One of the mainstays of making sure that your child is strong and healthy is by ensuring he or she gets a proper diet. Given these are growing years, everything that a child eats is important in terms of energy for activities and to aid muscle and bone growth. How does one make sure, as a parent, that the child gets a right balance of healthy eating that provides him or her enough energy and nutrition to fuel activity, studying and growth, as well as provide the child with enjoyable, healthy food that curbs the very real and present danger of childhood obesity that seems to be an epidemic these days? Here are some things you need to keep in mind.
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As a parent, your journey is never that of yours alone. It is always thinking twice, as a wiser person than me once said, once for your own self and again for your child (or children as the case might be). I was recently approached by HP to do a short video with them on the principles I live by and what I try to pass on to my son.
It was something that resonated instantly, because, as a parent all one does is try to pass on what one has tried and tested as a never fail formula. It is a formula that I have arrived at after much trial and error and realised, contrary to my natural tendency towards sloth, that nothing comes easy. My motto has always been try and try again, practice, revise, do it over and over and over. There are no short cuts to anything. He knows this through his swimming, he puts in hours and hours of intense practice every single day, he needs to learn this in his school work. This is something I try to teach the offspring and this is what I speak about in the short HP video.
Take a look.
Letter from Kiran Manral to her mother
I have a confession to make. I’ve turned into you. The realisation dawned upon me, as most realisations do, not in a calm, let’s get this thing done with manner, but the rather unpleasant manner that sledgehammers have when they connect with cranium. Bang. And followed by splintering realisation.
It happened the other evening when the offspring, or the apple of your rather jaundiced grandmotherly eye, was raising the usual dead in his efforts to amuse himself around the house, leading to clear and present danger for the unwary occupants of the premises. “YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” I thundered, with all caps and exclamation mark of course, and added, “Or else,” for good measure, leaving it at that. Then it struck me, like a sudden squeezing of my intestines with a cold clammy hand. Your voice had become my voice. But my offspring, unlike the me of yore, has no fear of the implicit threat in the “Or else…” and looked back with barely a flicker of fear. “Or else…wot?” he asked.
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Check out the episode here
Music Then And Music Now
The one where I mistook Wiz Khalifa for Burj Khalifa
The child is segueing swiftly into a manling. The shoulders are broadening, the hips are narrowing down, the puppy fat has made its way into the land of distant childhood memories and the jawline is getting into the defined realm territory which will be mandatory in the future if he needs to be granite-jawed in the way the romance novels state a respectable romantic hero should be. But I digress.
The fact of the matter is that he is changing. A slight shadow on his upper lip has him scurrying to experiment with his father’s razor behind a locked bathroom door emerging suspiciously fuzz free and angelic, denying all wrongdoing vehemently until I pop into the bathroom and discover traces of foam drying awkwardly in the washbasin. He checks himself out in the mirror one gazillion times a day and constantly eyes the marks on the wall put to measure his progress upwards in centimetres in the vain hope that he would have suddenly sprouted a couple of additional inches after a night of deep sleep. He has also, heaven save the world, been caught flexing a fledgling bicep and admiring it in the mirror.
This advance into potential teendom has not gone unnoticed. Along with it comes the gut wrenchingly horrifying realisation that as a parent you automatically don’t quite cut it in the coolness quotient. And nowhere is this more evident as in the case of music. The boy is listening to more music than should be considered legit. But then legit is a debatable point, given that there is only so much world and time a young boy in secondary school and a competitive sport can free up to devote to the act of listening to music.
Very often, I find him singing lyrics which, in gentler times, would have had me scour his mouth out with toilet cleaner. “Mamma,” he will squawk, much offended when I raise angry objection, “Bud dat’s d song, I’m only singing the song.” I sigh and retreat. This is karmic butt bite for when I publically embarrassed the mater by singing George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” in tones loud enough to have the dead wake up from their graves from the neighbourhood cemetery, and the neighbourhood aunties purse their lips disapprovingly.
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Of The Summer Crop
The one when the brat had to get a haircut…
The offspring had a haircut last week. Now why is this momentous, you might ask validly? After all, in the 11 years that he has been on this planet as a part of the race, he has contributed on a bimonthly basis to the flotsam of the snipped hair on assorted salon and barber shop floors.
But this was a haircut with a difference. For one, this was one in which he was accompanied by the pater. For another, it is the summer upon us. Let’s put things in perspective here. For years and years, I have been the sole adult responsible for the grooming of this child, and I am an indulgent parent. I allow him to sit in the barber’s chair, the cape snugly around him, dictating terms to the person in charge of shearing him to presentable in public levels. “Cud liddle frum d side and liddle frum the top and keep dis part longly.”
This often has had the unhappy consequence of him emerging from the salon with his hair gelled to gravity defying levels in a vain attempt to make himself look taller, never mind that I look at him and wonder if I should have just thrown the money I spent into the waste paper basket given that barely a millimetre seems to have been reduced from the circumference of his foliage.
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