I would give anything for my children—seriously, I’d trade my life for theirs without a second thought. Need a kidney, an eye, or even a pint of my blood? Sign me up for the anesthesia, and take whatever you need. I’d crawl across deserts and scale mountains if it meant shielding them from any harm or heartache. There’s just one small exception to my willingness to do anything for them: I absolutely will not share my food. Because, let’s face it, there’s no “we” in “my food.”
Yes, I know that as a parent, I should model generosity and kindness, and I strive to do so in many aspects of our lives. But when those little faces with their big, pleading eyes come to me, asking for just a bite or a sip of what I’m enjoying, they’re met with a firm and unapologetic “no.” I’m not trying to be cruel, but there are valid reasons for my refusal, no matter if I’m munching on kale or indulging in candy.
For starters, kids are downright gross. I’ve seen those little fingers exploring places they shouldn’t and then wiping the evidence on my walls—thanks, little piggies! I’ve watched as remnants of their chewed-up snacks seep into my drink, and I’m all too familiar with the string of saliva that binds their lips to my glass. And let’s not even talk about the way they lick the cream out of Oreos and leave the soggy leftovers behind. I take my food too seriously to let it be subjected to such treatment.
Then there’s the issue of snack inequality. My kids feast on delicious treats while I’m stuck watching them, longing for a taste of their sugary delights. They get cake and cookies at school for every birthday celebration, while I’m here trying to limit my sugar intake to fit into my leggings. When I finally get a moment to enjoy one of my rare indulgences, they better think twice before asking me to share. “Oh, you had a cupcake at school and now you want my dessert? Not happening!”
Let’s be clear: I make sure my kids are well-fed and nourished. I’m not neglecting them in favor of a feast while they sit with empty bowls like characters from a Dickens novel. They aren’t deprived. If I stumble upon a treasure like a box of Girl Scout cookies, you can bet I’ll hide them away to enjoy in peace. I’m not gorging myself in front of them while they munch on carrot sticks.
Being a mom means giving everything I have—physically, mentally, and emotionally. My kids drain my energy as I rush them from one activity to another, help with homework, and mediate their disputes. So if I want to keep my food just for me, I won’t feel guilty about it. After all, it’s one of the few things I can claim as my own.
I’m not withholding love or care from my kids; I’m just keeping that Cadbury egg hidden in the back of my dresser!
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In summary, while I would go to great lengths for my children, my food is one line I refuse to cross. It’s a small stand I take amidst the endless sacrifices of parenthood.
Keyphrase: “parenting food boundaries”
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