Treats

I remember when the scale told me I weighed 57 and a half pounds. I remember because my dad pointed out that the week before I had been 56 pounds. I don’t remember how often my dad oversaw my weigh-ins or if they were even a regular occurrence. Maybe this particular trip to the scale was brought on by the sudden pound and a half of previously undetected fleshiness on my pre-pubescent thighs, but whatever the reason, this encounter with the scale ended -- not surprisingly -- with me in tears. Whether the tears came from the shame of my fleshy thighs or else from the resentment I felt towards my dad for making me stand on the scale in the first place, I honestly cannot remember.

What I do remember is rationally arguing to myself that my dad’s obsession with my weight was simply an outlet for his obsession with his own weight, and that I shouldn’t take it so personally. Photos of our family through the years were jokingly referred to by “Dad’s Fat Period” or “Dad’s Skinny Period”. But as much as I tried to reason within myself, the stage was set for a body-conscious girlhood.

It’s easy to blame my physical insecurities on my 57.5 lbs weigh-in, but I am raising three young girls myself now and I know that even without my father’s weight obsession looming over us I still have a heck of a job on my hands. Not only am I combating the entire media behemoth's ideal of female perfection, I am combating an unalterable physiographic trait that I am convinced is hard wired into my DNA and that I have in all likelihood passed along to them: I absolutely love treats.

Yes, we have the “one dessert a day” rule and yes, I insist they eat their meal before having dessert, but I’m that mom who sends the kids out of the kitchen after they’ve licked the beaters just so I can take a huge soup spoon and polish off a hunk of cookie dough behind their backs. I’m that mom who scolds, “No candy before lunch!” while my mouth is full of dark chocolate chips at 10 o’clock in the morning. I’m that mom who finds any excuse to buy an ice cream in the park or a hot chocolate at Starbucks on a cold morning. Even Disney princess-shaped fruit snacks will do the trick in a pinch. Dylan’s Candy Bar was the first store in New York that my children learned to call by name.

On those days when Jenni’s Homemade Oreos save us from a desperately long winter afternoon or when YoGoMonster frozen yogurt sees us through a sweltering summer day, I have flashes back to the day I tried to throw up an ice cream cone into the toilet, so disgusted was I that I had eaten the whole thing. That age is coming all too quickly for my daughters. Will my daughters bemoan having a mother who was so free-wheeling with the sugar that they want to throw it up when they get older? Will they wish I was more disciplined in establishing their eating habits, sorrowfully laughing that “one dessert a day” simply wasn’t enough... for mom?

Perhaps. But I hope they will also recognize that treats gave us memories, an excuse to spend time together and revel in life’s little pleasures. And on that sad day when they figure out that the treats we eat have a relationship with the way we look, I hope it’s not a traumatic trip to the scale they remember. I hope, instead, it’s the memory of Not Hots from The Chocolate Room, cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine and Mega Missile popsicles in Central Park. Perhaps they might thank me after all.

Comments

[JoAnn Moulton]

Neylan, I love the way you love your girls! This takes me back to when you were little with my little ones. Thanks for the ride. Love you, Aunt Jo

[Chou]

I love treats, too. Passionately. It's definitely something I'll struggle to balance with my own (future) children! (and yes, Sugar Sweet Sunshine is always on the treat list)