Send your kids out without breakfast and they'll thank you for it later…
Journalist and Dad Sam Delaney's take on early morning parenting
Breakfast with Kids sucks...
Sam Delaney is a Dad of Two, husband of one. He is Editor-in-Chief of Comedy Central in the UK and a presenter on TalkSPORT and BBC London.
Find out more about Sam here...
When I was a kid, breakfast was a meal that only existed in television commercials. Happy mothers pouring tea into bone china cups for adoring husbands sat behind neatly laid tables in sunny, suburban kitchens. Two nauseating kids with bright white teeth and impeccably brushed hair would sit beside dad tucking into their nutritious bowls of Cornflakes. These were the sort of dickheads who looked as if they’d done their homework, packed their rucksacks and laid out their uniforms the night before in order to make their mornings less rushed. There would even be fresh fruit sitting on a plate in the middle of the table for everyone to pick at.
Fruit, brushed hair, parents who loved each other: it couldn’t have seemed more preposterous to me if the table was on the moon and occupied by a family of monkeys wearing top hats and monocles and discussing the Libyan crisis over their kippers. In the real world, breakfast was bollocks – a crafty marketing device designed entirely to make us buy boxes of cereal.
In my house, there was me, my three older brothers, our understandably harassed mum, two cats and an incontinent dog. My mum worked full time - and between my siblings and I we attended three different schools, each separated by several London postcodes. Marshal Law was declared in our house each and every morning. You were lucky just to grab a couple of minutes to yourself in the bathroom. Eating anything before heading for the bus stop was just a madman’s dream. Effectively, we ate Colgate for our breakfast, then ran out the front door.
That’s why, when I grew up, got married and had kids I placed high importance upon our family’s morning routine. For me, my kids breakfast time experience was what I used to gauge my performance as a parent.
In our house we try to get up that bit earlier so we all have time to spend some time at the kitchen table together. My wife goes off to work at about eightish and the kids kiss her goodbye at the door. It’s then my job to get them to finish off their food; to clean up the mess; to wrangle them upstairs and get their teeth cleaned; to get their shoes on; to pack my son’s packed lunch; to wrestle him back into the wellies he has just removed and lobbed out of the cat flap because of a sudden objection to their colour scheme; to plead with my six year old daughter to cease producing the sickening cacophony from her electronic keyboard which she switched on and began to play while I was distracted by the wellies issue; to zip my two year old into his winter coat only to notice the feint whiff of a dirty nappy at the last minute and subsequently change him and undergo the now familiar welly argument one last time; to get out of the front door and half way down the garden path before my daughter announces that she suddenly needs to use the toilet as a matter of urgency; to spend ten minutes searching nearby streets for the car because my wife parked it last night and forgot to tell me exactly where; to cajole both children into their car seats while fielding an incessant, high speed succession of random and unconnected questions from my six year old, scuh as ‘Why is the Queen’s husband not the king?’ ‘What’s the second biggest number in the world?’ and “Who was more evil, Hitler or Stalin?” And, finally, to deliver my daughter, ten minutes late, to her classroom and my son to his child minder before getting back into the car and heading off towards my own working day.
I know, I know. If you’re a parent I am sure you go through similar stuff every morning. Perhaps you’re more organized than me, perhaps less. Boo-hoo, poor me. My problems are nothing exceptional. I don’t deserve any sympathy or special merit award for fulfilling the entry-level obligations of feeding my kids and delivering them to the custody of trustworthy daycare.
But that’s not the point. The point is this: breakfast ruins everything. My fancy-pants mornings with their quality time, nutritious foods and ostentatious involvement of not one but two parents don’t represent an improvement on the chaotic mornings of my youth. They just complicate everything, narrow the amount of time available to do the stuff that matters and increase the pressure and anxiety on everyone involved.
The families of the western world were getting along just fine in the days when we ran out of the house with a cursory wave good bye to our loved ones. We would grab a packet of Frazzles on the way to the bust stop and think ourselves lucky. Whatever happened to those happy, simpler times?
Kellogs happened.
Just as I always suspected, breakfast is just a conspiracy, devised by sinister admen on behalf of corporate behemoths. Breakfast is just another insidious tentacle of the consumerist nightmare, designed to lull hard working, overstressed parents like us into thinking we’re failures if we don’t deliver it in the way The Man says we should.
Don’t let The Man win. Don’t let him make you get up early and feed your kids only to wind up late for school anyway. Stand up and show The Man you’re a good parent, a proud parent and a parent who is able to make their own parenting decisions without recourse to his cynical, cereal-based marketing dictates. The next time your kid says that they’re hungry in the morning, open the front door, point them towards the bus stop and remind them where the nearest Londis is. They’ll thank you for it in the long run.
Find out more about Sam here...
When I was a kid, breakfast was a meal that only existed in television commercials. Happy mothers pouring tea into bone china cups for adoring husbands sat behind neatly laid tables in sunny, suburban kitchens. Two nauseating kids with bright white teeth and impeccably brushed hair would sit beside dad tucking into their nutritious bowls of Cornflakes. These were the sort of dickheads who looked as if they’d done their homework, packed their rucksacks and laid out their uniforms the night before in order to make their mornings less rushed. There would even be fresh fruit sitting on a plate in the middle of the table for everyone to pick at.
Fruit, brushed hair, parents who loved each other: it couldn’t have seemed more preposterous to me if the table was on the moon and occupied by a family of monkeys wearing top hats and monocles and discussing the Libyan crisis over their kippers. In the real world, breakfast was bollocks – a crafty marketing device designed entirely to make us buy boxes of cereal.
In my house, there was me, my three older brothers, our understandably harassed mum, two cats and an incontinent dog. My mum worked full time - and between my siblings and I we attended three different schools, each separated by several London postcodes. Marshal Law was declared in our house each and every morning. You were lucky just to grab a couple of minutes to yourself in the bathroom. Eating anything before heading for the bus stop was just a madman’s dream. Effectively, we ate Colgate for our breakfast, then ran out the front door.
That’s why, when I grew up, got married and had kids I placed high importance upon our family’s morning routine. For me, my kids breakfast time experience was what I used to gauge my performance as a parent.
In our house we try to get up that bit earlier so we all have time to spend some time at the kitchen table together. My wife goes off to work at about eightish and the kids kiss her goodbye at the door. It’s then my job to get them to finish off their food; to clean up the mess; to wrangle them upstairs and get their teeth cleaned; to get their shoes on; to pack my son’s packed lunch; to wrestle him back into the wellies he has just removed and lobbed out of the cat flap because of a sudden objection to their colour scheme; to plead with my six year old daughter to cease producing the sickening cacophony from her electronic keyboard which she switched on and began to play while I was distracted by the wellies issue; to zip my two year old into his winter coat only to notice the feint whiff of a dirty nappy at the last minute and subsequently change him and undergo the now familiar welly argument one last time; to get out of the front door and half way down the garden path before my daughter announces that she suddenly needs to use the toilet as a matter of urgency; to spend ten minutes searching nearby streets for the car because my wife parked it last night and forgot to tell me exactly where; to cajole both children into their car seats while fielding an incessant, high speed succession of random and unconnected questions from my six year old, scuh as ‘Why is the Queen’s husband not the king?’ ‘What’s the second biggest number in the world?’ and “Who was more evil, Hitler or Stalin?” And, finally, to deliver my daughter, ten minutes late, to her classroom and my son to his child minder before getting back into the car and heading off towards my own working day.
I know, I know. If you’re a parent I am sure you go through similar stuff every morning. Perhaps you’re more organized than me, perhaps less. Boo-hoo, poor me. My problems are nothing exceptional. I don’t deserve any sympathy or special merit award for fulfilling the entry-level obligations of feeding my kids and delivering them to the custody of trustworthy daycare.
But that’s not the point. The point is this: breakfast ruins everything. My fancy-pants mornings with their quality time, nutritious foods and ostentatious involvement of not one but two parents don’t represent an improvement on the chaotic mornings of my youth. They just complicate everything, narrow the amount of time available to do the stuff that matters and increase the pressure and anxiety on everyone involved.
The families of the western world were getting along just fine in the days when we ran out of the house with a cursory wave good bye to our loved ones. We would grab a packet of Frazzles on the way to the bust stop and think ourselves lucky. Whatever happened to those happy, simpler times?
Kellogs happened.
Just as I always suspected, breakfast is just a conspiracy, devised by sinister admen on behalf of corporate behemoths. Breakfast is just another insidious tentacle of the consumerist nightmare, designed to lull hard working, overstressed parents like us into thinking we’re failures if we don’t deliver it in the way The Man says we should.
Don’t let The Man win. Don’t let him make you get up early and feed your kids only to wind up late for school anyway. Stand up and show The Man you’re a good parent, a proud parent and a parent who is able to make their own parenting decisions without recourse to his cynical, cereal-based marketing dictates. The next time your kid says that they’re hungry in the morning, open the front door, point them towards the bus stop and remind them where the nearest Londis is. They’ll thank you for it in the long run.
Working Dads struggle with the Juggle too... How do they cope with work, family & home?
TV Reporter Phil & his partner Alex became parents when they adopted Harry. He was 2 at the time. Making sure they still have time for themselves and each other was their plan.
Being a parent will be tough.You'll never have a life again. Those were the warnings we heard again and again before we adopted Harry a year ago. Friends with kids described how they now never have any money, never have any time, never have any energy. I was determined not to fall into that scenario. True, things have changed. I'm in the process of organising a night out right now for next week. Yes, I'm organising a night out for a week hence. Previously, I'd have just gone out after work as and when I wanted. Now, it all takes careful planning. But the best preparation came years earlier, with the arrival of a dog. She's four now - and it really was great training, even if people look aghast when we dare draw comparisons between mutt and minor. There were so many similarities - from having to arrange cover if we are away for the night, to teaching boundaries and discipline. Pre-fatherhood, I worked a lot and worked out even more. I love to run, I love to go to the gym. I'd be pounding and pumping every day. And make no mistake, when I became a Dad, I wanted to be a DILF, not a dodo. Sure, it's taken a lot of adapting. For one thing, I often find that if I want to go to the gym now, I have to go at 5:30am to make sure I'm back for when the little blighter wakes up. But I wouldn't have it any other way. If it means I'm tired in the afternoon, so be it. There are worse excuses to have for ensuring your child is made to have an afternoon nap. Work is another issue. All I can say is 'thank god' for nursery. He took to that like a duck to water. Which was great for me. I didn't feel guilt at palming him off for the day to the care of somebody else because I know that he is learning so much from being around other children all day. Skills and lessons that are invaluable. Some may think that I'm selfish. That it was wrong of me to not want to change my life for a child when so many people would do anything to be able to do that. And maybe that's right. But I also thought from the outset that what I wanted was a balance. I wanted to be able to do the things I did before. To enjoy my 'me time', to enjoy my job and not begrudge having to give them up. And now I feel I have the best of both worlds. Sure, it's tough having to get up extra early - and I'm never out of bed beyond 11pm - but I wouldn't change that for anything. Becoming a DILF though - that's still a work in progress. |
Marcus is a father of 2 and author of the blog 'Teriffied Dad'. He and his partner Becky juggle the childcare of their 2 kids with 2 demanding careers.
If you look up the phrase “behind the curve” on the Internet you will probably find a picture of me. I have never been accused of being “cutting edge” and it is with this outlook in life that I have only just discovered the US crime drama The Wire. So, recently I have been ploughing through all 60 episodes of this excellent series and been totally enthralled with the acting skills and moody coolness of its star, Dominic West. I realised he was already quite well known when I Googled him and got just over 36 million results. One interview in the online version of The Evening Standard revealed that apart from being dashing and urbane he is also the father of four children! Even with four kids West seems totally unruffled by the whole fatherhood thing, surfing effortlessly on the tide of babydom. There is something about celebrities that they just appear unflappable when talking about raising their offspring, like it was about as much effort as popping down the shops for a loaf and some milk. In the article West waffles on about, “how great children are… they are the future, the lifeblood of this country… they are the chariots of fire, the building blocks of this Jerusalem, the embodiment of this green and pleasant land.” Obviously I am paraphrasing – in as much as he didn’t actually say any of that, but you get my gist. He sounded great. He sounded smart, laid back… and totally in control. If interviewed about what it all means and how we feel, lesser mortals like myself who are struggling daily with the trials and tribulations of fatherhood could never be so erudite. If questioned on what I thought of fatherhood as a whole I think in my delirious state of over exhaustion I would say something along the lines of, “Er, yea…. it’s great… kids are great…what day is it? Earlier I got a bit of poo on my eyebrow.” I know what you are probably thinking, Dominic West and myself… it’s almost impossible to spot the difference! Read some more of Marcus's musings on The Dad Juggle on our Man Blog Page. This week 'A working Dad's guide to the ladies who lunch'.
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'A Working Dad's Wisdom on doing the Daily Juggle'
Harry is a dad of 3. His life was rolling along quite nicely until the kids came along. This is a little snipet of how Harry learned to do The Daily Juggle.
A few months before our first child was born I went to an NCT class where all the men were asked to outline their preconceptions and general thoughts about fatherhood. I was impressed by how, in their different ways, they had each given it some thought. I was the last contributor and had to confess that I had given it no thought what-so-ever.
I was 41, coming late into fatherhood and accustomed to a very self-absorbed existence.
When it comes to juggling fatherhood and one child, my view is a slightly controversial one. I didn’t find it that difficult, but that’s partly because my wife is highly organised and I was able to ride in her slipstream. Our first child was also a very good sleeper.
My reverie was shaken when our second child was born. I found the impact volcanic. My experience of having a second child is that the workload doesn’t double. It seems to increase exponentially - tenfold would be my guess if I had to put a figure on it and I got my just deserts with particular wake-up call - our second child did wake up in the middle of the night crying.
My first day back at work after paternity leave was disastrous. I was tired and drained in a way I’d never experienced before, even though I’d spent many years doing shifts at strange hours of the day.
It took me a few years to develop a coping mechanism. The only way I can describe it is - you need to be “In the zone” - and I wasn’t. I treated changing nappies, reading stories and cleaning their teeth as some gigantic chore, instead of just accepting that this was who I now was and that even apparently mundane daily interaction with your young children provides fleeting precious moments to be treasured.
Even in the early years there were things I enjoyed. I liked dropping them off and picking them up at nursery and really appreciated the care and attention they received at Dolphin in Kingston. I worked weekends and was often off on a Monday. Very early on, after our first child was born, a friend persuaded me to take our daughter to a Monday morning singing class. I was the only father there, among twenty mothers all with their little children.
After years of bachelordom, this was a very alien experience for me and I was terrified the first few times I went, but gradually I came to really love going. Another experience to be treasured.
We had our third child in February 2011, by which time I was “in the zone”. Changing nappies and toilet training is just a part of what I do. It will be a pleasant surprise when it stops, although I’m under illusions about the fresh challenges children present as they go through different age groups. I’m gradually getting better at trying to savour each moment, but as I sit here now finishing this, I have to confess - I’m glad they’re all in bed!
A few months before our first child was born I went to an NCT class where all the men were asked to outline their preconceptions and general thoughts about fatherhood. I was impressed by how, in their different ways, they had each given it some thought. I was the last contributor and had to confess that I had given it no thought what-so-ever.
I was 41, coming late into fatherhood and accustomed to a very self-absorbed existence.
When it comes to juggling fatherhood and one child, my view is a slightly controversial one. I didn’t find it that difficult, but that’s partly because my wife is highly organised and I was able to ride in her slipstream. Our first child was also a very good sleeper.
My reverie was shaken when our second child was born. I found the impact volcanic. My experience of having a second child is that the workload doesn’t double. It seems to increase exponentially - tenfold would be my guess if I had to put a figure on it and I got my just deserts with particular wake-up call - our second child did wake up in the middle of the night crying.
My first day back at work after paternity leave was disastrous. I was tired and drained in a way I’d never experienced before, even though I’d spent many years doing shifts at strange hours of the day.
It took me a few years to develop a coping mechanism. The only way I can describe it is - you need to be “In the zone” - and I wasn’t. I treated changing nappies, reading stories and cleaning their teeth as some gigantic chore, instead of just accepting that this was who I now was and that even apparently mundane daily interaction with your young children provides fleeting precious moments to be treasured.
Even in the early years there were things I enjoyed. I liked dropping them off and picking them up at nursery and really appreciated the care and attention they received at Dolphin in Kingston. I worked weekends and was often off on a Monday. Very early on, after our first child was born, a friend persuaded me to take our daughter to a Monday morning singing class. I was the only father there, among twenty mothers all with their little children.
After years of bachelordom, this was a very alien experience for me and I was terrified the first few times I went, but gradually I came to really love going. Another experience to be treasured.
We had our third child in February 2011, by which time I was “in the zone”. Changing nappies and toilet training is just a part of what I do. It will be a pleasant surprise when it stops, although I’m under illusions about the fresh challenges children present as they go through different age groups. I’m gradually getting better at trying to savour each moment, but as I sit here now finishing this, I have to confess - I’m glad they’re all in bed!
