I swear, I’m at my wits’ end. My granddaughter... she lives with me now, has for three years since my daughter just couldn’t… well. Anyway. She’s four. Four years old, and a complete terror when it comes to food. A terror. I spent thirty-five years working pediatrics, thirty-five years telling parents to offer variety, to avoid processed junk, to make food fun, colorful, NUTRITIOUS. I saw the obesity rates climb, saw the diabetes in kids, saw the impact of poor nutrition on development, on behavior. And I believed it, still do. I know better. I DO. But tonight? Tonight she had chicken nuggets – the dinosaur shaped ones, naturally – and a handful of goldfish crackers. For dinner. And a juice box. That was it. That was her dinner. Because it was 6:30, I’d been up since five with her, then took my husband to his appointment, then picked up prescriptions, then came home to a mountain of laundry and a sink full of dishes, and she just wouldn’t. Not the broccoli. Not the rice. Not the chicken I lovingly baked and shredded. “No, Nana! Yucky!” she shrieked, throwing the plate. So I just… gave up. I gave her the nuggets. And the goldfish. And the juice. And the guilt… oh, the guilt is a physical weight, I tell you. I’m supposed to know better. I DO know better. I’ve seen what this does. I spent my entire career telling people how important this stuff is, how crucial. And here I am, practically force-feeding my own grandchild garbage because I’m just too damn tired to fight anymore. Too tired. And I hate myself for it. I really do.