I’m not sure why I can’t decide what I want to eat. Maybe it’s from almost 27 years of being a mom. You know, like when the kids are little and your “meal” consists of toddler leftovers; three spaghetti strands (with no “red stuff because it’s yucky! only butter!”), a drying crust with a smear of peanut butter left on it, three bites of cold scrambled eggs, and a triangle of soggy toast…that kind of meal. The sad remains that you could not coax, or guilt, as my mother used to do -“there are starving children in Armenia!” – ( btw, I had to text my mother and ask which country was deemed the most appropriate to ship leftovers to for those poor kids in 1979, because I was thinking it was either China or Romania for some reason. I’m ashamed to admit that I had to google, “where is Armenia located?” after she promptly texted back the answer. It’s in Asia, in case you’re wondering too…), your child into consuming. So, you nourish yourself on what was left behind after declaring that they need to “take one more bite. ” This is a statement that I learned to regret when my then three-year old daughter would absolutely not take one more bite, and sat there, alternately crying and stamping her feet for over 30 minutes, until her father tried to intercede on her behalf, but seeing the grim set of my jaw, wisely determined that I would not give in, at which point he turned to our tiny tyrant and cajoled her into taking a little nibble. The story ends on a sour note in my mind, even 24 years later as I vividly recall her letting that “one bite” dribble down her chin, rather than swallow it, as she slid out of her booster seat and ran away. Clearly this was a power struggle and not about food at all, but at least I can console myself with the fact that she has turned into a strong, independent woman, which soothes my still ruffled feathers a little. But, I digress…
Obviously toddlers and pre-schoolers dictated my diet, but even when they were babies, and just starting to eat the oatmeal that comes in a box, I’d usually match every spoonful I fed them with two in my own mouth. Hey, don’t judge! It’s really good, and goes great with cold coffee. In more recent years, when my children were teenagers, they still called the sustenance shots; Pizza! McDonald’s! I just went with whatever everyone else wanted, hoping that I could find something I liked, or in the case of the fast food option, something with the least amount of guilt attached to it, and if nothing else, a bowl of cereal has always been my go-to, often eaten standing up by the sink, because why get comfortable when cereal takes like 10 seconds to eat?
But then they grew up, and my husband and I are left asking each other the same thing whenever we decide to eat out…”What do you feel like eating?” The response? If I am the one answering, I have a standard reply, “I don’t care, what do you want?” Except apparently I do care, I just don’t know that I do until he presents options that I find objectionable…
Husband: “Chinese?”
Me: “Nah, we just had Chinese, I can only eat that when I’m in the mood for it. ”
Husband: “Pizza?”
Me: “Ugh, I’m sick of pizza!”
Husband: “Big Mac?”
Me: *makes face while inwardly crushing on the “special sauce” …and those onions! How do they make them so tiny and yummy?!?* …”No.”
Husband: “Mexican?”
Me: “Alright, I’ll go, but I’m only going because all I really want is a margarita…and maybe just a bite off of yours.”
It sounds like I’m not very good at making decisions, but actually my job requires me to make decisions for 12+ hours a day, some that could be life or death, so I think its safe to say that on my days off, I succumb to a little “decision fatigue.” My husband seems to be used to my indecisiveness and since neither of us are very adventurous eaters, generally we agree on where to go. By not adventurous, I mean that we aren’t really fans of fruits and vegetables. I mean, I do love mashed potatoes, so much so, that my co-workers can vouch for the fact that I eat them every day at work in the hospital cafeteria, because the only thing I like better than institutional mashed potatoes, is institutional oatmeal. I also have corn on the cob once a year, when a local farm sells them, but I’ve been told by a dietitian where I work that they are starches and don’t really count and besides I think you are supposed to eat them like three times a day, not three times a year. I’ve also heard that potatoes are “nightshades” and therefore evil, but they don’t scare me.
My husband, for his part, eats more vegetables than I do, but never on a daily basis and certainly not the epic proportion that our daughter insisted on when she was little and inexplicably thought that peas were his favorite food. Every year, for years, for her “birthday dinner” and for her father’s as they share the same birthday, she would choose a “feast” (her term, not mine!) of steak, french fries, both liberally doused with ketchup, and “peas for Dad.” Poor Dad, who barely tolerates peas in a chicken pot-pie, had to choke down double portions, on his birthday no less, so as not to hurt her feelings.
In re-reading what I’ve written so far, it appears that what started out as a commentary on my indecisiveness regarding food choices, took a rather nasty veer towards the unsettling effect children can have on one’s ability to know your own mind. My husband and I sound like a couple of shell-shocked war survivors, trying to get a grip on our own lives, after 20 years were commandeered by little hands and big hearts. There is some truth to this, as any empty nester can tell you, and we wouldn’t change a thing. Especially since our “tiny tyrant” will be turning 27 in ten days, it actually was quite easy to decide on serving peas with her birthday meal.
Post Script: Upon reading this to my husband before posting, he blurted out… “I actually do like peas! Especially in potpie! I like they way they squish! It’s creamed corn I don’t like, but that’s ok, you can keep it that way, since it’s ‘loosely based’ on your life and apparently mine.” After I read that to him… “Jeez, you can’t say anything in this house!” Nope, not when you live with a blogger.
