind of lunch is that?"
"Sure," she was being frustratingly patient with me "three or four of them, along with some carrot sticks and hummus, and voila! Lunch."
I was ready to bob, weave, and counter punch. But my mental seatbelt locked up and held me still. I thought about it, it was a darn great lunch; nutritious, playful, easy to prepare.
"You know what?" I confessed "I was ready to argue about it, but that's a darn great lunch."
"Thank you." off she went, fishing for toothbrushes and pyjamas, children in tow.

Within our marriage I have a reputation of holding in contempt many ideas and suggestions simply because I don't like change. I don't want to be deviated from whatever plan I have in my stubborn head. I'm a master at rolling my eyes over her simplest suggestions: adding one more name to a dinner guest-list, putting a sweater on the kids before skating, fixing the leak before the insurance company offers us a canoe instead of financial compensation. 
Why is that? Why do I get impatient?

To the person on the receiving end of criticism, not only can it be exhausting, but also hurtful. It is upsetting not only to be challenged, but also to be spoken to in a way your spouse would not speak to anyone else.
Why is that?
It's partly because, at the time, I'm not lashing out about a turkey roll, but rather about the dozen or so small moments which frustrated me before I got home: traffic, spilled coffee, an upsetting e-mail, a computer crash. These are the psychological termites which gnaw at your patience and understanding until you can vent to someone who will listen.

In any marriage, one partner occasionally becomes the other's burden to bear.
We nitpick sometimes because we know they'll listen. They may walk away purse-lipped, expecting an apology, but they'll always listen.
And each time she sits opposite me at the dining room table, listening to me crow, she's saying the same thing: 'Despite your chiding, I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be right here.'
 
I certainly will never criticize her for that.

I've Figured it Out: Why a Busy Father Mourns Whitney Houston.

Sitting in front of my laptop last week, I wondered why I was so distracted by the losses of a singer: Whitney Houston, and a ball player: Gary Carter.
I tapped the hind end of my pen on the surface of my desk, and thought it through tap...tap...tap:

I don't watch much baseball anymore, what with two young children.
I don't set time aside to listen to music anymore. Not much, anyway.
So, why did I care?
tap...tap...tap

Now I know.
The answer: 1985.

1985 is the year Arista Records released "Whitney Houston", the singer's debut album.
It is also the year the Montreal Expos released Gary Carter to the New York Mets.
I was 13 years old, and as with most new teenagers, I was almost as prone to getting lost within my own imagination as I was prone to hero worship.

I've lived in Montreal my whole life. Like many fans of our professional baseball team, Carter was one of my favorites. I loved the way he crouched behind home plate, his pinkie holding the edge of his catcher’s mitt in front of his nose, so when the center-field camera was pointed at home plate all you saw were Carter's eyes glaring back at his pitcher. He was the reason my first baseball glove was a catcher's mitt.
"Whitney Houston" was among the last vinyl LPs I ever bought. I was 13, hormones out of control, and here was album on the cover of which was a beautiful woman stolen, like a Tahitian princess, from a scene in The Bounty. The only image more captivating than the front of the album was the image of Whitney gracing a white swimsuit, statuesque in the sand, on the record's back.
Then, of course, there were those songs.
As an adult, I would not speak of sitting in my living room listening to Whitney Houston albums ad nauseum. But, in 1985, at 13 years of age, not only was it permitted, it was nearly obligatory.

13 years-old in 1985 is, in its soul and spirit, barely separable from 13 years-old in 2012: still a balance and battle between confidence and intimidation, hormones and blooming awareness, and boys feeling their way from running the bases at the baseball diamond to being transported elsewhere my music and romance.

 

One of my favorite bloggers, Roger Ebert, is fond of saying: it's not what a movie is about; it's how it is about it.
The losses of Whitney Houston and Gary Carter reminds me it was not what they accomplished in their lifetimes which remains with me, but rather how my life was when their footprints were large on this world.
Losing them reminds me I am no longer 13, dusty from sand in the park, sipping on cola, blaring music and waiting to be told where to go next.
I'm older now, and two immortals who garnered my hero-worship in 1985 are no longer with us.

I don't have that album anymore. At some point, when it became unfashionable, I gave it away.
And, where is that catcher’s mitt?
...tap, tap, tap...

Associated PressPhoto

 

 

 

So I Care About a Fish, and I Moisturize...So What??

Do women have this problem?
Are there topics you will not bring up with your girlfriends because you know how they're going to react and it's just not worth it?

My daughter's birthday is Valentine's Day.
(Before you feel sorry for her, let me share with you: from her future teenage boyfriend's perspective, this is a blessing. As an adolescent I was all thumbs when it came to this 'special day to show your love.' I had already taken my girlfriend out for our 'six-month anniversary'. I had already bought her a present for her birthday with my net income from working at the local video store. I had no ideas, nor any cash left, to impress my Valentine. Combining a birthday and this other day to honor your paramour is a windfall.
For her red-letter day we bought her a Betta Fish. 'Emma' is beautiful: glimmering hues of purple and blue, a head so black the scales reflect the room light.
What attracted me to this breed is the simplicity of their care. In the store they are kept in small bowls, without heaters or filters. I have two colleagues who store them in similar fashions on their desks.
Perfect. Easy maintenance for a 5-year-old whose shelves are filled with books and stuffed mammals.

When the children finally slept that day, I researched the frequency with which I would need to change Emma's water. I was instead overwhelmed with online forums underlining the cruelty associated with keeping these fish in small bowls. 3-5 litres, one post read. Heated and filtered water, said another.
I actually became somewhat despondent.
Darn the internet. Remember the good old days when information was only gleaned from a trip to the library? I never would have bothered, after all: it's just a fish, right?
But, alas; the information was now known.

When I voiced my concerns to friends, relatives, and colleagues (Hey! What's wrong with being thorough?? There's a life at stake!), they regarded me as though I had gills for brains.
"Are you kidding?? It's a fish!"
"You realize, they only remember the last 30 seconds of their lives. Even if they swim into the glass, they won't remember having swum into it to 32 seconds ago."

Wow. Harsh, I thought. I let it go. I didn't stop worrying about it, but I let it go.
Interestingly, I realized later I had broached the topic with women only.
I suppose I was worried asking the question of men would seem ridiculous.
But surely I wasn't the only guy out there to have a weak spot for fish-in-a-bowl.

I supposed my broken heart over Emma The Fish's habitat will remain hidden from my guy friends along-side my search for a smooth, aroma-free, reasonably-priced facial moisturizer.
I've been using my wife's. The container isn't big enough for double-dipping. And at the moment I smell like fresh herbs and dandelions.

 

Boorish Husbands May Need More Than 'Dear Abby'

The following is a February 15th excerpt from "Annie's Mailbox", a syndicated advice column:

Dear Annie: My husband and I work comparable hours, but I earn less than half of what he does and have little discretionary income. I come home to my "second shift," which includes cooking, cleaning and picking up after this man, who leaves his dirty clothes, snack packaging and other things strewn about the house. Meanwhile, he runs off to play golf. After dinner, he falls asleep in front of the TV. He doesn't even mow the lawn or do routine household maintenance. He hires out for those things.
...Other than this, he's a good man, intelligent, fun, and he makes me laugh. I'm not ready to throw us away for this problem. But I admit there are days when the idea of living alone is very appealing. He reads you faithfully and respects your opinion. Please help.
— Lake-Effect Wife

This one is from February 10th's Dear Abby; the writer is speaking of her slow-driving husband:

...This is considered too slow for many drivers, who become impatient and aggressive having to be behind us in the fast lane. They flash their headlights and tailgate us, trying to get him to move over into the right lane so they can pass, but Jon refuses to yield. If they start to pass us on the right, he will speed up and race them so they can’t get ahead of him. He says he’s “teaching them a lesson.”
- On a collision course
in Houston

*****

I love advice columns. I don't know why. Maybe it's the voyeurism, maybe it's due to the morsels of useful advice, or perhaps because I gain a window into other relationships and can assess my own performance.
At any rate, complaining about a mate is a frequent topic within these columns. I assume contributors hope the columnist will support their point of view, or put into print words they can't (or shouldn't) say to their partner in person.
The problem with writing a female advice columnist about your boorish thick-skulled husband is: boorish thick-skulled husbands tend to ignore sensible well-spoken women. They are threatened by them and dismiss their opinion. I have yet to meet a boorish man who heeded logical advice from a woman, conceding: "Wow, how enlightening, that makes perfect sense to me." And, believe me, I've met plenty of boors.

Even 'Lake-Effect Wife' who sought advice from Annie's Mailbox specifically because her husband follows the column, has little hope of his behavior being corrected after reading the morning paper.
The reaction is more likely to be: "Get real. I'm not about to be told how to live my life by an advice columnist."
It is for this reason that one of the more effective ways of garnering support for your point of view in a relationship is to appeal to your mate's same-sex friend. Nothing is more powerful to a guy than having his best buddy tell him he's being a turd.

- Mr. Lake-Effect Wife needs to hear from his man-friends: "Dude, you do realize you're being an arse, right? Regardless of whether you think you're right, can't you see she's unhappy? Get up, and mow the lawn!"
- Mr. Collision Course should be sent the same message: "You do realize you're scaring the woman who has sworn to spend the rest of her life with you? I mean, she's sitting next to you in the car in a state of despair because your display of machismo is more important than your marriage. Dude, pull into the center lane!"

I love Dear Abby, and Annie's Mailbox. But, these guys really need a 'Dear Walter', and 'Tommy's Tool Shed."

What if This Article Had Blamed Bullying on Absent Mothers?

Image from effectsofbullying.net

In this article: "Call it the Dad Effect.", the author offers what he suggests is a simple solution to bullying in schools: get dads more involved.
James Watts is the founder and principle of Education Plus High School, an alternative private high school in the municipality of St. Laurent, just north of Montreal. He is also chair of the governing board of a local high school.
In short, he is far more qualified to give an opinion on school bullying than I.
With my lack of experience in the field of education, I am in no position to debate whether his solution is viable. But as a father, I take issue with his arguments and wonder whether a similar article could have been written about mothers, without a severe backlash.

To illustrate my point, I will quote some passages in the article, but will reverse the sexes: fathers will become mothers; men will become women, etc. Imagine a working mother reading the following:

1. "The few mothers who darken the doors of their child's elementary school miraculously disappear just when they are needed most: when the child gets to high school."
2. "Many mothers leave school and all things academic (with the exception of math and science projects) to their children's father. Maybe they see it as a logical division of labour; or it could be for strategic reasons; or because of availability or lack of it; or just plain laziness."
3. "Attend a school's bake sale, Parent Participation Organization event, or home-and-school meeting, and you will think you have stepped into a man-only zone. (Thank god for these amazing hardworking dads who offer many billable hours of service to cash-strapped schools.)"
4. "For a would-be bully knowing there is a mom and that she is often seen in the school is a strong deterrent."
5. "Finally, a mother who is involved in his child's school sends an unmistakable message that she cares enough to take the time to know what's happening in her child's life...It is this mother who will model to her daughter how to be a woman."
6. "So, moms, if you really want to bully-proof your child get involved in his or her school. Go into the school's office tomorrow and ask how you can help out. Join the home-and-school organization. Stand for election for the governing board. Attend sports events. In doing so, you will be protecting your child, and other children, from the potentially damaging effect of either side of bullying."

OK. If you were, or are, a working mother how do you feel?
I'm a working father who is as involved as possible in my children’s lives from the moment I leave the office, until I return. In between, I'm often following up on e-mails, completing forms, and calling home.
The truth of today's society is: as much as roles may be reversing, they remain largely assigned in the same fashion as twenty years ago. More mothers stay home than do fathers; and, as a couple, more parents decide mothers will dedicate their time to child-rearing than to being in an office. I have no opinion as to whether this is wrong, or right. It just is.
In our house, it works well - for us.
In this article, if the argument is "a father's participation is school reduces the risk of bullying", can the opposite argument not also be inferred: "a father's absence from school increases the risk of bullying"?
Thanks, I needed that. Especially the part about laziness.

We have had a minor brush with bullying since my children began going to school. The solution was intervention by my wife and me in the way of talking to our child, informing the school, and remaining in constant contact with teachers and the principle who were stellar in their handling of the situation. An involved administration proved as vital as a hands-on parent.
This may be something Mr. Watts would like to examine more closely, especially considering:
"Fair or unfair, as a principle I grant more time to the complaint of a parent who has been involved in my school than I do the parent I have never met."
Warning to the bullied child of two working parents.
In his article's opening paragraph, the author refers to the research done on bullying: "A plethora of 'solutions' have been offered. And yet the problem persists."  Why? because the problem is a complex one, dealing with human nature which, at it's heart, is fickle and jumbled.
While there are dads (and moms) who could be more involved in their children's lives, let's not insinuate to the majority of parents  that "lazy" working dads may be the cause of their child being bullied. 

And, by the way, when I am at school, I do not darken the door - I'd like to think I brighten it up a little.

 

This is My Penance for Having Neglected Spaghetti Stains

To my loving wife forever and for always,

I promise from this moment on I shall, immediately upon noticing spaghetti or other tomato-esque stains on a shirt or other garment:

• Remove the garment from the sloppy offender immediately after the offending meal.
• Rinse the affected area with warm water and soap.
• If I am not imminently doing a load of appropriately colored laundry, apply stain remover to the soiled region (henceforth referred to as "The Stain")
• Regret not having protected the area with a bib.
  
  
  
  Image Source

I promise from this moment on I shall never:

• Attempt to convince myself or others detergent alone will handle The Stain.
• Assume a five-year-old has suddenly become freakishly neat, consuming spaghetti while not precipitating The Stain.
• Treat The Stain as a UFO: skeptically, as if it is other-worldly, taken seriously only by fringe groups.
• Upon noticing The Stain: attempt to convince myself or others it will be more easily cleaned once it has dried, to then be picked off the garment with my finger nail.

This is my solemn promise to my love.

For others, this is a list of white cream sauces, barely noticeable when spilled on children's garments:

• Cheese & Cream Sauce
• Quick & Easy Alfredo Sauce
• Basil Cream Sauce (warning - this one does have flecks of green!)
• Bechamel Sauce
  
  

  Yes, there is an "AlfredoSauce.org"!  - Click here.

 

Kids, Parents and Grandparents are All Touched by Sunsets

Wikipedia, 'Sundowning': A person who is sundowning may exhibit mood swings, become abnormally demanding, suspicious, upset or disoriented, and see or hear things that are not there in the late afternoon and evening.

This definition normally applies to those in their golden years. But, in our house, the hours between sunset and sunrise trigger shifts in emotions and behaviors in us all.
In the dark of the winter evening, after the hustle of the day fades, each of us anticipates the hours ahead with their unique senses of need, resistance, and anticipation.
By the time night time encroaches, the adults are eager for tranquility, both mental and physical. We're thirsty for quiet after wading in responsibility since before sunrise that day. That state can manifest itself in the form of impatience and restlessness towards the children. But can also create a closeness, a magnification of the parental instinct to hold and nurture them.
The Boy and the Girl can be manic, emotional, playful, defiant, loving, or a mosaic of them all. The sun has set, and fatigue and playfulness are battling within them beyond their capacity to control them.

My son consistently rises minutes after I leave his room with his nightly 'affliction': it ranges from growing pains in his shin to a headache, a tummy ache, an unquenched thirst, or an ambiguous inability simply to get comfortable in his bed. The subtext to it all is constant: night has arrived, but he's not yet ready to greet it. He's overpowered by a child's simple need for a moment or two more of reassurance from his parent. This can be as simple as a piggy-back to his bed, to having his head rubbed while he lies on the sofa by my side until the next commercial.
Once the ritual is complete, sleep comes easily.

My daughter's nature is more restless. Her routine is short: a story, a short song, a kiss, sleep. Her nights, however, can be complicated. She frequently wakes, whimpering and tearful, anxious after a nightmare. "What was your dream?" I ask.
"I was alone." is a recurring theme. Occasional she'll speak of a monster, but mostly the fear was mommy or daddy not being there when she sought them.
She's quickly soothed by a hug, another kiss, or by holding my hand to her cheek for a short while.
I'm fascinated by the irony that this girl, whose fibre is so fearless by day - much more so than her older sibling - is so discomposed during sleep.
Is her subconscious storing this anxiety? Is it pushing it aside while she's awake, allowing more room for her courage, cockiness and cheekiness to lead her through her waking hours?

As for me, sunset brings reflection and a need for relaxation when I'm alone. It may be physiological, physiological, or both; I find it hard to motivate myself for anything but a peaceful resistance of responsibility.
I enjoy listening to the sounds the house makes when it's quiet: the hum of the furnace, the wind nudging a beam here, a window there. It seems almost as though our home is aware of the day's travails and is itself at a state of rest.

The onset of night never increases my mood swings, nor does it make me demanding, or disoriented.
But, I am more likely to become introspective, perhaps emotional, as I'm released from daylight.
The children can become upset and disoriented; either through their dreams or the restless moments before sleep takes over.
Morning always brings with it those same little faces, now refreshed and eager; little bodies which hop and skip from one part of their day to the next the way only children do.
But on occasion, when twelve hours later the sun goes down, we each become affected by our own sprinkling of Sundowners.

Photo Credit

 

Muhammad Ali Never Went Three Rounds Over Broccoli

Charisma, stamina, a willingness to defend a cause at all costs, words which sting as much as any punch ever thrown, and a remarkable distaste for vegetables - especially if they're green.
Meet my daughter.

I try to make meals as fun as possible; shaping food into sticks, making homemade pizza with whole wheat flour; disguising proteins with tasty sauces (ketchup, for instance), and defaulting to favorites when necessary. I also insist on a vegetable.
There are very few they actually enjoy...actually, there's but one - carrots. Everything else is turned away with a level of distain witnessed only at televised divorce proceedings. Two veggies have recently begun to make breakthroughs: green salad, and broccoli.
The former cannot have leaves which are too big: "They don't fit into my mouth.", or too small: "I can't get them with my fork!"
The latter cannot be too al dente: "It's too hard!", or over cooked: "It's all mushy!"
Lately, I've had some success sprinkling a teaspoon of parmesan cheese and a dash of soy sauce into the mixture. But, Tuesday night became The Rumble in the Jungle. Only it wasn't Ali vs George Foreman, it was FatherDaddy against The Girl, soon to be 5-years-old.

ROUND 1:
The meal consisted of sausages, roasted potato, and Soylent Green, a.k.a.: broccoli.
My son gobbled his meal, and asked for more sausage. There was one left.
"But I also want more sausage!" she said; her plate still robust with main course.
"You have to have your broccoli." I answered. The first jab was thrown.
I became the Judge Judy of parenting: fair, but firm. I sliced the sausage lengthwise (width-wise would have encouraged measurement among the children) and gave half to The Boy.
As she exhaled her first breath of protest, I reassured her she could have the second half...after she ate the veggie.
She reached instead for the potato; Foreman showed no signs of fearing the smarter champion.
"Never mind the potato. I don't mind if you don't finish the potato, I want you to have the broccoli."
She ate all the potato and declared she was full. Not too full, however; she asked for that last half-sausage.

ROUND 2:
"Sweetie...the broccoli."
"I'm too full for broccoli!!"

It was time for tough love; I donated the remaining sliver of sausage to The Boy.
Remember when the side of Mount St. Helens blew sending ash as far away as Edmonton? Kids play. She really hated that broccoli.
"But sweetie, you've had broccoli before, what's the problem? It's only three pieces."
"It tastes funny." she admitted frog-throated, through tears.
Ahhhh. Now I understood. While preparing supper I noticed we were out of soy sauce, so I replaced it with teriyaki. Before you lecture me concerning the unrealistic expectations I place on my daughter's palate, know this: the previous evening she ate dumplings, which she drowned in teriyaki  sauce.
But still, I'm not totally insensitive to the boiling-over emotions of a four-year-old. I got a piece of processed cheese from the fridge, placed a sliver on each of the three florets, and microwaved the whole gang for a few seconds.
I returned the plate to its little owner and began to tidy the kitchen.
Three minutes later she stood next to me, plate in hand. On the plate: three morsels of broccoli, stripped naked of their cheesy robes. She ate the cheese, left the veggie.

ROUND 3:
"OK, now this is getting silly! You love that cheese! I was doing you a favor by giving you a special treat of cheese with your broccoli, and you still haven't eaten those three silly pieces of vegetable! It's three pieces!!!!!"
"But I'm fuuuuullllllllll!" Whimper, whimper. Cry, cry.

Digression:
For whoever may not be familiar with it, the "Rumble in the Jungle" was a boxing match featuring Muhammad Ali against a bigger, stronger heavyweight champion: George Foreman. Ali eventually won the fight through a tactic now know as the 'Rope-a-Dope'. This involved Ali resting against the ropes while George pummelled him, almost non-stop, for seven rounds. In the eight round, George was spent, and Ali knocked him out.

Back to my kitchen, where I knew if I didn't come off the ropes, I'd loose the bout.
I needed a winning tactic.
The absence of dessert was already a given; we both knew that. There's no TV after dinner on school nights, so depriving her of it was useless. I had but one option:
"If you don't eat that broccoli, there's no warm milk for you in the morning."
Waking up with a sippy-cup of warm milk is to my daughter what Marlboros were to Yul Brenner (I know, I need to update my references).
There was silence.
She was computing; weighing the pros and cons. During the Ali/Foreman fight Ali was, with each punch, whispering in Foreman's ear "Is that all you got, George?" That's what I was doing now, finding out if this little girl had anything left.
She took all three florets and shoved them into her mouth.

"You don't have to do that, you know. You'll choke."
She stood there, choking, gagging, sputtering, and backfiring. My daughter was the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang of fresh produce.
But, down they went.
When she was done, she handed me her plate. I said thank you, and continued washing dishes.
It was then I realized we weren't done.
I felt her sidle up to me, and hug my leg. There was still healing which needed to take place.
I knelt in front of her, and we hugged as she wept tears of release and relief.

 I'm sure this isn't the last time we will rumble over greens, this little floret and I. And I know this is a rite of passage for us both.
When the contest is over, one of us will be left left standing, and all will be forgiven.
I'm glad for the fighting spirit in this little champion.
While I love the way she floats like a butterfly, I also love that side of her which stings like a bee.