If the Food in the Pantry Could Talk

We're having food challenges at our house, and not the ViSalus kind that I would prefer. I have never wanted to convey my own issues with food to my kids, but it is happening anyway.  Perhaps it is inevitable that we should reveal our innermost craziness to our offspring. I want so much for them to have a healthy relationship with food and not an adversarial one.

Late in the afternoon, when the kids were avoiding doing their homework, they took turns scouting for food. First, Ian made a fruit-flavored mix-in drink. He seems to be living on them, especially the red ones. Next, Ainsley made a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich. We haven't had fluff in the house in a couple of years because most of us lose control in its presence. Finally, when I was on the phone and very distracted, together they ate most of a jar of Jiff peanut butter. I don't normally buy Jiff because of the sugar content. This one was given to us and immediately was sought after by everyone under the age of twelve.

By the time normal people have finished dinner, they were starting to get hungry again. I made everyone a Vi-Shake, which is an excellent meal any time, but is especially good when I don't feel like cooking. Ainsley slowly sipped hers through a straw over the course of about 30 minutes.  Ian chugged his down in less than 10 seconds like the Nestle Quik Bunny. Then he wanted ice cream.

I gave him a firm "no" on the ice cream selection, given the amount of peanut butter he had eaten earlier. So, he read the labels on the Jiff and the ice cream, then we compared that to the Vi-Shake. He wasn't happy about it, but he agreed to save the ice cream for tomorrow. He stomped up the stairs to his room and slammed the door.  Apparently, I am ruining his life.

Then Ainsley decided that she needed a little something to soothe her hunger. I told her to go brush her teeth and she would forget all about it. She mumbled something and walked into the kitchen, where she quietly opened the pantry doors. When I asked what she was doing, she mumbled something and stood statuesque in front of the pantry.  A few moments later, she bounded around the corner, smiling, and said, "I just wanted to say good-night to the food!"

Huh? Seriously?

"Go upstairs and brush your teeth . . . NOW!" I told her. Then the tears came because I wouldn't let her say good-night to the food in the refrigerator.

Oh, for crying-out-loud! I know for a fact that she was in the kitchen eating marshmallow fluff with her fingers because it was all over her hands and face, the lid on the jar was crooked, and it was empty. Puh-LEASE!!!

THIS is why happy hour was invented.

Now, would someone please bring me a glass of cab?