Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Ordering fast food is the healthier option

I’m not quite sure where I fit on the scale of helicopter parenting.

Not near the still breast feeding my child at 35 end, nor close to dumping my blindfolded child across a border somewhere for him to forage his own way home (not today, anyway).

As in impromptu, and public, appraisal of my hands on or off style of child rearing I’d say, I’m comfortable being in the (wide) band of parents who think they are getting it right, with an occasional weakness of being a little too risk-averse, and letting my desire to save time take over allowing my child learn to do something for himself.

Like automatically answering ‘pirate’ when a receptionist asks ‘us’ for our answer to their hotel’s treasure hunt.  What can I say, the boy wasn’t quick enough, and I’m still pissed at him for getting the gold chocolate coins reward.

Can’t believe the receptionist chose to ignore me, how rude.

Anyway, on the subject of unhealthy food, I was very proud of my boy last week.

And no, not because he rejected fast-food in preference to a healthier option, but because he positive embraced our local fish and chip shop.

It’s long been a practice of mine, like I’m sure it is everywhere, to treat my boy to a small tray of fried crap after his weekly swimming lesson.  A combination of convenience and reward have meant it’s something we’ve been doing for, I suppose, four years now.

He hearts his chip shop sausage special.

Thing is for the last 12 months of son I don’t tend to join in the fried food indulgence, I just fetch and carry his.

He’s normally knackered with a capital n after his swimming exertions, so if we can park outside the chip shop, I lock him in our car/truck and pop in and out for his dinner.

Last week though it was unexpectedly busy outside, the shop itself still quiet, but there were no parking spots.

Max suggested a solution of me letting him out, and going to the shop himself.

I was a little taken aback, as previously he declined the opportunity to even order for himself when he’s been at my side in the shop.

But still, I thought it a good idea, fumbled him a few quid, let him out, and started reversing back to a parking spot that had just been vacated.

By the time I’d locked the car to join my boy, he was actually making his way back to the car.

Striding with a big smile on his face, well who doesn’t with fried sausage and chips under their arm?

Soon back in the car my son proclaimed:

“That felt really good, Dad.”

I’m guessing not nearly as much as it did for me.