Articles on child and family psychology

Cooking for Kids

Continued
In fairness to my parents, I have to admit that I often came to enjoy the programs that were thrust upon me. But I must have made life very difficult for them. What they insisted was interesting and exciting, I saw as bewildering and scarey. Change was to be resisted at all costs, particularly if it meant I had to meet new people or perform in any way. So intense was my fear of looking foolish in front of others that I seriously entertained the thought of deliberating riding my bike into the icy waters of the pond at the end of our street so that I could catch pneumonia and be excused from the annual recital that was an obligatory part of my piano teacher's program. The only reason I aborted the kamikaze mission was my anticipation of how ridiculous I would look if the neighbours saw me being fished out of the pond, bike in tow.

But the most traumatic event I can remember was the Cooking for Kids class at the Y when I was eight or nine. Somehow Cooking for Kids fed into my worst fears. To begin with, it was co-ed and I had an aversion to the opposite sex that was not to leave me for many years. Then there was the prospect of having to learn skills that were completely alien to me. My experiences in the kitchen had been limited to the eating end of the cooking process. Now I would have to figure out recipes (what if I couldn't read them or understand the measurements?) and use appliances and utensils I had been taught to avoid ("don't touch the stove!" "not that knife—you could slice your finger off with it.") If I survived this far, I would have to face the panel of experts who would judge the quality of the finished product. My parents somehow thought that telling me I would be able to bring home whatever I cooked would be an incentive. I suppose they assumed I would feel grown-up and important as I set my delicacies in front of the family. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I anticipated my siblings reacting with the same enthusiasm they reserved for liver and turnip. I could count on my parents to lie and tell me how they had always preferred peanut butter cookies that had the consistency of granite, but I would know the truth.

The days preceding the first class provided ample opportunity for me to upgrade my concerns from anxiety status to full-blown phobia. "I'm not going," was a declaration that set into motion a series of steps my parents had taken many times. First came the bubbly, upbeat account of how much fun I was bound to have. I would have unselfishly stepped aside and let them go in my place so that they could have all the fun, but I had no illusion that they would ever accept such an offer. Their failure to sell me on Cooking for Kids led to their moving into the "there, there, it will be alright" mode. Sensing my mounting trepidation, they tried to soothe me into submission. I was reminded of the other times I had not wanted to participate, only to find out that I had worried myself sick over nothing. But I knew Cooking for Kids would be different. I would never like it and I would be miserable, humiliated, and traumatized for life. Patience inevitably wears thin. Bubbly and soothing were followed by the no-nonsense approach and thinly-veiled authoritarianism. I was going and that was all there was to it discussion over.




			Dr. Marshall has written for scientific journals, magazines such as Canadian Living and Parent-to-Parent, and newspapers. A list of journal papers is contained in his Curriculum Vitae. If you would like to read one of his recent articles, please select from the left:
Spoiled Rotten? Eavesdropping A World of Their Own Cooking for Kids Work - Does It Build Character? The Barbeque

			Cooking for Kids Continued In fairness to my parents, I have to admit that I often came to enjoy the programs that were thrust upon me. But I must have made life very difficult for them. What they insisted was interesting and exciting, I saw as bewildering and scarey. Change was to be resisted at all costs, particularly if it meant I had to meet new people or perform in any way. So intense was my fear of looking foolish in front of others that I seriously entertained the thought of deliberating riding my bike into the icy waters of the pond at the end of our street so that I could catch pneumonia and be excused from the annual recital that was an obligatory part of my piano teacher's program. The only reason I aborted the kamikaze mission was my anticipation of how ridiculous I would look if the neighbours saw me being fished out of the pond, bike in tow. But the most traumatic event I can remember was the Cooking for Kids class at the Y when I was eight or nine. Somehow Cooking for Kids fed into my worst fears. To begin with, it was co-ed and I had an aversion to the opposite sex that was not to leave me for many years. Then there was the prospect of having to learn skills that were completely alien to me. My experiences in the kitchen had been limited to the eating end of the cooking process. Now I would have to figure out recipes (what if I couldn't read them or understand the measurements?) and use appliances and utensils I had been taught to avoid ("don't touch the stove!" "not that knife—you could slice your finger off with it.") If I survived this far, I would have to face the panel of experts who would judge the quality of the finished product. My parents somehow thought that telling me I would be able to bring home whatever I cooked would be an incentive. I suppose they assumed I would feel grown-up and important as I set my delicacies in front of the family. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I anticipated my siblings reacting with the same enthusiasm they reserved for liver and turnip. I could count on my parents to lie and tell me how they had always preferred peanut butter cookies that had the consistency of granite, but I would know the truth. The days preceding the first class provided ample opportunity for me to upgrade my concerns from anxiety status to full-blown phobia. "I'm not going," was a declaration that set into motion a series of steps my parents had taken many times. First came the bubbly, upbeat account of how much fun I was bound to have. I would have unselfishly stepped aside and let them go in my place so that they could have all the fun, but I had no illusion that they would ever accept such an offer. Their failure to sell me on Cooking for Kids led to their moving into the "there, there, it will be alright" mode. Sensing my mounting trepidation, they tried to soothe me into submission. I was reminded of the other times I had not wanted to participate, only to find out that I had worried myself sick over nothing. But I knew Cooking for Kids would be different. I would never like it and I would be miserable, humiliated, and traumatized for life. Patience inevitably wears thin. Bubbly and soothing were followed by the no-nonsense approach and thinly-veiled authoritarianism. I was going and that was all there was to it discussion over.