Editor’s note: While Patty Kimerer is on leave, we present this Classic Kimerer column originally published Oct. 9, 2005:

Some things happen every single day like clockwork. The earth completes one full rotation, the birds squawk out morning chatter, the scale tells me some vicious lie and an eating encounter erupts in my kitchen.

“I’m just not hungry for (fill in the blank) today.”

You may fill in the blank with any reasonable breakfast food here.

My 5-year-old only wants quadruple chocolate chunk fudge striped cookie-dough cupcake ice cream with syrup, whipped topping and sprinkles in the morning.

A sip of chocolate (is there any other flavor?) milk, a nibble of cereal and one children’s vitamin later, we are out the door and late for school thanks to the daily morning melee.

Later, after a grueling four hour session to stuff half of a peanut butter sandwich and six grapes down the same little throat that easily swills back a dozen Chips Ahoy cookies, a large chocolate shake and half a bag of Doritos in one sitting, it hit me.

Unlike a one-time hit song titled “Love is a Battlefield,” these days, meals are the subject of contention in my life. In other words, “Lunch is a Battlefield.”

Then again, when you’re dealing with small children, so are breakfast and dinner.

As my boy and I battle wills over bologna and bananas versus a Blizzard — the Dairy Queen variety — and Charms Blow Pops, I start to map out combat strategies.

“I’m not kidding, mister. I’ve had it. Either you finish the sandwich right now or you’re not going out to ride your bike,” I say, shooting out the words as if they were shells.

“Mommy, will you let me go if I eat three more bites? Plus, I’ll make a happy plate at dinner tonight, I swear!” comes the return fire.

Oh, no, no, no. Mommy’s not falling into that booby-trap. Again.

“Fine, but we’re having spinach pizza,” I rat-a-tat-tat right back.

Boom! Just like that, the sandwich disappears into a puff of smoke.

But it’s an ongoing struggle.

No sooner does the lunch tussle end when the dinner debate starts simmering.

At a friend’s party not long ago, my little one squealed, “I can’t wait to have some birthday cake!”

Clearly, he had deluded himself into believing victory was his.

“Yes, that’ll be wonderful! As soon as you finish your hot dog and applesauce,” the drill sergeant in me belted out in cadence.

He could smell the defeat in the air. For, not only was the cake tactic hanging over his head, it had him surrounded.

“But, Mommy!” came the battle-cry of a wounded soldier who was nearly out of ammunition.

“Hmm?” I said, dangling my fully-loaded semi-automatic (aka chocolate cake) before his eyes. It was then that I went in for the kill.

“If you clear your plate, I’ll even let you have part of the rose,” I said, perfecting the ambush.

He waved his white flag, mumbling, “Yes, Mommy,” though his eyes were pleading, “Why, mother, why?”

Because I’m your mother and I love you and you’re going to eat well and be healthy, darn it. Besides, we might not flaunt the rank, but don’t forget that we Mommies are the generals.

Contact Kimerer for the lunch menu at pkimerer@zoominternet.net.