My teenager has arrived and lost no time in getting grumpy and laying on a few lectures about my lifestyle. Sure, she seems to be trying, but we both settled fast into our usual prickly relationship.
Without wanting to bore you with domestic trivia, it started night one, Tuesday, when I asked her to rinse her bowl after dinner before serving dessert.
“What, don’t tell me that you haven’t got a clean bowl, Dad!”
“No, there’s plenty of clean bowls. I just want you to rinse yours out.”
Then she gets in a huff. She’s so put upon.
Last night I cracked open the chateau cardboard – drinking, like many things, is less pretentious in Sydney than in Auckland – and got a lecture about that. I responded by sharing the latest research which demonstrates, irrefutably I think, that drinking just about anything in just about any quantity reduces the risk of heart attack and stroke (it increases the risk of liver cancer but that’s another issue and my Doc tells me the liver has an amazing ability to heal).
When that didn’t work, and she came out with the old “brain cells” line, I told her to shut her trap. Modern parenting.
There are a lot of upsides, of course, in having her here. In general I think we enjoy having each other around. We just don’t admit it.
One big upside is watching really bad TV. We watched a new reality number last night, Chains of Love, that was humorously awful. This is the Aussie version of a UK concept in which a guy is chained to four women and periodically, when “The Locksmith” arrives, has to let one go. The Locksmith, incidentally, is Vulcan out of Gladiators.
In this episode, nobody particularly liked anyone else. Fair enough. But they didn’t particularly dislike each other either. That makes for riveting television, let me tell you.
At times the participants didn’t seem to know what to do. Someone would be unchained and sent off the show and they’d stand around looking at each other.
This show is going nowhere, so no doubt TVNZ will buy it soon.
Anyway, a few days back I mentioned a four-year-old who asked what God had for breakfast. I’ve had one suggestion, from Andrea M: God doesn't experience time as you or I and thus He doesn't have breakfast. Just a continuous smorgasbord incorporating all the major food groups.
While conceding the importance of a balanced diet, that seems like a cop out to me, so I went on the net and found this picture called God’s Breakfast. And, yes, it looks like His Omnipotence starts His days with an egg.
I'm glad that's sorted.