If you grew up in southern California, or in a city, or with a television, or female, you probably spent most of your life watching your weight. It began in fourth grade for me. My lucky little brother was thin as a rail and no matter how many scoops of Rocky Road he stuffed down his face, he never got fat. I, on the other hand, knew how to count calories by the time I was nine years old.
After my chubby pre-adolescent years, I enjoyed a nice run of being skinny. A growth spurt and newfound interest in boys pulled me away from chasing the ice cream truck to swimming extra laps and taking up running. By high school I was living on vegetables and Diet Coke.
I can chronicle the battle through college, my wedding (Jenny Craig, anyone?), a 50-pound weight gain with my first pregnancy, a failed pregnancy in-between my two boys that left me full of hormones that were near impossible to shed, and so on…
Until last June. I took the boys out for ice cream as an end-of-the-school-year-treat and I upset Charming Baby by staring at his ice cream cone the whole time like a hungry dog.
“Sam, please let me have another bite.”
“No, I already gave you a taste.”
“Come on, Sam, just one more bite.”
“No!”
First Born Prince tried to help, “Mom, you can have another bite of mine.”
“Thanks, Charlie, but it’s Sam turn to surrender Mommy Tax. Fork it over, Sam.”
He gloomily handed me his cone and then ate the remainder of his treat shielding it from me so I wouldn't beg for more. As we left the dairy store, I realized that not only had I been ruining my ice cream time for thirty years, but now I was starting to take down my son’s enjoyment. I made a vow to always get my own cone from that point onward.
I am having the sweetest summer of my life.
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