A square is a square

It may be hard to believe, but in my home there are rules. Actual rules. And I am the enforcer. Crazy thought, I know. Among those rules is one which states that I am not a short-order chef and, therefore, Emily must eat what I cook. I am however sensitive to the idea that Emily's affinity for garlic may not be as vast as mine so she gets one veto a week. One meal a week she can request something other than what my amazing culinary skills have produced as long as it is quick and easy. The other night she invoked the right of the veto as my enchiladas apparently contained too much salsa...or cheese. I'm not sure which. At first she agreed to try half an enchilada. That, however, was a short-lived arrangement due to my astounding inability to cut her enchilada into squares. Here you go baby. That's not a square that's a rectangle. How 'bout this? NO! That's not a square. Um, okay. *deep breath* How's this. NO. I. WANT. SQUARES. Then there was this motion that I have never been able to replicate in which three and a half feet of three year old was flung to the ground and spun about emitting a sound not unlike a dolphin that has been crossbred with a bat. After she sat up and her head stopped spinning in complete circles, she opted to ingest two plain flour tortillas. Then she very sweetly sidled up to me, put her head on my shoulder and said, "dat looks good. Kin I have a little bitty bight?"