My daughter Sarah, takes after me – she is very slim and needs fattening up a little.
Nobody likes to eat cereals with water, not even a milk hater, but I do add cold water to my skimmed milk.
When Sarah was 6 years old, she got wise of this one morning, when I accidentally gave her my jug instead of hers.
From then on, she insisted on having ‘mummy’s special milk’, instead of her un-tampered jug of skimmed.
She loved cheese and chocolate, which my doctor assured me was a great source of calcium for non-milk drinkers. But I had a secret scheme in place.
When the season turns to Autumn / Winter, Sarah would swap her cereals for good old sloppy porridge. It would then be covered in drizzled honey, mixed nuts, apricots and raisins.
What a delight it was to watch her lapping it up every morning! It was time to put my crafty plan into place. I decided to swap her red milk carton for the blue one; full fat, greasy cow juice.
The next day, she sat at the breakfast table playing with the porridge.
“Eat it up then.” I encouraged, trying not to sound too excited.
A great big sigh escaped from her lungs while she propped up the side of her head with her left hand. Swirls of creamy oats swam around the bowl as she circled her spoon in the gruel. Nuts sunk to the bottom and the raisins bobbed about like a dinghy in a cyclone.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why aren’t you eating your breakfast?”
“It smells milky and it tastes different too. I don’t like it today.”
This confession gave her the confidence to push the bowl as far away from her as possible, almost tipping it over the edge of the table.
It was no use. Her sensitive palette was aware of a change and the very aroma of the meal was making her wretch.
Those guilt pangs that parents often get, threw themselves at me and clung on tight:
“So, you’ve now put her off porridge entirely.” “How would you like it if your mum did that to you?” “What if she stops having breakfast altogether?”
I realised that I had done the wrong thing by trying to force her to go ‘cold turkey’. A sensible mother would have done it gradually by omitting the water from the skimmed, then trying watery semi-skimmed, then un-diluted semi-skimmed, and last of all, watery whole milk.
But, no. I had made the wrong choice by deciding to deceive her into thinking she had the usual composition in front of her.
“Ooh, isn’t the devil the author of deception? Are you on his side now?”
Alas, I am a slow learner. Whether that’s from not reading my bible enough, not putting what I read into practice, or just being plain foolish, I’m not sure. Maybe a bit of all three? Either way, it wasn’t long before I was at it again.
I had seen many parenting articles warning them to not use the television as a babysitter. While I was still pregnant, I had tutted at the thought of mothers plonking their children down to watch the big screen while they got on with cleaning the oven and peeling the spuds.
“I’m never going to do that!” I had declared with a puffed-out chest.
Well, Balamory was a lifesaver.
The Scottish show had fantastic characters and wonderful jingles we could all sing along to while learning life lessons. We loved Miss Hoolie’s odd shaped hair that bounced like a tidal wave each time she spoke, and Sarah adored Josie Jump because she reminded her of her Aunty Michelle, with her never ending energy and jovial manner.
Yes indeed, I was pleased to discover that many primary school programmes were wholesome and wonderfully educational. But despite this confession, those little guilt demons were still hanging around.
“Orrr! You said you were never going to do that! Yet, you use this electric babysitter more than anyone. You baked a loaf of bread last week while your poor Sarah watched 5 full episodes of Tommy Zoom. She will become terrified of blue toys you know. You’ve damaged her for life! And what about the other day when you were on the computer and your little babe watched the entire DVD of Kipper the Dog? Aren’t you scared she’s going to start barking?”
It’s true, she had begun to watch too much television and it was my fault. I had let things slip by being preoccupied elsewhere in the house.
So one day, I decided to curb things a little. Again, rather than confronting the issue by either doing things gradually or better still, talking to Sarah about important matters, I chose the lazy way – the way of no integrity – the deceptive ‘I can’t be bothered to have a proper conversation about this’ way.
I unplugged the television and hid the cable behind the set. It was well covered and I thought she’d never guess what I’d done.
It seemed that my plan had worked. The next morning, after putting on her school clothes, Sarah pottered around her bedroom doing constructive, useful things and only half-heartedly mentioned that the television wasn’t working.
However, just before we left the house, she said,
“Mummy, I think I’ve solved the problem. It’s that plug there, see? I think it’s come out of somewhere, that’s why the telly won’t work.”
The cord had been traced to behind the television and the culprit was discovered. She went over and picked up the plug and donned a big ‘Aren’t I a clever girl?’ grin.
I let out one of those false laughs that parents express when they are pretending to be pleased. It was the same type of noise I made when she was once inside a Santa’s grotto and picked up an ugly ‘boy toy’, bypassing the beautiful Barbie staring at her from a large pink box.
I thought about how we tell our children not to lie, deceive or exercise selective integrity. Yet here was I, trying to avoid sensible, mature conversation by hiding things so I didn’t have to confront the matter.
I stood there and wondered. If she found out about my two misdemeanours, would she trust me ever again? Those voices were quick to respond:
“Not for a long time.”
In shame, I confessed my sin to God and my husband graciously opted to consume the remaining litres of full fat milk.
I sat Sarah down and had a gentle talk with her about how I’d like her to do other things in the evenings to occupy her time. I explained how television should be watched in moderation and suggested suitable alternatives for when she is tired.
Years later, we were rewarded as parents by seeing Sarah’ joy when she pass her exams, getting top grades and slipping into university with ease. Her scores were so high, she could have chosen to study anywhere in the world. She also is quite wise about how she spends her free time and has turned out to be an amazing godly woman of integrity and grace. We are so proud of her and grateful to God for his mercy during our moments of parental failure.
Between you and me, I think I still love Balamory, and I miss it now that it is no longer aired. But life is so much better when we tell the truth isn’t it?
So, I’m going to confess to my lovely daughter how much I am hankering for more episodes and hope that inspires her to put their DVD on her Christmas list.
