Eat, Drink and Be... Elsewhere

Before I had children, I thought Burnt Chop Syndrome was something that happened at parties when everyone was having too good a time to keep an eye on the barbie. Now I know only too well what Burnt Chop Syndrome is and it's as hard to swallow as it sounds.

In the olden days, dinner meant a casual meal in with one or twenty mates or a cheap and choice night out at a Thai restaurant or a fancy two course meal (first course - a main, second course - wine) at an exclusive candlelit grotto where the chef was always in the paper and sometimes on the telly. Dinner always meant 'sitting down'. Nobody shouted and screamed or threw food on the floor and walls unless they'd had one too many and by then it was time to go anyway. And no matter where it was or how many people were there, dinner was always fun.

I haven't had a fun dinner in years. You don't with little children. There is breastfeeding which can be soothing and lovely and bonding but which is mostly annoying, sore and boring. There is first foods, a much awaited milestone in which the novelty of hovering over child to ensure food makes it into their ridiculously inexpert mouths and that they don't choke on it once it gets there - not to mention wasting half the day chiselling hardened sludge off walls, floor, highchair and baby, wears off all too bloody quickly.

Later, there is sitting up at the table with the family and spending most of the meal grabbing forks before they are stabbed into eyes, tabletop or siblings, and swiping food and sauce bottles away from opportunistic, sticky fingers. No convivial dinner conversation either - just the constant nagging refrain of, 'Don't spit on the table, get your hands off my plate, vegetables are nice' and 'for the last time, will you stop pouring milk on the cat.'

There is giving the children a separate, earlier dinner which although very sensible also involves twice as much cooking and cleaning up, and behind all these different meal options for children there's the ever present Burnt Chop Syndrome - where everyone else gets the nicest bits of everything and Mum makes do with the leftovers, which she bolts while standing at the kitchen bench, cloth in hand ready to swoop on faces, hands, floor and table, as small people scream and wail, hit and spit.

I'm coming for dinner at yours tomorrow, alright?

Which Is Your Favourite Child?

I was at the park with my two toddlers the other day. The sun was shining after two days of rain and the children were almost salivatingly feral from being cooped up indoors. I parked the double pram, untangled them from their seat straps, blinked... and they were gone.

Wildly I looked around and immediately saw two little clouds of Pigpen dust marking their progress as their feet, blurry with speed, flew across the ground. One little cloud of dust was heading toward the lake - the other toward the busy road.

This is one of those nightmarish moments that wakes me gasping and sweaty in the middle of the night, a moment that sends me scuttling into their room to check that they're still happily asleep, inhaling that sweet scent of contented child guaranteed to bring a racing heartbeat down to normality. But in the bright light of panicked day there was no time to gasp. There was only time to take action. But which way was I going to go? WHICH ONE WAS I GOING TO SAVE?

Out of sheer mischief I often ask my friends which of their children is their favourite. Invariably the reaction is the same. A vigorous shaking of the head, and an adamant, "Oh no, we love them the same."

This, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is utter bullshit.

It is impossible to love your children the same as it is impossible to love oranges and apples the same. One is juicy, one is crunchy. One has to be peeled, the other has a core. Advantages, disadvantages. We love them for different reasons but not in the same way.

For example, I love my son because he is my firstborn. Because it took 29 hours of excruciatingly labour to bring him into the world and that makes it worth it. Because he is smart and loving, has big hair and can sleep through the night. I love my daughter because she is a girl and I understand her. I love her because she is easygoing, funny, devastatingly cute, and eats whatever I put in front of her.

I don't love my son when he refuses to get dressed and cries and screams and kicks me. I don't love my daughter when she has awakened me ten times in the same night for a different reason (thirsty, monsters, nightlight on, nightlight off, pillowcase needs changing, bed needs to be turned around, where's the moon, etc). Sometimes my son is my favourite, other times my daughter is.

On this particular occasion at the park, I was facing a dilemma - right now they were both my favourites. So which one? WHICH ONE?

Thankfully (and a special shout out goes to the angels for helping), my little girl's feet, unreliable at the best of times, chose that moment to perform an erratic acrobatic tumble. I was able to get to my boy before he flung himself headlong into the lake, and trot back to her still flailing and wailing, safe in the dust.

Before I packed them back into the pram, indignant, dirty and snotty, I hugged each one as tightly as I could. For I love them both so much. Just - not the same.