I scan the ingredients in the waffles at Costco, sweat drips from my brow as I try and sound out the ingredients listed. Too many listed. A kid cries because they have to use the restroom, after we just came back from there. Said child swore on her life her bladder was empty. I put the crappy, unhealthy waffles in the cart and dream of how easy breakfast will be tomorrow. Maybe they can even microwave them themselves? No, fire hazard.
Aisle two. On the hunt for syrup to go with the waffles. I turn up my nose at the high fructose filled syrups and fix my eyes upon the pure , organic maple syrup. I can’t feed my children high fructose corn syrup. I am better than that. Plus, this redeems the 67 ingredient waffles I just slammed in the cart. I feel much better.
We cross over to the next aisle to find the organic eggs. I pass a Mother with Doritos’s in her cart. We lock eyes. She notices my organic syrup and flips me the bird. I hand her a tract from a local church, and apply my aluminum free deodorant. You gotta apply that stuff every 60 seconds. I won the battle this time because she couldn’t see the waffles hidden under my raw Keffir. No one eats the crap without throwing up. I just throw it in the cart to look more crunchy than yourself.
It’s time to pick out the meat to stock the freezer. I observe the price difference between the Organic chicken and the regular. I quickly add up in my head the cost of two weddings for the girls, and braces for all three. I throw the regular chicken in the cart and put a kid on top of it, as to cover my regrettable choice. Luckily the child I have covering the chicken is cute. Distract-able to anyone glancing in my cart, judging how much I love my children by the food I am buying.
The next aisle is the most important, as I do love my children so much. So much that I want to be the best mother I can be. So I stock up on the red wines that are the cheapest, as to leave money left for their college funding. I am always thinking of them when I buy cheapo wine. It hasn’t nothing to do with the fact that I love wine. That would be selfish. I only want what is best for my heart. The longer my heart works, the longer I can drink wine, er. Be their Mother.
More organic, GMO free snacks are gathered into my cart , as I contemplate dinner choices.
I could go home, thaw this hormone ridden chicken, and attempt to make a healthy stir fry that my kids will hate, but husband will rave about. I could slice some vegetables, and give them some gluten free chicken nuggets that I just bought. I think I still have the organic ketchup from Trader Joes. That would be the responsible thing to do, as I just spent $300 on groceries.
Checking out the pizza stand creates a sensation in my children that sends them begging for the cheesey goodness. I am suddenly hungry from spending all my mental and emotional energy telling my dear children no to everything they ask for. Which was everything. Even things they hate. I think they do this to test me, and keep me on my toes. And to make me buy more wine.
Before I knew it….
” Yes, i’ll have four slices of cheese pizza, a Coke, and three slushies.”
” Ma’am , you can’t pay with your Costco card. It’s not like a debit card.”
” I know that. “
Hands him some cash and situates childs underwear, the underwear that was hanging out of said childs pants, leftover from the day before. I always said I wouldn’t let a child wear the same thing twice, but that was before I gave birth. I didn’t know anything back then except how to eat a warm meal sitting down. And take naps. And sleep in general. What a boring life that was.
As I enjoyed my fatty pizza, I reminded myself that yesterday I had salad for lunch with no dressing. Not by choice, but because we were out of dressing. Either way, I was good yesterday, so today I can eat this.
There is food forgiveness. I just know it.
As soon as we get home everyone is being rubbed down with essential oils. Taking their organic vitamins, and saying a prayer for their weak Mother.
I think tomorrow I will try to feed my children better food. But if I fail, there is always their impeccably fast metabolisms.
I am a food hypocrite. The first step is admitting that you try your best to feed your children good stuff, but you also love toaster struddles.