EAT! Just EAT!
I say this everyday so many times I can hardly even stand it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner — for some reason I have to tell my sons to do something that is absolutely necessary and has been their whole lives. I swear even when they are STARVING prior to a meal, my husband and I have to remind them, painstakingly, to take each and every bite.
I don’t remember which Christmas screening of Rudolph I noticed this, but toward the end of the movie, Mrs. Claus repeatedly has to tell Santa to “Eat, papa, eat.” She says it with a lowered jaw, stern stare, furrowed brow, implied dammit. She says it like a mom. (It’s not Pixar, so I guess I’m embellishing a little.)
Sometimes it seems like the most ordinary things cause the biggest rub in parenthood. It isn’t even starvation I’m trying to stave off; it’s lowered blood sugar and incurable instability.
“Just EAT!” I cry, my desperation matching their whining. In my head — just stop yelling and crying and being hysterical and eat your food! Unfortunately for all of us, I often realize mid-pleas that I need to take my own advice. Hanger runs deep in my heritage. Time to ignore their complaints and clean my own plate. If one of us is stable, we might stand a chance.