Sometimes I feel like a fraud. I mean, should I really be sticking both my Beachwood Boys in front of the television just because – for once – I would really like to be able to start my day at 6-something o’clock, rather than 5-something o’clock? Ever since daylight savings began it’s been a continual struggle to get the boys to sleep much beyond 5.15 a.m. Trust me it’s brutal. I’ve tried tweaking with their sleep patterns to see if putting them to bed a little later would help. Not ideal, but worth a shot. It doesn’t. They still wake up at 5.15 a.m. only they’re cranky as they haven’t had enough sleep. So sometimes, yes, I crumble and relent and I value the warm embrace of my duvet over all else and I reach for that remote control. It’s hardly progressive parenting. The Steiner purists would blanche at my approach. As I simultaneously atrophy and overstimulate my children’s brains with flashing images, exploding robots and talking cars. “Dad when can we get one of those?” But then, the Steiner purists aren’t laying awake next to me bleary eyed at 5.15 a.m. are they?

But then I figure – who am I trying to kid? At 5.15 a.m. on a Saturday morning, that cathode ray (showing my age) that plasma screen (still showing my age) that 42 inch, hypnosis-inducing, image projecting, thingy on the wall, is my best friend. I mean by the time they are my age televisions will probably have gone the way of the record player or the Walkman. No one is going to dedicate themselves to sit down in a specific room and watch a dedicated box emit images for a set period of time. My kids will probably thank me for giving them exposure to such antiquated technology. For allowing them to create such a back catalog of nostalgic memories and for allowing them to talk about the “good old days” before micro chip brain implants, and in home 3D holograms came along.

“Ah. Remember the days when we just used to slump in front of the TV and not say anything to each other for the longest time? Those were some good times, huh?”

At least, that’s what I tell myself when I turn over in bed and try to grab a few more precious minutes sleep before their show ends and even they catch on to how I am merely playing for┬átime and stalling the inevitable.

“Come ON Dad! Let’s DO something”. And with laser like perception my fraudulence has been decisively exposed by a four year old once again.