The Grouchy Mom

In case you don’t know this about me – I’m no Ms. Skinny-Pants. A far cry, actually.

And it’s not because I’m big-boned.

Or because I have a thyroid disorder, or because it’s in my genes, or because my paternal great-grandmother put a hex on my mother, cursing her with a chubbo for a daughter.

It’s because I have a tormented relationship with food. I eat when I’m hungry, I eat when I’m not hungry. I eat some of the right foods, but I eat mostly the wrong foods. I eat too much, and I eat too often.

When I go somewhere, whether it’s to the mall or to take the kids to school, I always think about what there is to eat along the way. I’m not joking when I say that food is my life.

Food is on my mind almost all of the time – what food I’m going to buy, what food I’m going to make, what food I’m going to sneak, what food I’m going to avoid, what food I failed to avoid, what food is doing to my body, what food is doing to my head, what food is doing to my children’s future.

Food makes me feel good, and food makes me feel like a failure.

Food gives me a high, and food makes me hate myself.

Only food has no power.

Food is just simply food.

And yet I’ve very literally surrendered my life to it.

If my choices could speak they would say, “I love food more than I value my health.”

“Food is more important than how I look and how I feel.”

“Food is more important than my life.”

“I love food more than I love my kids.”

My choices say things my mouth never would.

I do not long to be Ms. Skinny-Pants.

I don’t hope to ever be a size 6 in a bikini again.

But I do hope to learn how to have a healthy relationship with food.

And to have my choices speak the truth of who I am.