It starts each evening when my wife calls from the kitchen: "Everyone wash hands! It's time for dinner."

The words signal the start of our nightly battle.

Ezra, the six-year-old, slinked into the room on a recent weeknight, his two younger siblings close behind. They could tell immediately by the smell wafting from the stove: This wasn't pizza night.

"Are we having Mexican?" Ezra asked hopefully.

"No, it's Indian," their mother replied as she scooped out three child-sized helpings of chana masala.

The boy's shoulders sagged. The four- and one-year-olds threw themselves onto the floor.

It was as if they were hunkering down for war.

SOME OF my earliest memories were at the dinner table.

My parents said I was their picky eater — "Mikey only likes chicken nuggets," they liked to tease — and 1980s conventional wisdom must have told them the best way to deal with it was to force me to sit there until my plate was empty.

But I was a stubborn five-year-old.

I'd spend hours staring down at cold carrots or shriveled green beans, gritting my teeth while my brother went off to play video games or watch "Knight Rider" reruns.

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A few times, I remember going straight from dinner to bed. Other times I'd give in and take a bite, only to end up gagging and spitting up on my plate.

Years later, when I was traveling abroad for work and trying strange new foods in rural Vietnam —congealed pig blood, anyone? — the thought came to me: Our diet growing up was built entirely around my dad's preferences. We never had Chinese food, beets, white-sauce pasta or rice of any kind. He was the picky one, not me.

The revelation came not long after I'd become a dad.

I swore I would never treat my kids like that.

EZRA STARTED moaning within seconds of sitting down at the table.

"My stomach," he groaned a minute later, after noticing we hadn't reacted.

I glanced knowingly at my wife, Bethany, then to Ezra: "Do you have to use the bathroom, buddy?"

He nodded, then disappeared down the hall.

As we ate, four-year-old Eleanor started telling me about her day. About drawing pictures and walking to the park and eating breakfast and playing make-believe and watching a show and petting the cat and looking at books. She was rattling off the names of all her baby dolls for the second time when I looked down and noticed she still hadn't tasted her dinner.

I cut her off: "No more talking until you take a bite."

By then, Ezra had begun moaning dramatically from down the hall. I got up to see what was going on, and found him in the bathroom, holding his hands at his stomach.

"If you're sick," I told him, feeling clever, "you should probably just head to bed for the night."

The boy called my bluff.

He crawled across the hall and got into his pajamas.

Nobody tells you when you become a parent just how much time you'll spend trying to convince your kid not to starve to death. Why is this even a thing?

I asked my mom that question recently over the phone. She sighed, then rattled off all the foods I refused to touch when I was small: Scrambled eggs, cooked carrots, onions, mushrooms, mayonnaise, the crust of sandwich bread.

Then she said something that surprised me: She didn't really care if I ate everything on my plate back then; That was my dad's struggle. He'd grown up the son of an auto worker, in a middle-class Ohio home where wasting food was practically a sin.

"It was a showdown every night between you and him," she said. "You drove him nuts."

I could hear my dad in the background: "And Mikey always won."

My wife and I have tried bargaining with our children. Told them they only have to try one bite of a new dish. Made a rule that they can be excused from the table once they "eat their age" — three bites for a three-year-old, four bites for a four-year-old, and so on — but more if they want dessert or a bedtime snack.

I've had philosophical conversations with them about how ashamed they'd feel if a less fortunate child could see how much food they waste. My wife has found creative ways to disguise nutrient-rich foods as junk: "Yum, kale chips!"

A few months ago, during a particularly difficult stretch, I lost my temper and told Ezra he could sleep at the table for all I cared, he needed to EAT THE FREAKIN' CHICKEN CASSEROLE.

As I watched him there, crying over his plate, I thought of my dad.

Is this how I made him feel?

About 45 minutes into dinner, Ezra was still in bed, pretending to be sick. The baby had tossed what was left of his dinner on the floor, and Bethany had scooped him off to the bathtub.

Only Eleanor and I remained. She still hadn't taken a bite.

Deep breaths, Mike.

"Sister," I told her, "if you don't eat, we're not going to be able to go for a bike ride."

Stony-faced silence.

"If you don't eat at least four bites, you won't even be excused."

A look of sudden rage swept across her face. She crossed her arms, turned away and started to scream. I closed my eyes.

I thought back to those long nights at the table growing up. Maybe I was picky when I was a kid. But I'm a pretty adventurous eater now. And my kids have tried far more exotic foods than I ever did, even if they fight us on the routine stuff.

This. Is just. A phase.

I stood from the table and told Eleanor to try to calm down. I walked down the hall and found Ezra standing there, out of bed.

"Are you hungry now?"

He nodded without speaking, then walked with me back to the table.

He sat down at his plate of curry-seasoned chickpeas. He lifted his fork to his mouth and took a bite.

"Mmm," he said.

Of course.

His sister stopped crying and watched him. She took a look at her own plate, then shoved a fork-full in her mouth and smiled: "Daddy, it's good!"

Ten minutes later, both plates had been cleared.

For at least one night, victory.

___

Mike Hixenbaugh (@Mike_Hixenbaugh) covers health care and medicine for the Chronicle. He also writes regularly about raising three kids in Houston. Someday, he'll sleep again.

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