Jamie Oliver's Nightmare

World War One of parenting may be bedtime but World War Two is mealtime.  From birth the media, parenting guides, midwives, health visitors, perfect parents and Jamie Oliver are telling us what we should be feeding our Gremlins - and if we don’t follow the laws of those who have time to cook three perfectly balanced meals per day and recoil in horror at a chicken nugget, then we’re inadequate parents and we get “the frown”.

 

 

We all know that we should breastfeed exclusively from birth until at least six months old and shake our heads at processed formulas – we know the pros and the cons of each so there’s no point in me drawing up lists to compare the two and sparking a grand debate - but there is so much pressure on mothers to be milked by their offspring that it creates this ginormous divide between those who do and those who don’t (or can’t). I was one of those mothers who didn’t, though I did try it. When Owen was born, we immediately had “skin to skin” contact and a midwife flipped my nipple straight into his mouth. I tried for four days with a midwife grabbing, rubbing and yanking my boobs in different directions, testing “position of the fortnight”, encouraging me to keep trying and being so desperate for success that I thought she was going to latch on herself. I thought that breastfeeding would help me to bond with my baby, I knew the health benefits, it was on tap unlike expensive formulas, and less hassle than cleaning and sterilising bottles – but I hated it. I hated the sensation, it felt uncomfortable, my baby was losing weight as he wasn’t feeding enough and instead of bonding, I didn’t want my baby near me in case he wanted to superglue himself to my sore, sensitive teats. So after an internal battle that left me feeling incompetent and selfish, I spent hours persuading a disappointed midwife that I didn’t want to do it, and when she gave me a bottle to feed my little boy, I felt a huge wave of happy relief and the bonding with my baby began. With Ava, I knew I didn’t want her on the breast but I wanted her to have the health benefits of breast milk, so I bought a pump (the perfect contraption to keep a horny husband at bay) and tried to extract it myself. But after giving birth, the midwives were too busy with labouring women to show me how to use it and by the time someone was available to see me the following day I was told that it was too late to try. I later found out that this was rubbish but by that time I’d sold it unused on Ebay and Ava was also formula fed. So in the eyes of nutritionists everywhere I failed my children from the get go.

 

 

Now they both have teeth and the ability to chew, feeding time has become the ultimate battle of wills, wit, cunning, diversion, competition, patience, willpower, temper and perseverance. Both of my Gremlins come with their own set of hurdles when their bellies are rumbling. Owen will eat nothing. He would happily go for days without eating a meal and it’s common for him to lose weight, especially when he’s having a growth spurt (and he’s very tall for his age). When he does eat he will usually only eat something that’s made of potato – like chips, waffles, alphabites and smiley faces – but he won’t  eat actual potatoes unless they’re blended into a puree and covered in mounds of butter.  He’ll eat chicken nuggets but not chicken, pizza with cheese but not cheese, fromage frais but not yoghurts, fish fingers but not fish and he won’t eat a single vegetable. We’ve tried coercion, bribery, threats, promises, shouting, force feeding, indifference, distraction, hiding vegetables in or under other things, dying stuff with food colouring, funny shapes and pictures, persistence, scare stories, punishment and keeping him at the table for hours at a time. Nothing works. Owen will only try food when Owen wants to try food and when that happens a fanfare sounds and we all parade around the house like we’ve won the Euromillions.  And when my friend, Wonderwoman, declares that her son will only eat vegan, non-processed, sugar-free, salt-free, 100% Omega3 vitamin enriched green substances, nuts and seeds and wouldn’t even know what a sausage roll looks like, I smile in false agreement that my children would never visit McDonalds and in my head I flick her the middle finger.

 

 

Ava is Owen’s exact opposite (of course) and will eat everything in sight – even if it’s not edible. She’s like a human hoover and expects to be fed every ten minutes. When she’s not eating she expects to be drinking and will loudly demand a “dink of doocee NOW” (translation: a drink of juice immediately). If she finishes her meal quickly she’ll start tucking into everyone else’s (to Owen’s joy) and I’ll often find her grubby hands splatted in my ketchup. She wakes up in the night demanding food and drinks, heads straight to the kitchen when we visit friends and family and can chew her way through any packet or container. She eats the dog’s biscuits as well as my placemats, picks crumbs off the ground in the park and will swipe candy from any baby whose parents are looking the other way. She’s developed a stealth operation that involves pushing chairs across the kitchen, to stand on and reach the top shelf of our fridge so that she can steal yoghurts, which she’ll eat with her fingers whilst hiding under our dining table...

 

 

People would think we starved the girl if she didn’t resemble a Weeble by the end of each day. So needless to say, mealtimes are not the most enjoyable experience in our house. We try to have family meals wherever we can where we all sit at the dining table and talk about our day whilst enjoying a wholesome home cooked meal. But usually Daddy’s at work, Mammy’s just finished work and is exhausted so can only muster the energy to reach into the freezer and switch on the oven, Owen will have a meltdown and dangle off his chair in dramatic protest before kicking Ava repeatedly under the table and deciding he needs a poo halfway through his dinner; and Ava will screech at Owen, launch most of her meal at my walls and curtains, feed some to our increasingly overweight dog then she’ll clamp her jaws on my plate. At some point Owen will knock a whole glass of juice all over the table, Ava will swipe a plate onto the floor, Owen will roar like a monster which will scare Ava who’ll scream some more, I’ll take five deep breaths then declare mealtime is over and spend ten minutes wiping down the walls and mopping up drinks (Fudge takes care of the floors – hence his obesity).

 

 

I used to adore eating at nice restaurants that served an array of dishes from around the world and take my time to savour the quality meal that I’d purchased and enjoy the ambience of my surroundings and the fact that I had no washing up to do afterwards. Now I prefer to take a packed lunch out and eat on a picnic bench, as when we try to dine out we have to choose somewhere that will cater for noisy, messy, moaning Gremlins who’ll fire fries at the waiters and try and eat the candles. On the rare occasions that I meet friends for lunch or go for an evening meal, if I spot a family struggling with a crying or excitable child, while my childless friends scowl in annoyance, I flick the parents a look of pity that says “been there”.

 

 

And as always, Mammy and Daddy do enjoy getting their revenge on the little darlings from time to time and one can be very creative with food substances to play with.  When Owen had been for one of his mid-meal poos one day and of course “forgot” to wipe his toosh – Dad wiped his bottom for him with some toilet roll and without Owen noticing he stuck his fingers into a pot of chocolate mousse. “Urrrrggghhh Owen look at all this on my hand because you didn’t wipe your bum,” he said. Owen stood in silence for a few seconds and scrunched up his face in mild disgust until Dad began licking his fingers and Owen screamed, ran away and almost passed out.

 

 

We may not win the battles now but we will win the war!