I love my kids - I really do. They are such sweet little things who have helped me grow into the woman - and mother - I am today. They make me smile, laugh out loud, slow down, wonder and delight in the little things. But they also make me eat.
Let me explain.
The other day we took a family trip to the mall and, after shopping, my husband and I decided that it was time for us to pick the luncheon restaurant for a change. No Chick Fil A. No McDonalds. No food court. We wanted a sit-down meal with an actual server and cloth napkins. Is that too much too ask? So we ventured into PF Changs with our 6- and 3-year-old.
Let's just say it was not the most relaxing lunch I've ever had. The service was incredibly slow that day and it took all we had to keep the kids entertained. Once the appetizers arrived, my daughter nibbled on one tiny piece of iceberg lettuce from the lettuce wraps (that she requested by the way) while my son attempted to eat one lonely grain of brown rice with a single chopstick - all the while whining that they were hungry. "When are we going to the food court?"
By the time our Mu Shu Pork arrived at the table, the kids were done. Toast. Ready to get the heck out of there. As we're inhaling our food, my husband looks at me, a piece of Chinese cabbage dangling from his mouth, and says, "The more they whine, the hungrier I get."
Hysterical as it was, he is so right.
My kids don't make me eat - no one can do that. But eating is my coping mechanism. And when things get too hairy, too overwhelming, too hard, that's what I do. I eat to calm the anxiety. I eat to quell the frustration. I eat to make it all go away. So when the kids are at an all time high with their whining or arguing or demands, I find myself ducking into that pantry closet for a little chocolate vacation. And it is a vacation - for a minute. But once that binge is over, reality is right there waiting for me.
It's no different than any other addiction, really. Of course, this means I need to replace this one habit with another, healthier one... Hmm, that's a lot harder than it sounds. I'll get back to you once I have an idea. For now, I'm going to go deal with the fact that admitting this makes me want to go and eat. I guess it's not just the whining that makes me hungry.
Certain foods are triggers. We all have them. Sweet, salty, crunchy, gooey - whatever the trigger - the result is still the same. Overeating. Call it binging, perhaps. Me, I have MANY triggers.
Pretty much any food that I try not to have in the house is a trigger for me. Just the fact that I know I shouldn't have it sends the food rebel in me on high alert. Sometimes I get this idea in my head that I really should be able to buy a trigger food, store it in the pantry, and munch on it in moderate portions. Because isn't that the goal? To eat a sensible diet with the occasional treat? Then reality sets in.
My latest purchase was a bag of Cheez Doodles. I saw them on BOGO at the grocery store and bought them on a whim. Wow, I haven't had these in ages. Let's buy a bag and enjoy them throughout the week. Surely, I can control myself. Fast forward two days later. I'm sitting at my computer and I look down at my fingers as they swiftly tap the keyboard. Orange. Bright, neon orange that only comes from one source - processed powdered cheese. Yeah, that cheese tapped into some anger at myself for mindlessly eating too many Cheez Doodles. Sure, I felt a huge amount of frustration that I couldn't just stop at one serving. Of course, I felt some guilt that there weren't many left in the bag for the kids' after-school snack. But worst of all, that orange cheese stuck in the crevices of my fingernails sent me back - way back - to when I first started feeling bad about myself and my eating.
I'm not going to go into all the details - because, let's face it, that's like 43 more posts. So I'll just summarize by saying that I was taught at an early age that being overweight was a death sentence and that I was not in charge of my own hunger and fullness. Worst of all, I was taught that no boy is ever going to like me if I'm overweight. God, it hurts just to type that...
So where did those orange fingers send me? To one memory of a thousand like it.
I'm 12, maybe 13, sitting inside a crappy rented beach house while the rest of my family is outside enjoying the sun and sand. I spent a lot of time inside - just wishing that I liked myself enough to join the world. I remember hiding behind the brown plaid curtain in the bedroom window, my cheese-stained fingers moving between the open bag of Cheez Doodles and my mouth, secretly looking at a boy that I thought was the most wonderful thing on Earth. A boy who was not only drop-dead gorgeous, but was sweet and kind. A boy who, moments earlier, had come by to see if I would play volleyball with him and his friends. A boy who was always trying to include me. But I couldn't - I just couldn't. You see, it was much easier to hide away with my neon orange friend than to argue against my own thoughts of self worth.
That memory makes me cringe. I hurt not only for the girl who hid behind those curtains, but for all the girls out there who still do. I hurt for my daughter who I desperately want to be confident of herself no matter what she looks like. Will I be able to instill that confidence in her even if I don't have it myself?
Screw the `Cheez Doodles! This isn't about Cheez Doodles or serving sizes or overeating or food, really. This is about loving yourself no matter what - something I wasn't really taught as a kid. But I'm starting now. Because it's never too late to show yourself - or your daughter - that you matter. That you are worthy. That you are deserving of all the love and all the respect and all the joy the world has to offer.
It takes courage to be overweight. You wouldn't think so, but it does. It takes courage to put on your size XL yoga pants and go to the gym. It takes courage to get dolled up and go barhopping downtown. And it certainly takes courage to wear a bathing suit. And that's the kind of courage I had to muster up today.
My 6-year-old daughter had a birthday party to attend tonight for one of her kindergarten classmates. She was so looking forward to it because it was a swim party - in the middle of January. Neat idea, huh? It didn't hit me until about an hour before the party:
Am I supposed to bring a swimsuit for myself? Are the parents going to be swimming? Oh God, what do I do? It's the middle of winter. My toes are unpolished, my legs untanned, and my bikini area - well, let's just say it certainly isn't ready for a bikini!
During my state of panic, I thought of all the possible ways I could get out of this; the best being to send my husband instead. Guys don't care about their ghost-white legs or untrimmed, ahem, cuticles. But then I took a breath. And I thought of you, dear reader, and what a great post this would make - having the courage to brave a bathing suit in spite of my imperfections.
So I packed my Lands End SwimMini and towel in my bag and told myself to suck it up. I told myself that I could do this. I would hold my head high as I marched from the locker room to the safety of the deep end.
Then, the heavens opened and angelic music played. It turns out none of the other moms were planning on swimming. So we all just sat there by the edge of the pool dressed in our jeans and fleece vests while we watched our little swimmers having the time of their lives.
Want to know the kicker?
I wanted to be in that pool having fun with my little girl. I really did. We looked ridiculous sitting there on the sidelines. It was 85 degrees and 185% humidity inside that indoor pool area. My jeans were sticking to my legs. But we all felt the same - no way am I getting in that pool in front of all these people. Thin or heavy, tall or short, outgoing or shy, we all felt the same. And isn't that sad?
I wish I could tell you that I was different; that I eventually got in the pool. I can't. I went with the flow, not wanting to stand out. But I am proud of myself just for packing my swimsuit nevertheless. Baby steps.
And maybe, just maybe, someday in the near future, I can be the mom who has the courage to be the only mom in the pool. The mom who can focus on all that's wonderful about her. The mom that all those other moms probably wished they could be too.
Oh, how I love a Potluck! I get so excited about the never-ending variety of foods on display - the old standby egg casserole with its creamy, cheesy goodness; the new layered phyllo pastry whose filling I try to decipher with my tongue (is that broccoli and water chestnuts?); the three trays of brownies each begging to be sampled and judged superior to the other. But a Potluck brings its own set of problems for me - eating in front of others and, inevitably, feeling judged.
This morning I attended a Potluck brunch for a mother's group to which I belong. Let me set the scene for you: about 20 chairs set up in a circle in a nondescript church hall, babies and toddlers crawling on the floor playing with toys, mothers breastfeeding while balancing plates of food on their laps, and a long table holding a moderate buffet of finger foods. It couldn't get any more relaxed than this. But I felt stress - and joy - and stress. You see, I love being with people; it's how I recharge - and today I got to chat with some friends that I haven't seen in a few weeks (that's the joy part), but that Potluck buffet kept catching my eye the whole time, distracting me from my joy.
Ooh, what did everyone bring? Is that homemade banana bread? What time are we going to eat? I'm hungry. Should I try one of everything or be "good" and just take some fruit and a bran muffin? How much is she having? Phew, her plate is fuller than mine. This quiche is a-ma-zing, I really want another piece. Two people just went back for seconds; that means I can. Are they watching me fill up my plate again? Are they thinking "no wonder Renee isn't losing any weight" or is that just my own voice in my head? Or worse yet, my mother's.
Eating in front of others is such a challenge for me. All the terribly insulting things I say to myself about my weight and my relationship with food play over and over in my head until I inevitably think that other people must think about me the same way. Have you ever noticed that naturally think people don't really seem to do this to themselves? They eat, they enjoy, they move on. They don't judge themselves for having a chocolate cupcake over a banana. Food does not play the starring role in their lives or determine their self worth as it does mine. Oh, how I long to be that naturally thin person - not just for the "thin" part, but for the part that's not obsessed with food.
Tonight, while I'm sitting at the dinner table with my family, I am going to focus on enjoying their company rather than letting the food on my plate take the starring role. And I am going to remember that my children could care less about what I eat or what I weigh. All they want is my love and my attention.
