Will Work for Food

I’m pretty sure I’ve had something to eat since having kids, I just don’t actually remember eating it. Ok, well, yes, I suppose there was that piece of chocolate cake last week—the piece of chocolate cake I ate behind the closed and locked doors of my bathroom, toes pulled up under me, perched on a closed toilette. Not exactly one of my proudest moments—I remembered thinking as I quickly polished off the last of the cake from the cake pan and assessed myself in the bathroom mirror wiping away crumbs of chocolate evidence from my mouth and my shirt—but completely necessary.

Believe it or not, I have not always eaten my food on commodes. Come to think of it, there was also a time when I did not dart and dash in and out of buffet lines a like suicidal squirrel on the road either. And there was even a time when my husband could take me out for a nice dinner alone and not feel compelled to tip our waiter sixteen percent as a means of apologizing for the fact that I have polished off nine packets of crackers and the entire breadbasket before our drink orders are placed.

My plate used to be just that—my plate—and the food on it? Mine as well. This fanciful notion is not the case anymore because apparently either my kids’ umbilical cords are connected to my plate, or my plates are all rigged with Krispy Kreme-like signs lighting up whenever I put food on them. Either way the response is inevitable:

“Mommy? What are you eating?” They ask circling my plate containing the identical contents of their own.

“I’m eating the same thing as you,” I will say as I try to pull my plate closer to me knowing the life span of the food on my plate is now coming to its end.

“Can I have some of yours?” they will ask drooling and poking. And from my plate, I will feed them foods ranging from spinach to lima beans—foods they historically stage hunger strikes against and gag over when served upon their own plates, but from mine—they will lick clean.

As a result of this phenomenon, like all good mothers, I have learned to adapt. I even did a little reading up on speed eating in case I could glean some methods for improving my technique. I came across Sonya Thomas who is known as the “Black widow” of professional eating. She caught my interest—one—because she set a world record when she consumed 41 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes. And—two—because she weighs 98— pounds. However, I was disappointed to learn that although she is the holder of 38 world records in speed eating, and can (impressively) eat 11 pounds of cheesecake in nine minutes, she does not have any children, which sort of puts her in a different league than me. Also is the fact that when Sonya Thomas eats fast, she wins trophies and acclaim. When I eat fast, I win indigestion and heartburn.

I have learned I can stage distractions and glean a few bites from my plate—

“Look kids! Over there! I think I just saw a monkey!”

I shovel in an entire pork chop.

“A monkey! Where Mommy? We don’t see a monkey!”

I swallow.

“No? You know what, maybe it wasn’t a monkey. Maybe it was just a squirrel. Sorry about that.”

“Mommy what are you eating?”

Sigh.

“Darling, I am eating air.”

“Can I have some of yours?”

I suppose there are some logical solutions to this problem. For one, I suppose I could just stop feeding them from my plate. But, for some reason I am maternally programmed to be partial to the little hyena pups with their big eyes, yaps and wagging tails. Maybe one day when they are teenage hyenas and they grow hair under their arms and their hyena laughs are at my expense and they say,

“Hey, Mom—Are you going to finish that?” Maybe then I will growl at them to back off my plate. But for now, I allow it. After all, I just don’t have the energy to fight it— I’m too hungry.