The chef recommends the green beans and carrots blend, sir.

I used to think when people said, "I just can't get my kid to eat anything," that they weren't trying hard enough.

And now God is laughing at me. 

Boy is not what you'd call a stellar eater. Though his noggin measures in the 80th percentile for his age, and his height is squarely in the 55th, his weight is only ever in the 20th percentile or so. If you don't have kids, you're like, "Sounds like one melon-headed skinny kid." Not exactly, though I DO think he walks like he's top-heavy. If you DO have kids, you know what I'm saying when I admit that I obsess about these numbers in ways that are probably far from healthy. Technically, I know he's not only FINE, but thriving. He's an active, inquisitive, happy and bright little boy, and I just tell people who comment on his lean physique that he's "built for speed." But sometimes those well-meaning people out there will use words like "I'm CONCERNED about his weight" or "Do you think he's getting ENOUGH to eat?" or "He's looking a little SCRAWNY." 

Argh, to say the least.

If you were able to map out my daily mental energy commitments, you'd see that the breakdown goes something like this:

• Encouraging boy's healthy independent sleeping habits: 30%
  
• Preparing healthy, delicious meals of decent variety and getting boy to eat them: 45%
  
• Providing stimulating play opportunities for boy: 25%
  
• Creating an environment that will nurture boy's spirituality and character: 50%
  
• Taking care of the house: 20%
  
• Taking care of husband: 25% (luckily for me he's extremely self-reliant and capable)
  
• Taking care of myself: Whatever's left when everything else is done (but that's another post)
  

(And if you're puzzled by the math, remember that mothers grow additional brain capacity once their children arrive. So of COURSE it adds up to more than 100%.)

One of the reasons I'm reluctant to let anyone else feed boy is because the task is a lot like opening a combination lock -- you have to twist and turn everything JUST RIGHT to get it to work. A typical lunch looks like this:

• I prepare a plate that contains 1) a sippy cup of cold, fresh water, 2) a moistened paper towel for clean-up, 3) a bowl containing boy's main entree, usually a mixture of two veggies and some meat, 4) two to three Gerber's baby food meat sticks, which he actually likes, 5) some other pre-approved food item for a change of texture (such as bits of string cheese, iron-fortified Cheerios, low sodium Goldfish crackers, chunks of ripe banana, etc.). I set this plate down near boy's high chair.
  
• I then assemble a collection of food-safe (read: non-stainable) toys and place them within easy reach of the high chair. For me, not boy -- these will be doled out throughout the meal to keep and maintain his interest in the act of eating.
  
• Only then do I pick up boy and maneuver him into the high chair. Fifty percent of the time, this is a struggle. He's buckled in and bibbed up. Both of us are, more than likely, already sweating.
  
• I prepare for the first-bite blues. For some reason, boy always acts as if the first bite of whatever I offer him is terribly offensive to him. When he sees the spoon coming toward him, he begins not only shaking his head from side to side to keep his mouth in motion, he also starts waving his hands to provide obstacles for the spoon. If I can manage to touch the spoon to his cheek, he gives up. But it's not uncommon for the first food spill of the meal to occur BEFORE he's even eaten anything.
  
• Having tasted the first bite (and having realized I am not, indeed, attempting to spoon-feed nuclear waste into his mouth), boy consents to accept a few bites of veggie mixture. 
  
• Bite four or five: the first gag takes place. This calls for a change of texture. I pop in a bite of meat, a tiny button-sized morsel. This is chewed for approximately four minutes. If I'm lucky, he'll accept a bite of veggies to help wash it down. 
  

And so we proceed. Spoon, spoon, gag. Banana. Sip of water. Spoon, spoon, spoon, gag. Meat. Chew for ever. Spoon. Gag. Water. Toys are flung, Cheerios crushed with thumbs against the high chair tray, sippy cups hurled. In between bites, gags and redirects, I also provide puppet play to entertain boy, retrieve dropped toys, wipe up food bits from him, his face, his hands, and his toys, etc. 

The wiser among you are already filled with helpful suggestions. "He's not really hungry," you're thinking. "Don't let him snack between meals. Then he'll eat more readily." Huh. Tried that. The kid went all the way to dinner on just a few Goldfish crackers one day, and I still had to struggle to get him to eat. Others among you are thinking, "Of course he's not eating. Baby food is gross. Let him eat table food." Yep, good idea. Only my kid inherited my ability to gag on a chocolate chip, and without any molars, his tendency to gag is compounded by a real tactical difficulty in chewing food enough to swallow it. A handful of you think that if I made my own baby food, he'd be happy to eat it. You'd be wrong -- there's no difference in his reaction to home-made stuff versus the organic baby food I get at the store. Still others are wishing I'd stop making it a struggle and just go with the flow. And that's the path I've chosen now -- I give him plenty of variety of scenery to amuse him -- we eat not only in the high chair, but also in his Bumbo seat on the floor of the family room, surrounded by books, or we eat in his stroller while out at the mall or a restaurant or elsewhere, or I pull his high chair onto the back patio. It helps a little. I try to give him tasty new options from time to time, to vary his menu. And most of all, I try not to stress about it, or force him to eat if he's really indicating he's done or full. That's the hardest part -- dancing the fine line between encouraging a picky eater to have a necessary meal, and forcing a child to eat when it's not necessary to finish a serving, etc. 

Oh, well. Chalk it up to item number 478 to second-guess myself about. 

(Go hug your mother. Right now. Or call her, and tell her you love her.)

(Sigh.)

I don't look good in low-rise cargos, anyway

Internets, the crazy has struck again. You've got to help me. Someone, please -- take the TV remote away from me. Hide the phone, and take away my credit cards.

Or else I'm going to order Hip-Hop Abs.

You know I'm not immune to the seductive ways of the infomercial. You know how those late-night voice-overs call to me. And you know I miss the swing dancing I used to do (and teach) before boy was born. Maybe that's why this particular fitness DVD appeals to me so much -- because "it's not exercise, it's a dance party!!"

Right.

This morning, I was SUPPOSED to be packing and getting ready for a short trip we're taking to visit my in-laws. But what I found myself doing was sitting, mesmerized, in front of the TV while Shawn T discussed his trademarked "power-T" ab-crunching dance moves. My wet hair was dripping onto the clean laundry I'd folded and was about to place in our suitcase. I saw the water drops on my jeans, and you'd think this would have spurred me into action, but no -- I perched on the edge of the bed and sat through a half-hour of the infomercial, taking in the before and after photos and the teary testimonials with all the earnestness of a religious zealot. Wow, I thought. That guy lost 58 pounds! And 22 inches in total! Maybe if I got THIS one ... And then the fine print caught my eye. 

Results not typical.

It didn't stop there.

You may be less successful.

And there it was. A cold, hard reminder that not only did THAT GUY order the DVD, he then DID it REGULARLY, and probably (gasp) changed his eating habits, too. He might even have been doing extra workouts he didn't discuss. For all I know, he might have had liposuction on top of it all.

So I flipped the channel over to The Food Network, and watched Paula Deen top a 70/30 hamburger with a fried egg, and dip her twice-deep-fried potato fries into mayonnaise.

That's WAY more my style.

Never again. Or at least, not for a long time.

Husband and I hosted 19 people for Thanksgiving dinner.

... ... ... [Still waiting for my award.]

On paper it sounded great and easy -- my dad and an aunt and uncle were handling turkeys, mom was doing mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy, plus pies, my brother and sister-in-law were handling a veggie tray with a local prized buttermilk ranch dipping sauce, and my other aunt and uncle were bringing a special family recipe of cauliflower in a delicious bechamel sauce. So I really only had to get the house ready and make a salad, plus appetizers.

Why do I have to make things complicated?

Here was the appetizer list: 1) Brie with crackers. Easy, right? Open the package of Brie and arrange crackers artfully around the cheese. 2) Mini-quiches. Once again, easy, because I decided to cut a few corners and buy frozen apps. AWESOME idea. 3) Deviled eggs, one of my personal specialties. 4) Goat cheese spread on bruschetta with olive tapenade, another one of my go-tos. For the salad, I decided to make a refreshing cucumber-edamame salad, with toasted almonds and asparagus and parsley in a zesty lime dressing. 

The problem with the above menu is that it requires some prep work that I should have done the day before. Boiling, peeling and preparing three dozen deviled eggs, chopping cucumbers, blanching asparagus and edamame, and mincing olives takes time. And on the day of a big dinner, time is what you don't have a lot of, if you have a ten-month-old. 

What was I doing the day before, you ask? I was stringing lights. When we celebrated our marriage in January of 2007, our reception had a snowflake/winter theme, and the kind souls at the reception hall agreed to hang strands of white icicle lights from the ceiling for us in loops and lines to create a starlit night effect. It was magical, and we had oodles of lights left over, so I decided to put them to use. I lined our second-floor banisters (visible from the first-floor family room) with icicle lights, and then suspended and crisscrossed the rest of the lights above the open family room itself, so that in the evening, the lights put off a gentle, sparkling glow. It was gorgeous. But that was only after I'd spent the afternoon first untangling nine strands of 300-count white icicle lights, testing them to ensure they were in good order, then devising a way to fasten them to the banisters and hang them above an open-ceilinged room, WITHOUT getting them tangled in the ceiling fan. 

By the time I got the lights hung, it was way too late in the day to get all the food prepped. So I went to bed at 1 a.m. after having done only about a fourth of it, thinking, "No prob. I got this covered in the morning." Trouble is, I forgot that in order for boy to nap, I'd have to be out of commission while I lay down with him. Stupid, stupid me. Foregoing his nap was out of the question, since we knew he'd be up later than usual, so there went almost two hours of precious prep time. 

Somehow, though, (read: with husband's generous and superhuman assistance) we got just about everything done before everyone arrived at 6 p.m. Sure, I didn't have any makeup on or my hair completely brushed (it was still semi-wet from a hasty shower and pulled up into a makeshift bun), but by God, the food was hot and tasty and artfully arranged on all-white platters and plates. 

Eggs were gobbled, quiches devoured, Brie attacked, veggies crunched, tapenade spooned. Drinks were served. Lights were admired. The baby was fussed over and passed around. And by the time we all sat down at the two tables set for nine and ten people, we were ... probably too full to do the food justice. But we gave it our best. 

And sitting at the kids' table, sweaty from running around and feeding mashed potatoes to an overtired baby while husband made sure everyone's drinks were refreshed, I realized that THAT was what Thanksgiving was all about. It's always been my favorite holiday, and I half-joke that it's because it's all about food, but that's not true. It's about family. It's about the people who will come over to your house and give you a hug with extra squeeze just because they're so happy for you that you're married and enjoying life as a new parent. It's about the fact that your dad will laugh heartily and sincerely over dinner at your house because he really likes your husband, after all, and maybe even loves him a little. It's about having your grandparents over to your home for the first time, and seeing that they share in your joy, and watching them hold their great-grandson with pride. It's about realizing in the moment before dinner that you have so much to be thankful for, that NOT being thankful would be truly shameful, and unfair to most of the world who don't have the chance to enjoy the things you probably take for granted. 

I am a lucky, lucky girl. Even though I still can't feel the tips of my fingers after peeling three dozen eggs.

I totally deserve an award of some kind.

This weekend I finished the very last drop of a gallon of milk. There was no dumping-out to do before the carton was recycled -- I drank every bit of it before it passed its expiration date. 

Isn't there a prize for that? I totally thought there was.

Because that was a lot of bowls of cereal.

Congratulations

Dear Snickers,

Nice work. With the introduction of your Snickers "Miniatures," you've managed to make me work four times as hard to feel twice as guilty for eating half as much candy.

Really. Good job.

"Distinctive" cookies, moronic marketing staff

Dear Pepperidge Farm:

As a long-time customer, I have a few questions to pose to you. In light of the loyal constancy I've shown your products and company (especially throughout my recent pregnancy), I'm certain that you will welcome my candor on these matters. I've long been either confused or irritated by two things about your marketing, and wanted to raise these issues to your attention.

First: When I am faced with the task of choosing from among your delicious cookie varieties, I almost always note the fact that your Milano cookies and your Double Chocolate Milano cookies are selling for the same price. This disturbs me for several reasons, which I will attempt to enumerate for you. If your Double Chocolate Milanos contain truly TWO TIMES the chocolate of the regular type, then why does the price not reflect this tremendous difference in chocolate-y goodness? With the current pricing strategy, you imply one of a number of things:

• Your chocolate is actually of such a low quality that using twice as much doesn't add any value for the customer or cost you any more; or
• You use so little high-quality chocolate in the regular Milanos that doubling the amount for the Double Chocolate Milanos doesn't impact your manufacturing costs; or
• Your marketing department is incompetent and fails to recognize the opportunity to offer either a savings for regular Milano customers or a chance for Pepperidge Farm to charge premium prices to choc-o-holics such as myself for the Double Chocolate variety; or
• You don't really use twice as much chocolate at all.

None of these implied truths is flattering to Pepperidge Farm, as I'm certain you can clearly see. Since I am no idiot, and recognize a bargain when I see one, I will continue to purchase your Double Chocolate Milanos happily, reveling in what I feel is indeed more chocolate than the regular variety (though I don't know that I am actually getting TWICE the chocolate I'm used to in the regular Milanos). However, your attention to the matter I've stated will enhance my confidence in your company immensely.

Second: I have noted on many occasions to myself that your cookies are packaged usually with five cookies in one "level" of your distinctive bags, with each bag containing several levels of cookies. However, you persist in stating that a "serving" of your cookies consists of two cookies. I ask you: Why do you torment me? If you package five cookies in one paper cup that EASILY fits in the palm of my hand, I consider one serving to be five cookies, not two. When will you recognize this, and either repackage your fine products, or update your nutritional information? As the situation currently stands, if I wish to know the nutritional value of the cookies I am consuming, I'm forced to do mental math that eludes my sleep-deprived new-mommy brain. Please address this matter on future packages of your delicious cookies. Also: You owe me $69.50 for a new pair of jeans I was forced to buy as a result of consuming your true "servings". I will gladly accept a check in this amount by mail, or you can contact me for PayPal information.

Your attention to these issues is greatly appreciated.

Fear, food ... and finally, freedom

I started eating when I was 10.

I must have eaten before then, but I have no memory of any food passing between my lips before I turned ten and started to plan the next opportunity I could eat something. Sure, I remember meals -- meals of fresh sweet corn and home-made pickles with my grandparents, food so fresh you had to dust the garden dirt off of it before you cooked it. I remember pan-Asian spreads of barbecued pork, snappy spearmint leaves and plates of tender rice paper at my father's family's home, meals with so much food that each family would leave with a packed grocery bag, double-lined and tied at the top in a knot that would be pulled so tight from the weight of the leftovers that it had to be cut open when we got home. I remember cafeteria food at school -- rectangular slices of flat pizza which I inexplicably loaded with additional salt before cutting into twelve square bite-sized pieces with my dull knife and fork. All this I remember with no sense of taste, because it happened before I really cared about it all.

When I turned ten, though, I remember realizing that food was good, food filled you up, food made you feel full and happy and safe. I remember looking forward to each meal, then to snacks -- later I would begin planning out snacks days in advance, even without knowing whether or not I'd actually be hungry. If there was food at school that someone had brought in to share, I had some, even if I had just eaten a full meal. Years later, if a colleague's work meeting ended with leftover bagels or cookies, cheese or fruit, I'd snag some to munch, no matter what time of day or what my own stomach told me it needed.

That was the problem. My stomach was mute. Every now and then, it would send up a weak signal that it had had enough -- other than that, it seemed indifferent just how much I crammed into it. What I listened to was something else -- heart or brain or mouth, it kept telling me I needed more. And it wasn't a blood sugar problem. It wasn't that I was too scrawny and wanted to become voluptuous and curvy -- it wasn't that I hated myself and wanted to sabotage my own attractiveness. It was that I was afraid.

*** *** ***

Here's how most people know they're hungry. A few hours after their last meal, their stomachs are empty, and begin to send signals to their brains. "Hey!" they shout, through nerves and synapses and bloodstreams and brain cells. "Wanna do something about this situation you got down here? We're empty!" Acid begins to build up in the stomach -- acid that can cause rumbling very soon. In a matter of time, the acid builds to uncomfortable levels, and begins to etch away at the stomach lining, slowly but surely. With nothing else to digest, it's just doing what it's supposed to do.

Here's what happens when most people get scared. At the onset of a sudden traumatic or alarming event (say, a voice is raised in anger, a hand is raised in violence, an item is thrown in rage), the adrenal glands atop each kidney ready the body for self-preserving behavior by flooding the bloodstream with adrenaline. This is the famous "fight-or-flight" response -- you get ready to either run for your life or duke it out to protect yourself and the ones you love. It's an age-old response, and it's very compelling -- there are numerous examples of people doing superhuman things when caught up in the chemistry of this powerful moment. One of the side effects of that influx of adrenaline, though, especially if you don't use it up through vigorous activity, is an increased production of stomach acid. And what do you know -- stomach acid doesn't care WHY it was released into the stomach -- it just knows it was. So it starts searching for something to break down and process. In the absence of food, that good old stomach lining will work just fine. So if you're afraid all the time (say, when you're ten or fourteen or twenty-four), turns out that the easiest way to treat your stomach pain is with food.

At some point, food became safety to me. Not only did it keep me from hurting, it was the only way I indulged in anything. My reward for any kind of achievement was always food (think about your own life -- birthday cakes, graduation parties with groaning picnic tables of barbecue and potato salad, work get-togethers catered by Italian restaurants ...). So it really shouldn't have surprised me that I was tied up in eating in ways that were deeply ingrained, but completely unhealthy.

A few weeks ago I started a new eating program. With the help of a national weight loss program, I'm eating smaller, balanced meals three times a day, with healthy snacks in between. I like the program. It's working for me. I'm shedding pounds, feeling stronger, working out like a fiend three to four times a week, eating healthy, feeling better in my skin. And yet I think about food a lot, missing foods that are definitely not on the plan (like French fries, and movie popcorn, and big, juicy burgers with cheese and bacon and guacamole). I imagine it will take some time before I'm able to completely decouple what I eat with how I feel about eating.

God willing, I'll get there. Freedom from that connection between eating and comfort is near. I just have to work for it.