When my son is three, he eats terribly. I have to sit him at the table and raise my voice, and the teachers keep complaining. Every meal turns into a scandal. One day my husband, John Smith, is home alone with the boyIm away on a business trip. So John says to him:
Dont overeat at the nursery. The fridge at home is empty.
That evening his sister, Harriet, praises him. He even manages to eat a little extra at lunch. When John picks him up from the nursery, Oliver starts asking:
What are we having for dinner?
Nothing. You ate at the nursery.
Im hungry. Mum made soup yesterday.
We finished the soup, the pot in the sink is empty, John replies.
Oliver changes out of his coat, washes his hands, and dashes to the fridge:
Dad, there are eggs!
Shall I boil one?
No, two!
What about potatoes?
Ill make them! I want potatoes! he shouts with delight.
That night he eats like a madman. When I get back, the moods flare up again. Ill have to take a few psychology lessons from my husband.
