The Imperfect Mom by Therese J. Borchard

Author:Therese J. Borchard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307419446
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2007-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

FEEDING FRENZY

Mary Elizabeth Williams

I knew I wasn’t doing a bang-up job feeding my kid before she was even born.

I’d been taking prenatal vitamins and drinking calciumfortified orange juice, but I also laughed in horror when I picked up a pregnancy guide that suggested whole wheat oatmeal cookies (ha!) as a once-a-month (ha! ha! HA!) treat. The turning point was when I took a sample class from a natural childbirth instructor, and she asked us all to write down everything we’d eaten that day. I didn’t get any extra credit for honesty when I handed in my sheet—I had cheerfully hoovered a slice of pepperoni pizza and hot fudge sundae minutes before the class commenced. The teacher looked at the page as if I’d confessed to washing down my crack with a forty of malt liquor. “You know,” she said, “everything that goes into you goes into your baby. But it’s okay,” she added brightly, “you can do better tomorrow.” I hung my cured meat– and cheese-loving head in shame, and five years later, I’m still trying for that better tomorrow.

You start out with good intentions. You watch a baby open her rosebud mouth to you, and the delight and trust on her face are so pure it makes you want to cry. When I recently bought my second daughter her first solid food, I trotted to the natural food store and picked out a box of organic brown rice cereal. Then I gave the four-year-old a handful of M&Ms. I may not be some Jerry Springer–ready trailer trash mom filling her infant’s bottles with Coke, but I’ve got a job, two kids, and three meals a day plus snacks to fall short on, and heaven knows I do.

I have a hard enough time trying to feed myself right, but now I have to be not just the chief house chef but a decent role model. It’s exhausting. I know I can’t expect my daughters to sit down and eat square meals at regular intervals if I’m grabbing a bag of Tostitos and calling it lunch. They won’t learn to read nutrition labels if I don’t drag them to the supermarket and have them watch me do the same. They won’t someday be able to feed themselves if I don’t invite them into the kitchen to cook. And they won’t believe that being a woman doesn’t automatically mean being forever on a diet unless they’re raised by one who isn’t herself. Yet here I sit, quietly craving a diet Snapple and wishing to God we’ll get takeout for dinner tonight.

I watch my older daughter on the playground, and I catch my breath a little every time a friend offers her some high-fructose treat. Do I have her best interests at heart if I say she can’t have it, or is it better to let her, and assume it’s a valuable lesson in sharing? I can pull out any of my dozens of cook-books and make fabulous homemade macaroni and cheese for

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