When my little boy was three, he ate in the most dreadful way. I had to haul him to the kitchen table, raising my voice each time, and the teachers at his nursery kept complaining. Every meal turned into a proper uproar. One week I was sent away on business, leaving my husband alone with our son, and he gave the boy a stern warning:
Dont gorge yourself at the crèche. The fridge at home is empty.
That evening his sister, Emily, praised him for finishing his supper, and he even managed a bite extra at lunchtime. As soon as Thomas collected Richard from the nursery, the boy began to pestle:
Whats for dinner, Daddy?
Nothing. You ate at the crèche.
Im hungry. Mum made soup yesterday.
We ate all the soup; theres only a bare pot left in the sink, Thomas replied.
After Richard stripped off his coat and washed his hands, he bolted to the fridge.
Father, there are eggs in there!
Shall I cook one?
No, two!
What about potatoes?
Ill do it! I want potatoes! he shouted, his delight obvious.
That night he ate like a man possessed. When I finally returned home, the household mood swung once more. I suppose Ill have to borrow a few psychology lessons from Thomas after all.
