Would you like some whine with your dinner?

Or breakfast?

Or lunch?

That's no typo above.

Whine is served at every meal at our house and at nearly every interval in between.

It’s not on my menu but it must be on my daughter’s.

Shira, 3, whines when she wants things she knows are not likely to be hers (cookies half an hour before dinner) but also when her requests are likely to be granted (small Hello Kitty spoon instead of big silver spoon).

On most days, it seems like she whines more than she speaks. It’s her default.

I don’t understand.

It’s not like her father and I are unreasonable people, wont to deny her every request.

It’s not like she doesn’t know how to ask for something properly. When prompted, she is the essence of Emily Post.

Here’s an example:

Her: “Mama, I waaaaaant some miiiiii-iiiiiilk.” (There is something fundamental about whining that morphs one-syllable words into polysyllabic droning.)

Me (annoyed): “I can’t understand you when you talk like that.”

Her (brightening noticeably): “Mama, may I please have some milk?”

I feel like we’ve tried everything. We’ve ignored. We’ve yelled. We’ve decreed time-outs, whined back at her so she could hear how she sounds (lots of giggles ensue), sent her to her room with instructions to return once she locates her Shira voice.

The most obvious entreaty – “STOP WHINING!” – invariably has no effect.

A few months ago, my husband came up with a particularly engaging solution. Alas, it’s just temporary.

“Throw your whining voice away,” he instructs.

She trots to the trashcan, lifts the lid and pretends to spit. “I did it!” she crows.

But a minute later, she’s back to her preferred tone of voice.

I think it must have something to do with our parenting because she’s a different gal at preschool.

Last year, at her parent-teacher conference, Shira’s teacher didn’t say word one about whining.
Was whining so de rigeur in the 2- and 3-year-old set that she didn’t even think to mention it?

So I inquired. And I learned that my whine-o sobered up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. No whining, just smiles and laughter, finger-painting and Slip and Slides, singing and twirling. Happy and well-adjusted. “A wonderful addition to the classroom,” her teacher wrote.

That’s my girl.

Or is it?

The answer lies somewhere between whine country and Neverland.

Could it be a boy-girl thing? My son doesn’t whine. Never did. I hear that from lots of my friends. Their daughters guzzle whine like it’s going out of style while their boys are pretty much teetotalers.

Is it an older-younger thing? Maybe Shira didn’t like me paying so much attention to her older brother when she was a baby. Maybe she whined to get my attention.

That was the opinion of the nanny who took care of my kids until Shira was 18 months old. Never pick her up if she whines, she advised; wait until she’s calm and quiet.

Wise counsel if you don’t live with the girl.

Still, she had a point, which is why I’m worried now about baby Orli.

She’s started squawking and pulling at my legs until I scoop her up. I’ve just assumed it’s because she can’t talk. She doesn’t know how else to communicate so she squeals and cries when she wants to be held. Or is she gearing up to challenge her sis to a battle of fine whines?

I know it starts early. I’ve got proof. In a journal I kept for Shira, I wrote in June 2006:

“You’re quite demanding and can be whiny when you aren’t picked up or when you want something immediately. Yesterday, (your dad) said: Ask nicely! You responded so sweetly: Peeeze.

She wasn’t quite 17 months then.

I did the math in my head – Orli’s almost 14 months. That gives me three months to wage all-out war against whine.

Wish me luck.

Bonnie appears every Monday on TriangleMom2Mom.com