Leading a Processed Food Life

I'm a bad mother.

Before people who know me start defending me, hear me out.

In addition to letting my offspring view violent superhero movies and use technology that I read causes autism (that's a response post for another day), I do not provide a healthy diet. I know full well that everything from aspartame and salt to flour and fructose is hurting me and my family, and yet I continue to feed it to my family.*

The studies on the terrible effects of processed food are many, and the severe intestinal pain I suffer periodically is proof enough. I'm probably even giving myself cancer (down the road). You know what's even worse than severe physical pain? The anxiety I have about being a bad mother.**

Our current parenting culture is one of intense disapproval, from within as well as without, and it is crushing. God how I wish it were easier to read scientific studies than it is to read headline-grabbing articles about what the latest celebrity says is the best way to parent.

So, if I believe they're (somewhat) correct, why am I not heeding the advice of every know-it-all mom posting in my Facebook newsfeed? Why am I not eating fermented vegetables and gluten-free quinoa in six small meals per day? Because...

• It's disgusting
• I'd have to completely change the way I shop
• I'd have to completely change the way I cook
• I'd have to fight with my family
• It would cost more (Don't even try to argue this one. It would.)
• It would be a huge time investment
• I don't have any f*#@ing time

But Lindsay, if you have time to write this post and to read about Alicia Silverstone and Jenny McCarthy and dozens of other pseudo-pediatrician celebrities, that's time you could spend cooking delicious vegan tofu for dinner. Right.

This post has been several years in the making, so don't ever talk to me about time management. I work two f%*#ing jobs in addition to caring for my children and not sleeping. Not sleeping. Not sleeping.

So what is the trade off for eating nothing but delicious empty calories that come out of lovely crinkly packages (besides my medically unexplained intestinal pain)? In reverse order of importance...

• Weight gain (Minimal now. Will probably be much worse when breastfeeding is done.)
• Lack of energy
• Fear that I will die young
• Fear that I'm hurting my children
• Anxiety Anxiety Anxiety

The fact that nothing is worth more to me than my kids contributes to the anxiety. Am I just a lazy American? Do I need to shake up my entire world, my entire life, my entire family with a big lifestyle change? I can entertain the thought, but I just don't see it happening.

It's too hard. I never thought I was someone to shy away from something that's good for my family based on the fact that it's too hard. But it's too hard.


*In addition to what is traditionally thought of as processed food (Cheetos, McDonald's, M&M's, hotdogs), we also eat meat and the occasional fruit, vegetable, and grain from an average, non-organic, pesticide-filled grocery store.

**There are also several studies that prove that anxiety and stress cause physical pain. Vicious, vicious cycle.

Note from the Management

It's hard, it's so hard, trying to be the conductor, the director, the manager of every detail of our complicated lives, down to the minutes. Down to the seconds. It's the manager who is responsible, the manager who shoulders the weight of this heavy, heavy house of cards I'm balancing. And I'm just not stable enough, not tough and firm and sticky enough right now, to be the glue that keeps this card house from collapsing. If I can never voluntarily rest, the day will come when I involuntarily do. I don't know how my fall will manifest--add it to the very long list of things I just don't know.

18w 3d Letters from Lindsay-land

Dear Anxiety:

Leave me the eff alone. Just this once. PLEASE.

I can't handle you, not today. It shouldn't be this hard; I shouldn't hate Wednesdays like this. So what if the baby is at Grandma's house and my night with the baby is cut a little short due to driving there and back? Why do you treat that as an invitation to crawl around under my skin, making me itch and squirm and want to scream?

You are useless. You serve no purpose. Nobody wants you here. Go away.

Sincerely,

Lindsay

* * *

Dear Anxiety's distracting, evil accomplice, Exhaustion:

We know each other very well, don't we? We're almost friends, I'd say. Or maybe family, since I certainly didn't choose you.

I can't hate you, not really. Because my baby was the one who introduced us, so.

But could you just not be QUITE so debilitating? Could I have a little personal space, a little room to breathe? Could I at least be able to concentrate long enough to do things like match my socks? It would also be really nice if I didn't have to scour my brain for the instruction manual on how to open my eyes again after each blink.

I'm begging.

Maybe if the baby would stop inviting you over so often, I wouldn't be so put out with you. But the baby has reverted to eating every two hours. Literally. I'm a bit drained. And your little vacation in Lindsay-land is starting to feel like a permanent move-in.

I can't ever be put out with the baby. I love him more than I love myself.

I just can't say the same for you. Sorry.

Sincerely,

Lindsay