When my little boy, Jamie, was just three, his eating habits were a disaster. I had to haul him to the table, yelling, and the teachers kept griping every meal turned into a right kerfuffle. One day I had to go on a work trip, so it was just me and my husband, Tom, and the lad at home. Tom gave him the classic line:
Dont overstuff yourself at nursery. Weve got an empty fridge at home.
That evening his sister, Emily, praised him for actually finishing his lunch, even managed a bite extra. As soon as Tom picked Jamie up from nursery, the lad started bombarding him:
Whats for dinner, Dad?
Nothing. You ate at nursery.
Im starving. Mum made soup yesterday.
We ate all the soup, the pots empty now, Tom replied.
Jamie ripped off his coat, washed his hands, and bolted to the fridge.
Dad, there are eggs in there!
Should I scramble one?
No, two!
What about some chips?
Ill sort it! I want chips! he shouted, thrilled.
He wolfed down his plate like a maniac that night. When I got back, the mood soured again. Looks like Ill have to borrow a few psychology tricks from Tom to keep the peace.
