So, most anyone who knows me knows I struggled with an eating disorder most of teenage years and part of my twenties. I managed to get my almost five eight frame down to a scant 103 lbs...and I got a size zero to be BIG. Man, was I proud. Fast forward fifteen years and three pregnancies, and I'm ashamed of that time. Plus, with an oldest child that is literally the proverbial bean pole, I worry constantly that the kids don't eat enough, or that they will struggle one day with their body image or self esteem the way I did.
You know, the same kids that tell me on a daily basis how awesome they are. I didn't say it was grounded in reality.
My eating problems ended with a bang the day my then two year old looked at me and said she was fat. I knew then I had to make a change, a big one, and we went and bought CAKE. Because nothing says functional like a bulimic with a chocolate cake...oh well, we ate that night. Like crazy queens. I got rid of my scales and my full length mirrors, and decided to learn to eat again.
That went well.
Looking back at the bad time, though, I think I must have scared my dad pretty badly. He relented on his usual dollar-value-only stance and bought me anything I would put in my mouth, which at the time was a strange blend of carefully portioned french fries, egg whites, grilled chicken, and random vegetables, washed down with coffee and diet coke. Yes, Future Heather is dutifully appalled at Past Heather. So, my dad loves to tell the story of the time he took me to the beach and I refused to order anything but an egg white omelette filled with broccoli. It was something like seven or eight dollars when everybody else's meal was cheap...and it was gross. I mean, really gross, and I didn't eat much of it at all. I'm pretty sure he finished it, just so as not to waste it, and the telling of that story became part of our summer beach ritual.
Well, let it never be said I didn't get mine...I had gotten some breakfast bowls made with egg whites, and was thrilled to find out that MissAngelLittleGirl (she's not a baby anymore!) would eat scrambled eggs. I'm like, thrilled, because I LOVE to make scrambled eggs with real butter and cream and cheese for breakfast. (Told you I got over it.) So I make her real scrambled eggs...and she HATES them. Bloody well tells me I can't cook. Fortunately, I don't have self esteem issues anymore...and then it occurs to me...maybe I should just make her the whites. I don't love the idea, because now, like my dad, I hate to waste food. Pouring out that little chicken fetus is abhorrent...but I do it. And yeah, she only wants to eat the whites. Eats them like a little champ. Tasteless, butterless, cream-less, yummy-less, I douse my portion in salsa and hot sauce and force it down, because heaven knows, I'm not going to throw it out.
What's that they say about apples?
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