Drawing the line

Since the pneumonia, we've been on a mission to try and help the twins regain the weight they've lost. Evan runs around after his bath, naked, screaming on top of his lungs "Skinny Monkey!" because that's what his grandfather calls him now that we can count his ribs quite easily. Baby J looks taller now probably because she's gone thinner again.

Thankfully, they've been trying to make up for it by eating almost everything in sight. Evan more than Jordan, naturally. I've not quite come to terms with the fact that Evan, already larger, is less fussy about food so will eat more than Jordan and therefore put on weight much faster. But I've accepted it as fact. He loves his cod, his beef stew and all things good for him. Baby J hates the smell of cod and gags on beef however soft and tender it is.

So, when I'm at the supermarket, I always try and get the butcher to recommend the best cut of beef for Little Miss Fussy. I usually go to the NTUC Finest at Bukit Timah Plaza because the butchers there are polite, helpful and accomodating to my requests (I usually ask them to double mince the meat so as to lessen the chances of Little Miss Gaggy gagging).

Today, I tell the butcher my predicament and he recommends the tenderloin but claims that it'll probably be wasted on the non-discerning 2-year olds. True. He then recommends what he thinks is best for them. Veal. He tries to convince me by telling me that the calves were still on mothers' milk before they were slaughtered and they were only about six weeks old. He must have seen the look on my face because he also added "Yes, very cruel. But very good for your children."

I thanked him politely and walked off though.

Maybe it's just me, but there is no way I can wrap my head round the idea of offering to my children (babies themselves), 6 week old calves still on their mothers' milk, just so that my babies could grow up strong and healthy. There's just something cosmically wrong with that.


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