Monday, 29 March 2010
If He Grows Up To Be A Psychopath, It's All My Fault
We bought a smoothie maker this weekend! This has filled the whole family with joy!
Up till early last week, the boys had been making smoothies with gusto, using the hand-held blender and a smallish pyrex jug. Yes, fellow mothers of the world, I can hear your collective gasp of sympathetic horror. I have spent many an afternoon unsticking minor appliances from where they’ve been glued to the counter with dried exploded banana-yogurt frappe.
Finally last week I cried “AAAAARGH! NO MORE SMOOTHIES!” and promised the boys that I would buy a proper blender, with anti-explosive action. And on Saturday I did! We’ve been pretty much on a liquid diet since then. I have an extended shopping list now including frozen strawberries, large plain yogurt, extra ice trays...
The Smoothie Maker (we got a Kenwood, but the Hamilton Beach one looks like the same thing) is a complete success. After one tutorial the boys have got the hang of it. It has good safety features so that no-one blends themselves, and comes with two handy cup-attachments and travel lids for instant smoothie enjoyment. Just be sure to lay down some ground rules which may not be included in the instructions, such as: Do Not Lick The Blender Blades. Apparently this is not obvious to under-thirteens.
I used to make smoothies mostly as a way of getting vitamins into small people. Max was always a no-foodian. He lived on air and light and bananas. And smoothies. Food was just not his thing. This was weird for me, since I am big on food and Chas and Sam used to devour anything that wasn’t actually running away. They would eat a huge meal, and then we’d go to Grandma Fatima’s house where they would look pitifully up at her and say weakly, “Oh, Grandma, we’re so huuuungry!” (Oh, I don’t blame them... Grandma Fats is THE BEST cook! But I’m sure she thought I was starving the little stinkers.) She would exclaim, “My darlings!” and give them mountains of curried chicken, channa and aloo, dhalpouri roti. (Rats, now I’m hungry)
I dealt with Max’s anti-foodism the way most mothers do: I fed him. “One More Bite”, you know the drill. I soon had Getting Food Into Max down to a highly successful fine art.
I’d pick up a spoonful and say, “Heeere’s Mummy, going for a walk, OH! I think I’ll walk to the beach. The sea is so pretty... Wait! Is that a SEA MONSTER?? AAAAAAH!”
And Max the sea monster would eat the innocent hiker. With GUSTO and sea monster sound effects.
Next spoonful: “Heeere’s Daddy... Hmmmmm, where can Mummy be, I think she went to the beach? Oh, Muuuuuummmmeeeeee, are you heeeere?” Sea Monster eats second victim. “Oh nooooo! Don’t EAT me!”
Neighbours and family pets join in the search, only to be devoured one by one by an increasingly enthusiastic sea monster. Cue reporter-style monologue: “Strange disappearances reported on East Coast...”
Eventually, the coast guard is called out: “News Report: It appears that a SEA MONSTER has been terrorizing Mayaro Beach! Our helicopter news crew is on the scene and... wait... AAAAARGH! A helicopter-eating sea monster!!”
“And now the Navy has sent a submarine...”
Eventually, the sea monster has really had enough. He slinks back to his cave at the bottom of the ocean, to digest... and wait... till NEXT TIME! MWAHAHAHAAA!
I think that this was Max’s favourite game, from about age one. No wonder he was such a peculiar toddler, now I think about it. If he grows up to be a psychopathic anarchistic cannibal, I will take full responsibility.