I’ll openly admit that prior to the start of my recent boot camp kick, I was pretty terrible at eating lunch on a regular basis. But somehow, I’d still be on my way to gaining a good twenty pounds in the next year. Because. Snacks. And they’re not even mine! So my consistent efforts with a new workout routine could not have come at a better time.
Toddler Twenty. Because Freshman Fifteen isn’t relevant anymore. As of late, my daughter has decided that eating something in its entirety is far too orthodox. Her constant demand for a snack has become a full ring circus. Goldfish crackers? Sure. Let me pour some into a bowl. Off she goes. Less than five minutes later, she’s back. She’s abandoned the bowl. And is in heavy pursuit of something else. I mean, there is NO way she ate all of those. 
So I make my way to track them down before they get smashed into the carpet or I find them floating in the toilet. Sure enough. There they sit. In her shopping cart, hardly touched. Now she wants an apple. Okay. I can do that. Healthy snacks are always a plus in my book. Sliced up and ready to serve. Off she goes. Half an hour later, I find a bowl of brownish apple slices hanging out on the bottom shelf of the coffee table. Lovely. Next up? Raisins. Yogurt. Grapes. Crackers. Cereal. Cheese. You name it. She’s pulling it out. Taking one bite, mouthful or nibble. And then she’s done. Sorry honey, this ain’t no Golden Corral. You don’t get to smorgasbord your way through the fridge or the pantry and then leave the mess for the wait staff.
However, if I’m going to get super real, that whole attempt at being stern and holding my ground just ends up kicking me in the heiney. Dealing with the wrath of a two year old who certainly did not wake up that day to hear the word no is rarely on my agenda. Especially with the high-pitched cries that I can only assume are heard by dogs. So I cave. And as the day progresses, I look around and there sits a multitude of colorful, character bowls with partially eaten snacks. On the table. On the counter. Mom, why is there a granola bar in her Elmo slipper? And apparently other practical places. [Eye roll]. Thank goodness my oldest is a growing boy on the cusp of puberty because he’s become my sideline warrior at tackling the unfinished treats as not to toss out our entire pantry. {And because there are starving people everywhere}. Then when my husband calls and asks if I’m hungry and if he should pick something up for dinner because he’s running late, I have to stop and think. Am I hungry? What did I have for lunch today? Nope. I didn’t have lunch today. But did I eat? Yep. A hodgepodge of hubbub. With a side of irritation.
Is this what life has given me in all its wonderful glory?! Was I put here to sacrifice my sanity (and my waistline) to appease someone who doesn’t even wipe her own little bum?! Indeed. And somehow that’s perfectly okay. Mostly since she’s cute and I know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s a meager battle. So until this obnoxious phase becomes another, I guess I’ll thank my early morning boot camp sisters for giving me an added reason to show up and show out. Because I want this tell told tale to be of muscle instead of munchies. Oohrah!
Weakness for Words 