When Your Kids Selfishly Decide To Become Vegetarian

For the third time in her short life, NC has decided to give up meat and become a pescatarian.


tuna-576938_1280She is an environmental vegetarian which is apparently the practice of vegetarianism or veganism based on the indications that animal production, particularly by intensive farming, is environmentally unsustainable. Industrialised agriculture contributes on a “massive scale” to global warming, air pollution, land degradation, energy use, deforestation, and biodiversity declines. It is estimated that the livestock sector (including poultry) contributes to about 18 percent of global GHG emissions expressed as 100-year CO2 equivalents. According to Wikipedia.


As an aspiring climate scientist, who Mr Trump and Mr Turnball should be highly fearful of, NC feels it’s time to make a personal stand.


Which, while all well and good, (and myself and the old man count ourselves as supportive parents), it was predictably hard to prevent the eye roll  when she informed us about it and the telepathic question might have passed between us as to who would buy the bacon this time – a surefire way to persuade our daughter to stop being so selfish making mealtimes hell on earth to plan for.


Unfortunately, she seems more rigid about her principles this time.


I respect and value everyone’s choices in this world as long as it doesn’t affect me too much. I’m happy to go to vegetarian restaurants with my veggo friends – perhaps made easier because I’m quite partial to veggies in general as well as having certain somewhat embarrassing issues with red meat (see this post) – but I refuse to pay an arm and a leg for a piece of wild salmon or get the old man to fish for fresh tuna for our “picky pesky”.


Because although she eats fish, she will only eat certain types of fish now, and tuna, the lazy/cheapskate cook’s answer to getting fish down your kids’ necks, is off the menu completely.


Such limitations have had ramifications for the House Bitch who can be somewhat of a prima donna and is freaking the fuck out because he plans the meals, does the food shopping and occasionally pretends to cook. And for a man who finds Spaghetti Bolognese a stretch of his culinary skills, food without meat is a real conundrum.


In fairness to NC, she has offered to cook more often now and has produced several interesting vegetarian meals over the past weeks, which included a spaghetti dish where the only other ingredient was wilted spinach. As you can imagine, the boys raved about it, rubbing their tummies with glee and satiation until the minute NC turned her back and they ran to the fridge in search of protein.


She seems to be fairing quite well on what is effectively a cheese and egg diet and I’ve only seen any sign of her principles cracking once, when we came together for our traditional kebab night on Thursday. The smell and sight of those juicy beef slices dripping from the edges of our pitta bread, while falafel crumbled pathetically from her own, produced a look on her face akin to that of most of the world when Trump won the presidency. Disappointment at how much political choice can truly suck.

Nightmare on Darlinghurst Street

So this was my dream last night….

If dreams do come true, I’m fucked.

Bag Lady
Bag Lady (Photo credit: Sineakee)

The old man and I had met up with friends to go to Govindas cinema in Darlinghurst and we were aimlessly trawling the streets beforehand to find a restaurant suited to everyone’s tastes.

(This scenario is obviously related to my ‘guilt’).

You see, the original plan was to eat at the trendy Vegetarian restaurant at Govindas because the friends we were going with are vegetarian, but as the evening loomed closer and the old man continued to moan about iron depletion, I got cold feet and changed the venue to somewhere omnivorous.

(The prospect of listening to his politically incorrect jokes about dead animals over our vegetarian curry might have also had something to do with it).

Added to which, the restaurant was alcohol-free, and it was a Friday night….. WTF.

So there we were, pacing the streets of Darlinghurst, looking for ANY restaurant to suit our small group, (as in, one that served a cheese omelette as well as a full menu of meat).

The search was made all the more difficult because I was carrying numerous black refuse bags full of second-hand clothing, because the ADHD fundraiser that I was organizing was the next day, and I’d completely forgotten about it.

So while we were desperately trying to find a decent restaurant, there I was lugging my bin bags whilst frantically trying to call my friend who runs the support group with me, to come and collect the clothes. Which is when my precious new phone decided to play up as well.

You have to understand that my phone is my lifeline. It is my fourth child after NC, Kurt and the Princess.

The old man and I finally agreed upon one of those Brazilian meat-fest restaurants, (I think it also served a decent cheese omelette), and as we went to our table, who should be sitting there but my sister from the UK.

My sister doesn’t fly, (but this is a dream, of course), and I would ordinarily have loved to see her in Australia, but she chose this day of all days to visit! I had no clean sheets, I hadn’t prepped Kurt for guests, my work diary for the week was full, I had the ADHD fundraiser the following day AND she was looking thinner than me.

I became tearful, overwhelmed and very hot, partly because I had resorted to wearing half the contents of the refuse bags in an effort to relieve some of the weight. It was a summer evening and I was wearing orange pants, furry snow boots, my normal clothes and a Yankees sports top over the top.

The four of us sat down to eat but I was still trying to get my phone to work, when the old man suddenly snatched it from my hand and launched it across the room of the restaurant in a misguided attempt to either a) stop me whining or b) to mend it.

That was the last straw.

We had a massive domestic in the middle of the restaurant right in front of our peace-lovin hippy mates, during which I disclosed a lot of shocking skeletons from our cupboards.

(He should have know that endangering my phone is like ripping my heart out or smacking our child and I became psychotically defensive).

(The way this dream was turning out I probably had my period too).

In response to my outburst the old man stormed off into the next room of the restaurant. I assumed he had gone for his habitual sulk or to to catch up on the cricket score but when I poked my head around the door I saw him hooking up with this stunning, skinny brunette bombshell who was carrying a pile of books on accountancy – she had a tiny waist, big breasts, no attitude and obviously liked numbers and middle-aged bald men.

Anxious, much?

The moral of the story is either don’t eat cheese before bedtime, or go out to dinner with vegetarians.

Or perhaps I just need to reduce my intake of cheap white wine.