We don’t do a lot of juice around here, but Fern’s friend was getting some at our playdate today so I let her have some, too. Of course, I used that “kid juice” you can get, which is marketed as “Low! Sugar!” but essentially amounts to a tiny bit of apple juice cut into water. And just as (I imagine) cocaine loses its thrill when you mix it with enough talc, child-oriented juice is basically unpalatable.
So I knowingly served Fern something that she wouldn’t drink, and lo, the full cup minus perhaps one sip still sat on the table after lunch, next to the empty water cup I’d cleverly put alongside the juiceless juice.
Somehow, that little deception — or lesson? — seems emblematic of my style as a parent. And I’m oddly OK with that.
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