When Mister was younger I was obsessed with what he ate. I dutifully pureed banana-peach-mango concoctions and froze them in uniform ice-cubed batches. I made hummus from scratch for whole-weat pita wedges and steamed red bell pepper slices. I sprinkled wheat germ into his organic blueberry smoothies. I think I even slaved over some veal dish braised in homemade chicken broth about once a week.
Wow. I was a neurotic mess.
I guess it helped that I stayed at home and had all that time on my hands (disclaimer: hindsight plays funny tricks on you. Don’t ever ask a stay-at-home mom what she does with all that time on her hands!) I don’t know if it’s because I’m working, or if it’s the jump from one to two, or if I’ve figured out that children can still walk and talk if you feed them processed food, but the thought of making three square, healthy, brain-boosting, vitamin packed meals a day is exhausting.
Poor L. He’s a great eater and scarfs down broccoli and spinach fine, but more often than I’d like our dinner source is a box, bag, or drive-thru. I’ve been meaning to get on that once-a-month-cooking bandwagon, but it’s one of those things I know I should do but dread trying. Like working out.
But I do miss cooking, real cooking, for the family. It’s that primal maternal instinct to feed, nurture your children that I first felt during late-night, quiet nursing sessions, feeling a sense of awe, privilege, and responsibility of feeding, giving life from my own self. I miss giving life. Now I give chicken nuggets.