Finishing off your children’s leftovers catches up with you in the end
I' VE turned into one of those women who finishes their children's food. I never thought I'd be one of those women, women that I secretly used to view as being a bit sad. Why would would you want to finish cold bits of fishfinger that have been mushed up in ketchup or left over chips that have been pushed around a plate by grubby little fingers for twenty minutes? Now I know why.....because it's there!
And it's not only fishfingers I'll finish. I'm not discerning in any way. I'll hoover up chicken nuggets, cold sausages, half eaten pieces of bread and butter. I'll eat anything they leave on their plate.
Of course the children have cottoned onto this pretty fast. When they don't want to eat any more, they just wave their plate under my nose and wait a few seconds. Heh presto! Clean plate. The dog is even starting to give me dirty looks because he's losing out. What used to be his food stash has now become mine so he's relegated to pedigree chum again much to his dismay.
For months now I've been trying to ascertain how I could have put on a stone in weight when I haven't eaten anything more than I normally do. Tea and toast in the morning, soup and sandwich at lunch and dinner in the evening. Yet my jeans were crying out in indignation every time I tried to beat myself into them, my pants were only supporting half a buttock either side and my bingo wings could shout “full house” every time I wore a teeshirt.
Firstly I blamed the tumble dryer shrinking all my clothes but when nobody elses shrunk, I began to realise that may not be the cause after all. Onto the internet I went and began my self diagnosis coming up with ailments such as candida, food intolerance and hypoglycemia.
‘ITHINK I know what's wrong with me?’ I said to Himself, who had been studiously ignoring my melodramatics quite successfully. I read out the symptoms of the three illnesses to him. ‘So which one do you have then?’ he asked. ‘All three I think,’ I replied deadly serious before he fell around the place laughing.
He then proceeded to take his life in his hands, ‘do you not think you've put on a bit of weight....just a bit mind, because you're always eating?’ he asks, looking regretful as soon as the words left his mouth.
After I got over the shock of him acknowledging my lard arse, I vehemently refuted his allegation. ‘I AM NOT always eating! I hardly eat anything between meals.’ I retort. Not realising he should quit while he's ahead he mentions me finishing off the kids leftovers. ‘ That doesn't count. I eat them when I'm standing up. And alcohol doesn't count either. Nothing liquid does,’ I say, voicing my own personal diet theory for the past 20 odd years.
He looks at me half amused, half horrified. ‘How have you managed to stay thin for so long?’ he asks in astonishment. At this moment I'm asking myself that very same question. I force myself to browse through a weight watchers magazine wondering if I can save up all my pro points for the weekend to eat an Indian and drink wine. I shall dream of cold fishfingers with longing tonight.