We Are Still Learning How To Eat Well

It is not a perfect process. But the kitchen is at the heart of our new life, and we are beating softly in it together.

We are, my girls and I, learning how to eat well. It is not a perfect process. But the kitchen is at the heart of our new life, and we are beating softly in it together.

When I went off to college, I had no idea how to feed myself. I barely knew how to microwave a royal blue single-serve tub of Easy Mac to an edible consistency. The sorority house (yes, I did. A story for another day. Rest assured I was booted out early so this period was rather short-lived) fed us during the week. Chocolate chip cookies, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, bottomless canisters of goldfish, sheet cake, a buffet that an only-arguably-just-recovered-bulimic had no business free reining. Unrestricted access led to unrestricted purging. Daily. Sometimes hourly. As soon as I could steal an empty moment in a public restroom. Although I had learned how to be quiet enough not to make a scene when necessary. 

I remember feeling so unhinged. So insane. Like I’d never be able to function as a normal member of society. Like I was two people in one head. I didn’t understand how to manage this non-negotiable aspect of my life. I’d had other people feed and water me and tell me when to exercise (softball, swimming, soccer) from the time I was born. I knew nil pois of nutrition. Protein. Healthy fats, healthy anything. How to make a salad. Not that salad was granted immunity from the porcelain guillotine. Even if I hadn’t been bulimic, I was so wildly unprepared that I’d have still gained the “Freshman 15” and hated myself ferociously for it. 

What I’m saying is, I give myself a hard time. A really hard time. When it comes to food and my kids. Sometimes, when I’ve had a big lunch at work, I won’t sit down with them to eat dinner, even though they ask me to. When I haven’t had time to exercise, which is currently every day. When I haven’t had time to burn off more calories than I can chew. I try to manage the upticks in other ways. I know this isn’t great. But also, fuck me. It’s light years better than it was 20 years ago. So I try and give myself grace in these mistakey moments. 

“Hey, look. We’re far from perfect. *We can do better. But at least we’re not puking after every meal while we weep salt spoils into toilet water. At least we’re not bound to a hellish cycle of life-incenerating proportions. At least we’re doing the best we can. At least Isla tried kale the other day. And India tried cous cous. And we braided bread together and buttered it still hot and closed our eyes and pushed fingers of it into our mouths and reveled in the joy of it. We did that this week. In this kitchen. In this heart. Still atrophied in places. But at least beating steady and synchronous.”

Every day we step out. We try a little more. We do a little better. 

*clearly still two entities up there. Note to address with therapist later today