Opening Doors

Being a mom sometimes makes it hard to stay the course when it comes to dieting. Case in point: my daughter just had braces put on and now I am surrounded by mashed potatoes, milkshakes, mac and cheese, and smoothies of the unhealthy variety. Guess who has to make these soft, creamy, mashable foods? Mama’s hips are once again on the verge of a widening project. I used to have will power, but then I had children, bless them.

It’s not just the new diet-due-to-braces situation. Honestly it’s been the entire month of August. The entire get-ready-for-school, hit the doctor’s office for physicals and eye exams, get the new glasses, buy the new clothes, get the band supplies, and alter your family’s entire life for the one child’s band experience that has me wishing for a dietician to move into my home. I have no idea where August has gone or what I may have had to eat. I do know I have had food and in more quantities than I thought. The scales told me that somehow two pounds have crept back on my thighs, my hips and my waistline. I bent over the other day and just knew I was going to turn red, huff, and then whizz all over the room like a renegade balloon squealing out air. Luckily that didn’t happen, but the sensation, nonetheless, was there.

I knew there would be good days and bad days going into my commitment to a healthier me, but I didn’t expect an entire month! The stress alone from the money spent has me in a tailspin and my daughter’s birthday is at the end of the month to boot. She wants to take her friends to the local Italian restaurant for supper. Oh joy. Nothing low carb there. On top of all the get ready for school and birthday hoopla, it’s been a month full of bad news, and that always leads me to the pantry.

I thought about that long and hard a few days ago while in the company of my friend Dawn. It was one of those little epiphanies, or ah-ha moments. Before my Dad passed away, I was always a little on the bigger girl size, but I was never overweight. I can earnestly remember the scads of food brought into our home when the news got out that my Father had passed away. The kitchen table alone was at groaning capacity. In the middle of the night, I woke out of a lousy sleep to hear the refrigerator door opening up. I swear this is true. My bedroom was upstairs and yet I could hear the refrigerator open. After throwing on a robe, I tiptoed down to the kitchen where my big brother was loading a plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. When he saw me, he reached into the silverware drawer and grabbed another fork. This was how we soothed the heartache for a few minutes in a heartbreaking time. I believe that since that moment I’ve always looked to food for comfort. The ah-ha moment came when I realized that I should have been looking at the fact that I spent those moments, not with food, but with my brother. It’s not the food that will heal me, but the moments I share with those who love me. I have to learn not to let food get in the way.

So while I careen around the highway taking my daughter to and from marching band rehearsals and my son to soccer, weaving in and out of the mine fields of mushy foods and milkshakes and bad news, I need to be mindful of the moments I share and who I am lucky enough to share them with. Maybe, just maybe I can close the pantry door and instead of hearing the refrigerator open while I sleep, I’ll remember that the door to those important to me is the one to open.