Fin­ish­ing off your chil­dren’s leftovers catches up with you in the end

Bray People - - ABOUT GREYSTONES -

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 know­cause 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.

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