I've recently realised that if my children were what they ate, they would be the human manifestation of Happy meals. This isn't something I am proud of, but over time I've sort of given up trying to get them to eat properly; And eating out has become impossible.
When I was a child mealtimes were a sombre affair: I was expected to eat everything on my plate and my mother certainly didn't pander to my childish palate; I ate the same as the grown ups and not only that, but using grown up cutlery, crockery and plates.
By contrast, my children, including nine year old girl, use plastic bowls and miniature forks. I'm letting them down and into the bargain making meal times miserable for myself. So ungratifying are mealtimes at this stage that I dread them and will opt to take them to our local Burger King at the drop of a hat rather than serve up miserable and unappetising food, half of which will end up on the floor.
In Ireland we used to order what was called a 'baby bowl' or 'baby dinner' for them (and not just for babies...my five year old would eat it too) which was basically a bowl of mashed potatoes and vegetables with soup or gravy poured over the top, the kids loved it. In the UAE this sort of thing isn't on offer so we've sort of fallen into a routine of ordering random and chips everywhere we go.
The result has been children that cower at the sight of a vegetable and refuse anything that hasn't been processed within an inch of its life.
At home it's not much better: We've fallen into a routine which sees at least one meal in Burger King each week, hot dogs once a week (with the reasoning that sausage = protein, roll = carbs-- pathetic, I know) with the occasional pasta with pesto sauce '(what's that green leaf in it??' they will whine, 'It's the bloomin' pesto!') or a frozen pizza or sometimes a home made pizza on arabic bread. Nowhere in any of this does a vegetable even raise its head.
And four year old boy has taken to drinking a babies bottle of milk rather than eating at all, a situation which I've allowed to continue rather than wasting my time dishing up food he refuses to eat anyway.
At home it's not much better: We've fallen into a routine which sees at least one meal in Burger King each week, hot dogs once a week (with the reasoning that sausage = protein, roll = carbs-- pathetic, I know) with the occasional pasta with pesto sauce '(what's that green leaf in it??' they will whine, 'It's the bloomin' pesto!') or a frozen pizza or sometimes a home made pizza on arabic bread. Nowhere in any of this does a vegetable even raise its head.
And four year old boy has taken to drinking a babies bottle of milk rather than eating at all, a situation which I've allowed to continue rather than wasting my time dishing up food he refuses to eat anyway.
And so, following a disasterous meal out with all of them recently, where they squabbled, fussed, picked at their food and shot up and down out of their seats every three seconds, circling the table and generally being bad-mannered, I despaired to DH 'they are bloody animals, nobody will ever love them if they eat like this!'
When I was a child mealtimes were a sombre affair: I was expected to eat everything on my plate and my mother certainly didn't pander to my childish palate; I ate the same as the grown ups and not only that, but using grown up cutlery, crockery and plates.
By contrast, my children, including nine year old girl, use plastic bowls and miniature forks. I'm letting them down and into the bargain making meal times miserable for myself. So ungratifying are mealtimes at this stage that I dread them and will opt to take them to our local Burger King at the drop of a hat rather than serve up miserable and unappetising food, half of which will end up on the floor.
And so, in order to diminish the chances of them ending up with partners who keep margerine and ketchup in the middle of their dining tables and who think licking their knives is acceptable, I decided to embark on an experiment/project to educate them how to eat properly and with some element of decorum.
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