Mothers can be on their deathbeds and still have that gut wrenching nervousness about the well being of their children, which is why I formerly began every fall morning insanely similar. I’d drag myself out of bed, swig some hot brew, grab the toaster, and head towards the washroom electrical outlet and a tub filled bath. My hubby stood behind me blurting, “Nice try! That toaster broke a week ago!” Then I’m thinking Fourth & Main intersection during rush hour traffic. I always swayed away from that drastic destruction knowing I could never miss an Oprah episode.
So I’d clock out for a jog and clocked back in for free-range organic scheming and a prayer ritual. Holy mackerel was a term I used often when discussing deficiencies. Elation was not about to follow with kid conspirators and candy filled holidays forthcoming. There were no forms of transportation to get my children to destination dietary discipline. They could make those all inclusive trips to the fridge loaded with salmon, salads, and nutritional shakes. But like the saying goes, you can lead horses to the trough, but you can’t make them drink soy milk. I was prepared to pay for the benefits that come with more wheat grass, less Doritos. And I imagined the day when they may love me as a Cod Almondine aficionado.
School mornings would entail, “Nobody leaves without eating their sprouted whole grain toast and drinking cod liver oil.” Could have been my approach, but I always felt like they were tigers preying on me. At least I wasn’t using an air horn. Fat chance they had of becoming obese with rickets and rotting teeth if I was providing new leaves on life by introducing them to kale, and turning off confection commercials.
Then came Halloween. I have yet to see any parents passing out asparagus spears to all the costumed darlings descending to the streets. Instead, it is bowls filled with high fructose and carnauba wax. Now that’s adapting to the commitment of consumer safety!!! It didn’t help to learn that nine billion pieces of candy corn are produced each year. Or knowing Easter is just another few months away from a jelly bean coma. My little rascals tossed me a few Tootsie Rolls as if it were repayment for labor pains. And even though the father of my junk food brainwashed babes was somewhat fit conscious, I knew he was hoping to snatch half our kids heavy haul of sugary loot himself. If we had vowed early on at the alter that he would be anointed master of meals, he would have relied on popcorn and Barfaroni.
And good golly, jolly time came at lightning speed with tons of intents and peppermints! I was tormented with interrupting Christmas playcation to partake in putting something heart healthy in my younguns’ yappers with all the candy canes available. It’s a mother’s goal to barricade their children’s sweet cravings with bales of broccoli. It’s also a mother’s goal to remain calm and Chardonnay collected. My fared lady friends who were mothers always came up with the same adroit questioning…… “How is it living in your end of this hellisphere?”
Nothing would make my jewels of the Poprocks pile and born again burger binge eaters convert to Beet-ism. I was no Chef Contessa, but every meal was an ongoing breach in baking. If I baked it, my kids wanted it fried. If I fried it, they wanted it mashed. I never thought they would go batty over butterless baked potatoes. They would only consider me a winner if I made French fries!
I could have pulled out a violin to accompany all the shrills and theatrical performances of a ten year old gagging on a sardine! There were always sounds of sequels …… more choking by legumes. I expected gratefulness on Mother’s Day, and apologies when they were disrespectful, but I never expected to find peas in their pockets.
My teenagers, those future corporate Hershey partners, usually broke out in hives and disgust if I suggested spending family days together at fish festivals. Frankly, I’m not sure how they survived on processed intake and such insubordination. I speculated that somewhere between the penchant for potato chips and perch persuasion, if they had ingested even a smidgen of omega 3’s growing up, they wouldn’t be so snarky. After jamming plenty down their throats, I frustrated them by saying, “You shouldn’t mumble with such a mouthful!”