You always hear moms discussing the things they miss most since they had their kids. Usually, it's the Saturday sleep-in, or the ability to go to a restaurant where there is a distinct lack of chicken nuggets on the menu. For me, it's my food dignity.
What is food dignity, you ask? It's being able to eat openly, rather than lying to your three-year-old, telling her you can hear your phone ringing, so that you can sneak into the kitchen to spoon some cookie butter into your mouth while she's patiently waiting in her bedroom, Doc McStuffins stethoscope at the ready, to give you a check up.
I know I am not the only person who feels bad about The Secret Eat. But note that guilt doesn't translate into a willingness to come clean. My sister has a charming story about how she forbade her husband from eating the last Tempo bar in the house, telling him it belonged to their son, just so that she could hide in her specially designated Secret Eating corner (in the scullery, hidden by the pantry door), scoffing it down in giant mouthfuls.
The Secret Eat is accompanied by the kind of loserish shame usually experienced only after you have truly let loose on a night of tequila and gay abandon. Let me assure you, there is nothing to make you feel proud about peering around guiltily to make sure that you haven't been followed,stealthily and silently reaching up into your contraband cupboard, shoving the food into your mouth with ferocity and velocity of a Banteur told they have a free pass to eat carbs, and then trying to saunter casually back, making sure there are no giveaway smears of food on your cheek. The worst sound in the world, as any secret eating mother will tell you, is not actually the 3am wake up cry. no, no. It's those little footsteps making their way into the kitchen, Followed by the sweet little voice asking, what are you eating.
Surely it wouldn't hurt to share, you might think. And that's where you would be wrong. Sharing, contrary to popular belief, is not caring. It sucks - and if more people were honest, they would admit it. Of course it doesn't hurt if someone just wants to use your pen, or if you're letting your sister wear your best dress to her friend's wedding. But come on - think about it. Sharing food means Less For You. Less. For. You. Fewer mouthfuls. In no one's world is that a good thing. Also, while we're being honest, those little toddler mouths are almost always studded with crumbs from the last morsel they cadged.
So this is what I mean by loss of food dignity. No one likes to become that whiny kid from school who, when asked for a NikNak at break, would say "But it's my only lunch". And yet, sad as I am to say it, that is precisely what I do when Leya asks me for a bite of whatever it is I'm eating. I tell myself that it is in the interests of her development, and that she has to learn about boundaries. How else can I save her from becoming a much hated dictator? After all, what is the difference between snatching the hero chip someone has specially been saving, or invading another country? Neither belongs to you, so it's all a matter of scale.
This brings me to the fact that constantly trying to provide a healthy role model for your child - allowing them to take countless bites of the carrot cake you have been looking forward to as a reward for making all your deadlines, cleaning up after you, being nice to telemarketers - is exhausting. Sometimes all I want to do is let me true self shine, swear at bad drivers, let the dirty dishes pile up and go to bed without brushing my teeth, But every action has a repercussion, so I will take the safer route, and continue to bury my stash out of reach and snatching moments to eat them when I can no longer contain myself. I might not feel good about it - but just think how much worse it would feel to see that beloved face fall when she hears the words No, you can't have any of my brownie.
What is food dignity, you ask? It's being able to eat openly, rather than lying to your three-year-old, telling her you can hear your phone ringing, so that you can sneak into the kitchen to spoon some cookie butter into your mouth while she's patiently waiting in her bedroom, Doc McStuffins stethoscope at the ready, to give you a check up.
I know I am not the only person who feels bad about The Secret Eat. But note that guilt doesn't translate into a willingness to come clean. My sister has a charming story about how she forbade her husband from eating the last Tempo bar in the house, telling him it belonged to their son, just so that she could hide in her specially designated Secret Eating corner (in the scullery, hidden by the pantry door), scoffing it down in giant mouthfuls.
The Secret Eat is accompanied by the kind of loserish shame usually experienced only after you have truly let loose on a night of tequila and gay abandon. Let me assure you, there is nothing to make you feel proud about peering around guiltily to make sure that you haven't been followed,stealthily and silently reaching up into your contraband cupboard, shoving the food into your mouth with ferocity and velocity of a Banteur told they have a free pass to eat carbs, and then trying to saunter casually back, making sure there are no giveaway smears of food on your cheek. The worst sound in the world, as any secret eating mother will tell you, is not actually the 3am wake up cry. no, no. It's those little footsteps making their way into the kitchen, Followed by the sweet little voice asking, what are you eating.
Surely it wouldn't hurt to share, you might think. And that's where you would be wrong. Sharing, contrary to popular belief, is not caring. It sucks - and if more people were honest, they would admit it. Of course it doesn't hurt if someone just wants to use your pen, or if you're letting your sister wear your best dress to her friend's wedding. But come on - think about it. Sharing food means Less For You. Less. For. You. Fewer mouthfuls. In no one's world is that a good thing. Also, while we're being honest, those little toddler mouths are almost always studded with crumbs from the last morsel they cadged.
So this is what I mean by loss of food dignity. No one likes to become that whiny kid from school who, when asked for a NikNak at break, would say "But it's my only lunch". And yet, sad as I am to say it, that is precisely what I do when Leya asks me for a bite of whatever it is I'm eating. I tell myself that it is in the interests of her development, and that she has to learn about boundaries. How else can I save her from becoming a much hated dictator? After all, what is the difference between snatching the hero chip someone has specially been saving, or invading another country? Neither belongs to you, so it's all a matter of scale.
This brings me to the fact that constantly trying to provide a healthy role model for your child - allowing them to take countless bites of the carrot cake you have been looking forward to as a reward for making all your deadlines, cleaning up after you, being nice to telemarketers - is exhausting. Sometimes all I want to do is let me true self shine, swear at bad drivers, let the dirty dishes pile up and go to bed without brushing my teeth, But every action has a repercussion, so I will take the safer route, and continue to bury my stash out of reach and snatching moments to eat them when I can no longer contain myself. I might not feel good about it - but just think how much worse it would feel to see that beloved face fall when she hears the words No, you can't have any of my brownie.
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