Something has happened in my house that involves sugar and lots of it.

Dessert has become a ritual, a tradition, a virtual birthright for my kids.

Every night, I am expected to execute a sweet finale to the dinner meal, and often more than one.

This is not something that hearkens back to my own childhood.

Then, dessert was reserved for special occasions. On most nights, it was applesauce -- if we were lucky.

At my house, ice cream alone is not sufficient. It needs a cone and sprinkles. A cookie doesn't cut it. It cries out for a squiggle of chocolate syrup.

Honeydew or strawberries, gobbled down at other times of the day, are roundly rejected post-dinner. "Fruit? That's not dessert!"

What is, pray tell?

My 3-year-old codified her own definition: “Dessert is not healthy food. Healthy food makes your body grow. Dessert makes your body stay the same.”

One day she’ll discover the truth. But for now all she cares about is whether something tastes good. And for her, tasting good is synonymous with tasting sweet.

This very well may be all my fault. Apparently, babes in the womb cultivate a taste for whatever their moms crave. Breast milk, too, is said to transmit the flavors of a mother's diet.

A pregnant woman who uses a vigorous touch on the salt shaker may yield a Pringles-addicted toddler. A nursing mom with a high tolerance for chili peppers may produce a kid who hungers for spicy curries. And me?

Well, I love cookies and cakes. Given a choice between dessert and dinner, chocolate and chicken, the choice is always the former.

It was me who introduced the kids to the gooey joys of a Cadbury cream egg, me who showed them how to open wide for a poof of whipped cream straight from the canister.

But it is also me who makes them taste the new vegetable on their plate before they can qualify for dessert.

Dinnertime had become a nutritional minefield, with me mandating “try this broccoli/asparagus/snap pea before you can have dessert” and them pretend-gagging and screaming GROSS!

I sought advice from our pediatrician.

Why not implement Dessert Night, he suggested. Limiting dessert to a few nights can put an end to daily battles.

I debuted Dessert Night the very next evening, letting the kids select any three nights they wanted. My son chose Monday, Tuesday and Thursday.

Things proceeded according to plan for several weeks. Then, one weekend, my son asked if he could swap a dessert night with a no-dessert night, giving up next Monday for the immediate gratification of Saturday. It was sort of like sugary futures trading.

I agreed. And that’s where the carefully leavened plan began to sink.
Soon they were trading this night for that night with abandon. I couldn’t keep track. And that was exactly what they were after.

Once again, Dessert Night was Every Night. My experiment with delayed gratification had fizzled like flat seltzer in an ice cream float.

I guess the (candy) apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. No sooner have we plopped the last kid in bed than my husband and I turn to each other with a hopeful gleam in our eyes. Nothing X-rated, though it’s conceivable some might consider a brownie sundae from Ben & Jerry’s obscene.  

If we yearn for something sweet after dinner, doesn’t it make sense that our biological offspring might feel the same way?

Like mother, like daughter. Make that daughters.

At 3, Shira has already divined the feel-good link between sugar and emotion. “I had a bad day,” she’ll announce. “I need a treat.”

When I point out her day has consisted solely of gymnastics, a friendly mother-daughter game of Caribou and a grilled-cheese picnic lunch, she doesn’t budge. “I still need a treat to make me happy,” she maintains.

Her baby sister is obsessed with those crunchy cat-shaped chocolate cookies that come in a big round container from Trader Joe’s. “Cookie,” which comes out sounding like “diddy” yet is abundantly clear from the way she points to the cookie jar, was one of Orli’s first two-syllable words.

Sometimes, there is no choice except to embrace your weaknesses.

The other day, we were sitting for a family portrait, though “sitting” is far from an accurate description. The kids were sprawled on the floor. My son sported a goofy, forced smile. My daughter sucked her thumb. Baby Orli was doing her best to cram the photographer’s toy frog into her mouth.

I could remain silent no longer.

“Whoever cooperates gets a special dessert!” I pledged.

That night after dinner, the pressure was on.

“Remember you promised them a special dessert?” my husband hissed as he did the dishes. “We don’t have anything!”

He underestimated my prowess as pastry chef.

From the freezer emerged scoops of vanilla and strawberry gelato. Crowned with some whipped cream and raspberries (lots of Vitamin C!!!), the finished product enthralled the kids.

My son decided to grade the confection.

“You know those signs they have in restaurants that tell you how good the food is?” he said, referring, I assume, to the posted county sanitation grades.

“Well, you get an A for awesome and a score of 101!”

And that was the sweetest compliment of all.

Bonnie appears Mondays on TriangleMom2Mom.