Forgive me . . .

Okay, first things first. I know you've all been wondering, waiting with bated breath . . . 91 per cent of Canada AM "Your Say" respondents believe that the Obama family has a right to privacy on vacation.

Hope you will sleep well tonight, secure in that knowledge. I know I will.

And now back to our regularly scheduled ranting and whining.

Forgive me fathers, for I have sinned. (Note "fathers" is not capitalized. Not sacrilegious, not meant to be. Just meant to be funny. But now that I've had to explain it . . . never mind).

It has been, well, forever, since my last confession. But last night, I gave into temptation, I gave into peer pressure, I gave into Sonwun. And yes, rather than cook a healthy, nutritious, vegetable-filled meal, I loaded the boys into the van and drove to McDonald's. I am a bad father. I fed my children a "Happy Meal."

And it doesn't end there, I'm afraid. I didn't get them the "healthy" one, you know, the chicken fingers, apple slices and milk. No, I went for the cheeseburger, french fries and root beer. I am a bad father.

But, in my defence, cooking has become more and more difficult in a mommy-free environment. (15 days, 23 hours, seven minutes to go) While I enjoy cooking, the motivation just isn't there any more. It seems the labour is less appreciated by my young charges.

I would love to cook a nice roast beef, do something interesting with potatoes and steam some asparagus. But I know it would be met with disdain, I would have to fight the entire meal to get the vegetables into my preschooler and the dog would end up with the lion's share of my toddler's meal.

Sonwun, the elder, turns his nose up at anything that is not intimately familiar and anything that does not involve one cup of ketchup. Sadly, he's the one that can talk.

Sontoo, the younger, will eat almost anything. And while he doesn't speak just yet, he will make the yummy noises at the appropriate time during a meal. On the flip side, when he's had enough, or when he disapproves of the offering, he dumps his plate and wears it like a hat. And, once released from his booster seat, he heads straight for the dog's bowl for dessert. And yes, he makes the yummy noises there too. It kind of takes the shine off his compliments at the dinner table.

And so, yesterday, with my will to fight and my desire to cook both at all-time lows, and my eldest son begging for "restaurant food," I gave in. I fed my children the fat-rich, vitamin-free offerings of Rotten Ronny and his crew. And yes, I felt guilty. No vegetables, but plenty of carbs and sugar. I am a bad father.

But help is on the way. This afternoon the boys and I were invited to dinner tomorrow night. It would seem that before the wife left, she asked her colleagues to check in on me, to make sure I wasn't wandering around naked looking for a clock tower. And one of them has taken up the challenge. So, tomorrow night, it's roast beef, potatoes and adult conversation! Hallay-freakin'-lujah.

Tonight, it's basic spaghetti. I know they'll eat it and it is bath night, so any and all collateral damage will be dealt with immediately.

Hey, do you think the Obama family eats at McDonalds while on vacation? Should they? Should the press be allowed to photograph them there? What's your opinion?