I mean, I try to teach Finian about the intricacies of delayed gratification using the "first (insert word, usually something devastatingly boring) and then (insert word, something fabulous and desirable)" shtick.
It works pretty well too, and he will now eat a healthy dinner before he gets a biscuit and do his homework before getting his iTouch.
You get the idea.
So far, so autie-tastic.
It's just a tad unfortunate that I can't apply the same principles to myself.
I seem to possess a finely honed sixth sense that alerts me to the presence of chocolate, no matter how ingeniously hidden, and forces me to
It's a terrible affliction, and definitely not greed.
I like to imagine that I'm performing a supreme act of martyrdom by saving someone else from having raised cholesterol.
Really, I should be given a medal, or at least a sainthood (St Jean the Patron Saint of Chocolate Robbers).
When faced with a choice between a tuna sandwich and a Mars bar the size of my arm, my mantra gets amended to "first...erm...chocolate and then...well...chocolate".
When Finian masters the expression of smugness, I will be withered my inability to delay gratification...and I may even lose my halo.
Another area I've spent years working on with Fin has been his sense of his own body, where all his bits are in relation to each other and his sense of where he physically is in relation to the outside world.
Or proprioception, if you want to be fancy schmancy about it.
To this end, he has been catapulted onto trampolines, tested the g-force of swings and been
Fin responds really well to BIG movements, so the bigger, faster and higher he is flung the more happy and interactive he becomes. I'm just praying that he doesn't greet his teacher by slapping her arse and calling her a "ho'" some morning.
All well and good.
But I fall pitifully short at taking my own advice.
At 40 years of age, and after carrying 3 hefty babies for 40 weeks each, I'm afraid that I would end up using my bladder as a handbag instead of a receptacle for human waste if I put it to the trampoline test.
If I was capable of shoe-horning my motherly butt onto his swing and flying through the air with the greatest of ease, my ageing inner ear would almost certainly protest by causing me to spew the contents of my last three meals across the concrete.
And as for dancing...well...the last time I danced in public was at a wedding when my brother John and I decided to get the party started by being the first to hit the floor. The spotlight followed our footsteps around the vast, empty floor and the cameraman videoing the proceedings stalked our every move like a seasoned paparazzi tailing John Travolta and Olivia Newton John. The wedding guests gasped, transfixed by our enthusiastic high-stepping.
But for all the wrong reasons.
The video evidence revealed that I dance less like Jennifer Lopez and more like an electrocuted wildebeest on acid, while I seriously wonder if John's limbs don't belong to four different people and they all wanted them back that night.
Sadly, I don't think I will ever again be drunk enough to delude myself that I'm a hot dancer...the amount of alcohol required to achieve that splendid state would result in an acute episode of deadness, thus rendering the exercise null and void.
So I expect Finian to work his sweet little butt off to help him become all that he is capable of becoming, while I get to cower safely on terra firma with a mug of tea and my knitting..
Sometimes it's great being the Grown-Up.