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?