Dinner time at our home is the one consistent battle we wage. Manners are a funny thing, aren’t they? There are so many indiscretions that don’t get me worked up: nose-picking, farting, and belching, for example. A simple, “excuse me” and you are in the clear as far as The Mama is concerned. But for whatever reason, I really need the Kidling to sit on her ass and eat her food at dinner time. My blood pressure rises just thinking about a wiggly little booger who is messing around and whose food might as well not exist for the amount of attention it is paid.
Okay, that is far slower than my ticked-off heart rate, but I dare you not to choose the video made by someone who calls himself/herself “NeonCupcake121.” When there are a million choices, go with a cupcake every time.
We try not to make every single meal an epic battle. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t, but the baseline rule is that dinner is meant for:
- Eating; and
- Having conversation; and that all dining parties must
- Sit on their bottoms or their knees.
No exceptions, or The Mama turns into a monster. The Dada doesn’t lose his cool because The Dada never, ever loses his cool. Lucky bastard.
The Kidling struggles like hell with this. All parts of it, really, as she:
- Doesn’t want to eat;
- Cannot keep herself from singing and jumping out of her seat for myriad microscopic “emergencies;” and
- Wants desperately to be allowed to squat in the most precarious and dangerous position known to kid-kind.
It won’t surprise you to learn that I had to tell The Kidling to remove her tiny body from the world’s most dangerous dining position. She objected vehemently, telling me, “My knees are tired of kneeing and my bottoming is tired of bottoming.”
Though this should have been positively enraging, I giggled. Then The Mama Monster crawled back into her cave and called it a night.