We are at an impasse. My son stares me down over a plate of Mexican rice. He is an immovable object for whom my dinner is clearly not an irresistible force.
Had you entered our kitchen 20 minutes ago, you would have thought us a harmonious pair. We have an admittedly – possibly even revoltingly – cutesy poster framed beside the door which declares This Kitchen Is For Dancing, and he has always taken it quite literally. Today, we were sweating up a storm to our perennial favourite, 1nce Again by Client_03, an anonymous musician whose mix of menacing electro and garbled computer voices has proven an unlikely hit with my four-year-old. My ulterior motive is to wear him down, so he can’t put up a struggle when dinnertime arrives. It has not worked, and now he’s just sweaty while he stares at me.
