Today I ate a sneaky scone. By that I mean, I hid in the alcove in our kitchen and scoffed it while I watched the boys through the living room window playing with their trucks.
Now, I know what you’re thinking; why are you hiding the fact that you’re eating from your children you crazy lunatic? (Delete insults where applicable.)
Well, you’ll have to let me explain.
Today, for my breakfast I had a big bowl of mixed fruit. The boys had similar smaller bowls each, fruit toast, cereal and yoghurt. I prepared my fruit while they were eating theirs. By the time I sat down to eat it however, they’d finished theirs, and we’re ready for seconds, i.e. mine. So after they’d polished off my breakfast, we resumed our normal day, myself getting significantly weaker as the day progressed and not knowing why, forgetting that I hadn’t eaten anything, let alone had a drink. Lunch time was the same. The boys opted for pie, peas, bread and butter (I rolled with it, opting for a jacket potato for myself.) Again, as you can probably guess, the same thing happened. That meant by 4pm I had hardly eaten anything. I tried snacks throughout – raisins, crackers, oranges. This ended when I took Noah to the toilet and came back to find that Babu had climbed up on the sofa and eaten my orange. Later it was my apple. Sad sad day.
(Except for that face – who can resist that face (even if he has got his grubby little hands all over my gorgeous, bright green crispy Granny Smith Apple.))
When you become a parent, at some point you have to come to the inevitable conclusion that, when your children are near, you will never eat a full meal, all to yourself, ever again; not until they’re at least moved out and have their own children. And even then you’ll have to deal with the harsh reality that your grandchildren will nick your dinner too. Ah, so goes the circle of life.
Now that’s OK. I don’t actually mind sharing with my boys. I’ve faced up to the fact that I’ll never eat in peace again (EVER!); I did that a long time ago, right around the time I was breastfeeding and either had to stab one pea at a time with my fork from a plate balanced on the opposite knee to the one my little cherub was resting on, happily suckling away, oblivious to my dilemma, or have Ash feed me mouthfuls from the seat next to me when the kiddies got too big for my plate-baby juggling act.
And so, please do not begrudge me this need for a thing that is my very own, to savour and enjoy (however sneakily) in my kitchen, in my little alcove. It was delicious, they’ll never know, and I was at the time preparing a risotto for their dinner. So no harm done. Except maybe to my waistline.
And anyway, I’m sure you’ve done the same, or at the very least thought about it. And if you haven’t, I suggest that you do. Who knows when you’ll next get to eat?