Before I had two children, I never understood how my mother let us eat chocolate cake for breakfast and potato chip sandwiches for lunch.

Now I know.

Last night, Mateo had four popsicles and a box of chewing gum for dinner. Sugarless, yes, but still chewing gum. And I’m sure he swallowed at least half a dozen pieces. Doesn’t that stuff stick in your stomach forever? I’m sure some rogue piece of chewing gum swallowed when I was a toddler festers in my gut to this day.

And Olivia. She’s impossible. A “super-taster” my husband calls her. Which means she has extra “papilli” on her tongue—I think that’s the word for taste buds--allowing her to discern between Reggiano parmesan and the cheap stuff. Nothing I cook is good enough for my daughter; even my microwaving fails to reach her standards.

“I don’t like your bacon,” Olivia says. “It’s too clear.” Her dad’s, however, she terms “restaurant quality.”

I don’t want food to become another battleground. Getting dressed, putting on socks and shoes, taking vitamins, brushing teeth—and let’s not discuss going to bed. We struggle over all of it. So when Mateo pulls a chair up to the pantry door and clambers up to peruse the shelves, I practice my deep breathing. Uncooked oatmeal is a current favorite, which, don’t tell me, I know it’s bad.

My mother had five children, no help, and very little money to get by. These days, instead of judging her, I marvel at her capabilities. Chocolate cake for breakfast is nothing compared with what I allow my children to eat some days.

My husband is no longer surprised to come home after work and find me collapsed in a chair at the kitchen table, surrounded by the half-eaten wreckage of a meal.

“Is that all they’re eating?” he’ll ask. “Ice cream cones?”

“It’s got calcium, though. Right?”

I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

By Jessica O'Dwyer

Labels: Jessica O'Dwyer

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 10:29 PM