Is it right to impose pescetarianism on my kids? They don’t have a choice

Her children follow a pescatarian diet, but Charlotte Cripps isn’t talking monkfish or Dover sole: think fish fingers and a lot of vitamins

People are always pressurising me to give my kids sausages. But why? Is it because it’s inconvenient for other mums if they go over for tea? Or should they be able to make the decision for themselves? When Lola asked: “What is a sausage mum,” I pointed to the TV where her beloved Peppa Pig was on and I said: “There, that is where sausage comes from – Peppa Pig.” She looked surprised and never asked for a sausage again after that.

We eat fish so my kids are pescatarian. We are not talking monkfish or Dover sole here, think fish fingers. But sometimes, I wonder if I was right to have imposed it on Lola and Liberty?

I used to cook meat all the time for Alex – despite not eating it myself. So it’s not as if I judge what anybody else does – it’s just I don’t fancy eating factory-farmed meat, where the animals endure cramped conditions before they are slaughtered in often horrible ways. I could go organic wild or organic free range and shop at places like Wholefoods to make sure it’s good quality. But making that choice is exactly why the place is nicknamed Wholecheck because it’s easy to spend a month’s salary in just one trip.

Steak was Alex’s favourite – as was a roast chicken. He also liked sausage sandwiches. But he really loved my prawn pasta with fromage frais and tons of garlic, which was the last meal I made him the night before he died. It was a Monday night. I remember him sitting on the pink sofa while I cooked and obsessed to myself over not having children, as we did rounds of IVF. “It’s never going to happen!” I used to think.

But now look at me – thanks to IVF and a ton of his frozen sperm I used after his death, I now have two little mouths to feed. To be quite honest it would be a lot easier if I could throw them a leg of chicken or a slice of ham – or a wild venison burger like my yummy-mummy neighbour feeds her toddler. But no – I have to be more inventive. Which is a problem as Lola is called a “fussy eater” – a term that sends shivers across parenting forums. But where did it all go wrong?

My mum friend Mel had tried desperately to get me into baby-led weaning right from the word go. Her two children are a year older than mine – so she is one step ahead. The trend involves giving your children whatever you are eating in finger food form and letting them feed themselves – while trusting their gag reflex not to choke. And never giving a puree.

“What did cave men do Char?” was Mel’s catchphrase. But when she turned up at my flat with tupperware boxes overloaded with an assortment of vegetables, falafel, and fruit, to really stimulate the taste buds, her baby may as well have been using my flat as a canvas to hand paint with food.

My dog Muggles is a good hoover, but I had to make a grab for the raisins and avocados, which are poisonous to dogs and he nearly bit my hand off. When she packed up I was in total shock. Could I really put people through this? Would my sister and dad put up with their houses being destroyed by baby-led weaning?

I was glad to stick to the purees after her visit. Surely, I can’t be alone in bringing up my babies on pouches of squishy food anyway – those organic ones that come in brightly coloured packets? You just untwist the little lid and pop it into the child’s mouth – and boom – they get their five a day – and I haven’t even diced an onion. But is it all too good to be true? Sadly it was, as I got complacent with the puree and it backfired.

By the next stage of weaning, Stage 3 (solids), it had skipped my mind that I would have to cook toddler-friendly recipes from scratch, having become addicted, like my children, to the quick fix. Perhaps as a result, Lola only eats fish fingers, pasta and tomato sauce, or omelette – and Amy’s frozen organic macaroni cheese – which I buy in bulk, because she won’t eat any other brand.

I don’t know who Amy is – but I would like to thank her from the bottom of my heart – because basically she makes dinner for my kids five nights a week. But since Lola doesn’t eat fruit and vegetables that much, the only vitamins she can be sure to get are from a bottle of Wellbaby. And mealtimes are complicated with us all eating different things. I am always on a diet trying to lose the baby weight: I’ve tried the 5:2, the 800-calorie a day diet, fasting and Atkins diet. One thing I have learnt is, never weigh yourself when you’re exhausted because you could get it wrong.

I had a complete freak out the other day at my 164 kg weigh-in. My friend tried to reassure me that this is impossible. But it was too late, I had already committed to doing the Keto diet in my frenzy. My fridge was now full of normally forbidden foods – as you need to keep fat content so high –cheeses, full-fat cream, peanut butter and coconut yoghurt, which is very moreish.

By the next morning, after no sleep because one of the kids threw up all over the bed, I couldn’t deal with the ratios of 70 per cent fat to 25 per cent protein to 5 per cent carbs. I had a meltdown just trying to work out how to eat so much fat. I realised if I put one foot wrong I could end up putting on half a stone. When Keto goes wrong, it can have a horrific reverse effect.

Fearing a cheese binge I might never return from, I abandoned it. It was too stressful working out the maths with my carb manager. Frantically, I began checking the sell-buy dates – wondering what I would do with all the food I’d bought. The nanny’s eyes lit up when I showed her the bounty of delicious high-fat food that I now couldn’t touch.

Nevertheless, despite the fact we are all usually eating totally different food from each other, I always try to have a traditional family meal – especially with Alex not around anymore. I’ve learnt to tie the dog to the sofa leg because if I turn my back for one minute, he will swipe the food. He might be annoying – but he kept me sane when Alex died – five years ago today. Ok, so he’s not a cute and fluffy puppy anymore but – no I won’t rehouse him, a dog is for life – he’s here to stay.