Intervention

When she was a toddler, the only sure-fire way I could get her to sit still and spend some time with me was when I offered to peel her some Clementines -- not just the hard orange outer layer -- but the thin, diaphanous skin. As long as I kept peeling, I could manage to keep her in the same spot long enough for a whole conversation. With her chin covered with juice, a stray seed, and her own drool, she'd reach out her sticky fingers and grab at the pulp before I'd had a chance to fully free it.

When she was three-and-a-half years old, she got a baby sister. I worried for her. Oldest Daughter asserts herself regularly -- it's impossible to neglect her. But Middle Daughter can very easily fade into the background. I did my best to give her some one on one attention, but with a young infant, it was often too hard. And I stopped peeling her Clementines. Instead, I encouraged her to eat each wedge with its white skin. "You're a big girl," I would say. "You now have to eat them with the peel."

Middle Daughter tried it several times, awkwardly chewing the barrier to the juiciest part of the fruit. "I'm full," she would tell me after about a minute, and push the remaining wedges in my direction. I knew that wasn't true. I knew what she wanted was for me to take the time and peel them for her. But I didn't have that kind of time anymore.

Recently, at five-and-a-half years old, Middle Daughter has become clingy for the first time in her life. She's been refusing to eat her favorite meals at dinner. She's been jealous of both of her sisters, and crying at what she deems "no fair." I've been frustrated with her new neediness, but have realized that my labeling her as the "easy child" is also unfair. For whatever reason, she needs me to herself, in a way that she never has before. 

Yesterday, a half-day of school, I sent Oldest Daughter on a play date with a friend, got a sitter for the baby, and picked up Middle Daughter from school. We went to a bookstore to hang out and spend a gift card she received a few weeks ago. We had hot chocolate. We then met my husband for lunch at her favorite place to eat -- a sushi bar. As if she were our only child, she positioned herself securely between my husband and me, and wore a smile that spread the length of the table.

Last night, when she again refused to eat dinner, I threatened her with no dessert. Then, exasperated, I told her to be a "big girl." And then I remembered that she is not a big girl at all. She is a baby, really, who perhaps needs a few days of acting like a baby. I reheated her dinner, sat her on my lap, and spoon fed her every last bite. And then, when she was done, I spent twenty minutes peeling Clementines, making sure to pick off every little piece of white thread. She giggled and stuffed and licked her fingers clean of their stickiness. It was just her, and me, at the bar of the kitchen, doing what we hadn't done in over a year and a half.

And from the look on her face, I could tell the fruit of my labor had never tasted so good.