The Deckhand and I have different parenting styles. For example. The other day.
Me: anxious that, if the Stowaway continues to subsist entirely on beans and tiny yogurts, she will develop something both gaseous and hypercalcemic, I resolve to feed her some vegetables and lentils and that. She refuses, so the following evening I big the meal up before serving it, claiming that because she has been so good by not liberally pissing and shitting herself quite so much these days, the fairies have let me use their secret recipe. It is not vegetables, I insist, but fairy stew. I have proof – how else would it glitter and gleam so? (See previous post for details of obsessive use of Jane Asher disco sprinkles.) (No, they’re not exactly toxic, as such; yes, one’s deposits also glitter and gleam. It’s a half-life thing, don’t get too hung up on it). The Stowaway’s eyes light up and she happily sucks the health-slop down.
The Deckhand: ambling over to where the Stowaway sits joyfully eating her holographic cassoulet, he asks what she’s got. “Fairy stew!” she replies. He peers into the bowl, puts his hand over his mouth, points. She stops chewing, following his gaze. “What, daddy?” she asks. “It’s just,” he tells her, “that I can see a little bit of fairy, right there.”