You’ve Got Issues
By issues, I’m referring, of course, to food.
And by you, I mean of course, me.
Wow, I’m feeling better already just airing out that confession. Earlier in the week I felt differently. Earlier in the week I sat smugly way on the other side of a phone call from food issues.
I was talking to my sister, a new mom who is juggling all the complexities that come with feeding a baby. You know the stream of self-questioning that ensues with all things child-related–
How much is too much how much is too little how do I measure how do I know why is this so hard I should probably have another cookie or two to help me think straight…
I gave her what advice I could, given that my babies never ate, and then the conversation turned to the challenging task of raising children with normal relationships to food in a world where eating-related issues practically grow on trees.
We talked of modeling healthy relationships with food. We talked about not making a big deal out of food. We talked about meal times as time to eat, and other times as time for other. We sounded really smart and rational.
I crossed my self-congratulatory arms across my chest and declared that now that my kids are older I NEVER fall prey to whimpers for nighttime snacking.
Reality always waits until one is not looking to smack one upside her stupid head.
My six year-old was snug in her bed. Blankets had been tucked just so and band-aids had been applied to every microscopic scrape, imagined or otherwise. And then she pulled out the big guns…
BUT MOMMY I’M HUNGRY.
I knew my role. I knew the right thing to say, and I said it:
No honey, you already ate and now it’s bedtime.
But she didn’t stop there.
MOMMY I’M SO HUNGRY THAT IT HURTS DEEP INSIDE MY TUMMY.
And with that I promptly escorted the tough bitch to the door and waved bye-bye to the callous advocate of sending healthy, strong, normal children to bed hungry. I gave a kick in the pants to lesson teaching and good habits and all such nonsense.
My baby? Hungry? Get out of my way. Last I checked feeding my child perched at the very top of my job description.
But maybe she’s not really hungry. Maybe she is a manipulative little twit who pulls no punches in her pursuit of attention.
Yes, perhaps you have a point, you mean, heartless, cold version of myself. But know what? I can’t pop attention into the microwave and serve it up hot as I wipe her tears away.
But I can feed my baby. And I will feed my babies.
Besides, we’ve had a little chat and now we’re all on the same page. Eating will be done at the dinner table at dinner time. And there will be no two ways about it.
(You know, unless she gets really hungry.)