Saturday, January 13, 2007

Food glorious food...

Right. It's a Saturday evening and the in-laws have just been round for supper. I've had a few glasses of wine, inspite of my self-imposed alcohol free month. It actually only took two weeks for me to break my promise as a client took me to a Gary Rhodes restaurant in the city and plied me with fine wine and Champagne. It would have been rude to say "no" wouldn't it?

Again I digress (and I'm seriously worried this is becoming a problem for me) so back to the fatherhood angle of this blog.

Ever since the birth of mini-me, we've been worried about how much she actually eats. In my limited and rather inexperienced view, I believe that children fall in to two camps:

1. Those that eat huge volumes of whatever you put in front of them.
2. Those that don't.

I would say that mini-me is a category 2 child. A typical day will start with me rising at the aforementioned un-Godly hour of 6.45am and making tea and juice for the house females. Around 7.30 I start to feel hungry and so deem it polite/necessary to ask the daughter if she too, by some miracle might be peckish. Quick as a flash and without fail, the reply "I'm not hungry" is pinballed back my way. I find my head saying "you will eat this food" but as a slave to my daughter I find it impossible to stand up to her so a rather weak "OK darling" droops from my lips. At this point I sally forth to the kitchen to munch Crunchy Nut Cornflakes or Readybreak (do you remember the BMX rider ads?) to prepare for my day. Around 8.30am, Cameron gets involved and coercion is used to ensure the little one nibbles some dry toast - I kid you not. Last week she actually asked for some toast without butter.

Towards mid-morning when Daddy's blood sugar levels plummet and I get ratty, I again suggest a light snakkeral to the kid but yet again she throws it back in my face and Cameron uses some clever mother technique she inherited through evolution to ensure food passes the lips of our only child.

Lunch time is no different although I do remember once in the Summer of 2005 when she accepted my offer for food and we ate a sandwich together - ahhh those heady days.

Blah blah, this pattern goes on and to be honest I'm not entirely clear how our daughter doesn't get blown away on windy days. Mind you I guess I'm no paper weight myself but nonetheless it does concern me that the genetic need for food that most humans inherit seems to have passed her by. Having questioned the wife, mini-me's typical daily menu consists of:

Three bites of toast
Mango smoothy
Mini yoghurt drink
Quarter of a sandwich
One chicken nugget (home made)
A chip (home made)
A fimble tree (asparagus!?)

In fact the other day, she uttered the immortal quote "Mummy I'm hungry"

to which my wife replied "are you"?

to which she replied "I know, I've never been hungry before"

Even on car journeys when sweets are more permissible, we have to persuade her to eat a bite of chocolate lolly. She must be the only person I know that will eat no more than two or three Maltesers from a packet before handing them back. I know we should be happy about this but Maltesers are nutritious....right?

So what do we do about it? Someone most know. Food is not the issue here. She does eat - JUST NOT WITH US!!!!! Do you think she senses our weakness via some clever woman aerials? Do you think she can tell that, given my guilt complex, I will offer about as much resistance as a tracing paper umbrella in a rainstorm? I figure yes to both of these and so I have spent some time researching this and thinking through some approaches. Readers (if there are any) the answer is based on the psychology of proposition making.

Let me explain. When a supermarket displays an offer, ask yourself how they display it? Do they say "Get one free when you buy one"? Do they make the offer of the thing you will get PRIOR to asking you to do the thing they want you to do? Nope. They ask you to take an action first BEFORE giving you the outcome you want i.e. Buy one, get one free.

I'm ranting.

Think of it this way: if you eat this sandwich (i.e .buy one) then I'll take you to the park (get one free). This is the approach I have been taking and hey bloody presto is works.

We can now confidently get our daughter to eat a full lunch with no tears or upset. The only cost to us is a visit to the park or similar. Yippeeeeeeeee! This is great news as I can now ensure my daughter eats AND do cool things like visit the park which helps me with the topic of a previous ramble - guilt.

In my book, everyone's a winner.

Good night y'all.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

Pushy - me? Never...

I take mini-me every week to a drama and dance school called Sylvia Young’s in London. Some of you may have heard of it. It tends to produce such international stars as All Saints, Emma Bunton and that band with three spotty adolescents that pretend to be sort of Green Day like. I can’t bloody remember their name but they jump around the stage a lot whilst thrashing their guitars in a sort of wood chopper motion. I now I sound really old but they are really crap so I don’t mind. If anyone knows their name then let me know.

Anyway, back to the point. The most amusing thing about this place is that all the parents have aspirations of one sort or another for their kids. They go and learn skills like tap and jazz dancing, drama and singing and so clearly there is some goal here. The reason it is amusing is that everyone there, including me, is desperate not to be seen as the pushy parent and we all spend a great deal of time in back-slapping reassurance that it’s the others, not us. But if we weren’t pushy to some degree then would our offspring ever do well in life? Wouldn’t we be leaving them to the lottery odds of random success – maybe a one-off appearance on “Darren Day’s driving school on UK Crapping at 5am on a Tuesday?

Look at Tiger Woods. If his father hadn’t handed him a golf club as he emerged from the womb, he might not have become the legend he is today. If his father hadn’t cared enough to take him to the driving range every day, spend his money on kit and generally push Tiger forwards then it is quite possible that he would have been working in some mundane “for life” job and retiring at 65 with a pleasant pension and a wife called Janine or Angela instead of the incredibly fit bird he now has.

Another global icon, Emma Bunton may not have…actually forget that bit.

What I’m interested to understand is why WE are doing it. I have to be honest that at this point I am not particularly clear. Do we want our little one to be a singer, an actress, a dancer or just well coordinated with good posture and a clear voice? Am I a pushy parent or is everyone one and some just more overt than others?
I mean, if we were really sensible, we’d enrol her now at “Mini Investment Bankers” on a Saturday morning where they study such fun things as the ROI of apples vs pears or what valuation Big Ears places on Tina Doll’s ice cream parlour. At 14, talent scouts from Goldman’s would turn up and audition the children for future roles. They would receive sponsorship packages and further coaching. At 21 they would sign their life away for 10 years and at 31 they would retire with about £450m in the bank, and enough to support their scrounging, pushy parents who had the decency to get them there in the first place

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Musings of a guilty man

For anyone that has returned to suffer some more at my hands, and assuming that you care, last night was definitely better. Mini-me actually slept through until 7.15am and yet again informed me this morning that I am "the best Daddy in the World except Mummy" which I guess means I am still no. 2 in the pecking order but nonetheless cleverly reinforced my position has her slave. Why am I under the control of a four year old for God's sake?

Whilst going through all the things that happen to me on a daily basis, I realised that the one over-riding emotion that I often suffer with regard to my daughter is guilt. Does anyone else feel that? I feel guilty that I work long hours and do not see enough of her and the time that I do get to spend at home I want to not only see her but also to fit in a game of golf or go to the gym. The former of course takes up a huge amount of time and so can result in a whole day away at the weekend whilst the latter is just about OK. That said I think Cameron is sick of me wandering around in my tight gym t-shirt (designed for maximum muscle exposure) and demanding that she feels my muscles and comments on how much they've grown. That's another story I guess.

But seriously, am I alone in my guilt trip? How long will it go on? 18 yrs, 25 yrs, until my deathbed (sorry I'm popping my clogs as I didn't see you enough today/yesterday)? The other matter is of course how nice my wife is about my golf habit. If only she was nastier then at least I would feel like I was winning something rather than choosing to leave my family at home on one of the two days in seven that I get with them.

I'd be really interested to know how other fathers deal with this. Maybe you don't and I'm alone with my conscience. One thing I have started to try and do is to get up with my daughter (subject to the 6.30am rule - see previous post) and read to her or watch one of her favorite films with her but then I suffer from further guilt around "over-exposure" to the TV.

Then again maybe I just worry too much about everything.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Curtain clinging

Well last night was interesting. My wife (let's call her Cameron Diaz for ease) and I have agreed that in order to stop my daughter getting up at 4am every morning and coming in to our room, I am going to supervise the enforced removal of said child to her own bed whenever she deams it necessary to come in to our room before 6.30am (still too bloody early but beggars can't be choosers).

The scenario is one I'm sure all you fathers out there recognise:

You're woken at an un-godly time of the night to the high pitched scream of your child in to your ear as they endeavour to wake you from your hard earned sleep. This morning my daughter was demanding a "huggy" which is not a nappy but her way of asking for a hug. I promptly rose from my sleep to offer the pre-agreed (with Cameron) options -

"either you can walk back to your own bed or I will pick you up and carry you" I said through gritted teeth.

Clearly I had touched a nerve as she launched heself at Cameron's head and locked on with the force of a soviet air-to-air misile with agression issues. Amidst huge screaming I uncurled her fingers from around my wife's neck and started the dangerous journey to her bedroom. I must admit that I had completely underestimated how much of a spirit my daughter has received from us both. I made the mistake of passing too close to the curtains and she latched on to these as if her life depended on them.

Once these were removed from her vice -like grip I was able to get her back to bed. I won't go in to all the details but needless to say I was up for another 15 mins as she negotiated with me for juice. In the end we compromised and I agreed to fetch her a small cup of "nice water, not the nasty water" - whatever that might be. Evidently I chose correctly as she finally settled down and went back to sleep.

This morning however all was different. As I left for work, mini-me informed me that I was the "best Daddy in the World" and that she loved me. In one move she had me back and wrapped around her little finger.

Women learn young these days....