Daddies should choose their battles carefully. One false move and you’ve committed your troops to a quagmire in the middle east leaving Russia free to start world war III.
About a month ago, I decided to teach some table manners to the twins. At 20 months, they still eat with their hands half the time so proper forking technique is beyond them. I settled on enforcing two common sense rules: (1) we keep our food on our plates (as opposed to dumping the plates on the floor); (2) we don’t bang our sippy cups on the table.
The plate rule was a strong daddy move and I stand by it. I have carpet underneath the table, which means that puddles of apple sauce do not clean up readily. A time saver for dad. The rule also plays well in restaurants. Even the most indulgent waiter appreciates not having to mop the floor after each guest. Also it saves money. I don’t feel compelled to leave 35% tips when the food stays on the table. No problem. When I started, the plate dump to meal ratio was about 50%. Now, we’ve improved to about 20% dumpage. A big improvement. Go team!
Rule number two has not been a success story. Claire was pounding her sippy cup on the table and having a great time. Mindful of the dangers of the critical parent, I gently let Claire know that sippy cups are for drinking not pounding. Claire stopped for a moment to take in what I was saying. Her own speech is limited to single words or two / three word proto-sentences usually without verbs. But she understands everything. After a second, she smiles the wicked smile she uses for tormenting Daddy and William and then starts banging with renewed vigor. Game on, she would say if she knew what it meant.
William, who up to this point had not shared his sister’s banging fetish, immediately started banging his cup also.
I tried reasoning with them. I pointed out that there are toys for banging but sippy cups are for drinking. I pointed out that banging isn’t good for the table. No help. Eventually, we had to give the sippy cup a time out. She doesn’t mind. As soon as the sippy cup returns from impound — bang, bang, bang.
I know my basic supernanny philosophy. Daddy cannot let his little toddler/extortionist win. But truthfully, I am not just losing the war, I haven’t won a single battle. She’s figured out that I am not going to deprive her of food for long so she knows that she will always get the sippy cup back. The routine now is as follows. Claire drinks enough milk to take the edge off, then pounds the cup on the table once. Just once to get my attention. I say, Claire the sippy cup will have to go for a time out if you pound it, at which point she gives me her wicked little smile, cries out “nooo, nooo, nooo” in the cutest of little voices, and the pounds like a drummer at burning man. Claire 1. Daddy 0.
I take the cup away but she doesn’t seem to care all that much. Claire is a little slip of girl. A waif in comparison to her fatted calf of a brother. She has figured out that Daddy is very concerned that she is not getting enough nutrition. “Milk. Milk.” she says plaintively. She is obviously on the edge of starvation. She looks at her daddy, the same daddy that would take down a wildebeest with his bare hands if that was what it took to keep her fed. Checkmate. Milk is good for the bones, right?
Rule number two may turn out to be my Iraq. A daddy blunder that will change toddler / parent diplomacy for months if not years to come. I am not sure why I choose the pounding thing as my parental hill to die on. Truth is toddler noise and toddler mess doesn’t bother me much. Kids pound on the table and I think — cool display of gross motor skills. If the rhythm happens to be good, I think — cool beat. I am aware that others probably do not share my appreciation for my toddlers noise so this rule seemed to have particular application at restaurants and other public places. But I think I may have miscalculated.
Tags: fatherhood, Twins
