An outsider would have thought or fervently hoped that Chloe was rehearsing for a role in a Shakespearean tragedy.

The screaming, the tears, the stomping, the ripping of paper…all of the elements of melodrama. All of the elements of a temper tantrum more appropriate for a 3-year old than a 7-year old.

Now, I hate to belittle my 7-year old’s problems. And my husband and I are really trying very hard to acknowledge the pain that she sometimes suffers in the name of childhood.

But tonight’s pain was a challenge. She gave herself red, puffy tearstained cheeks because, horror of horrors, our babysitter had told her she could have raviolis for dinner, but Papa (mean, horriblePapa) didn’t know that and made chicken instead.

“I wanted raviolis!” Promising her that we’d make raviolis tomorrow instead, and dutifully acknowledging her torment, did no good. She cried and cried, and cried some more. And screamed and screamed, and screamed some more. And stomped and stomped, and stomped some more. And got sent to her room. Twice.

Oh, the agony. Chloe ate the chicken, and sheepishly asked for seconds. Oh, the ecstasy. Long live chicken!