Yesterday I won the HEALTHIEST AWARD with my spinach, banana, strawberry yoghurt smoothie and my bowl of peaches.
Spencer ate Waffle Crisp. He didn’t complain.
But I didn’t tell Spencer about the award. In my head I secretly competed with him in having a better breakfast. After he was done with his cereal and I sipped the last bit of smoothie, I raised my hands in the air and said “Healthiest Breakfast Award goes to me!”He didn’t care. He just finished a bowl of his favorite cereal.
I blame my mom for my food competitions. My mom competes with our family’s choice of food when we eat together as a family. She makes a giant pot of oatmeal and leaves us to choose brown sugar, blue berries, bananas, and almonds on the table. She grabs handfuls of berries and almonds and tosses them into her oatmeal while the rest of us take turns scooping the brown sugar.
“My oatmeal is really good,” she says. “It’s nutritious. It’s better than yours. Try some. You should. Really. Really! Try some. Mine is so much better.”
We roll our eyes and dump another scoop of brown sugar into our bowl, while she urges us to copy her example. We never do.
But she never forces us to put her choice of ingredients in our oatmeal. If she really wants us to eat healthy, wouldn’t she put the blueberries and almonds in for us? Or does she want to have the best oatmeal on the table so she can tell us how disgusting ours is? Hmm. Yes. I think she wants that inner award. That “I’m going to live longer than all these blockheads” award. Or that “I’m so much more satisfied with food” award. I think that’s what it is.
We never copied her oatmeal or any other ways making food. Except the one time when I did. And she never let me down.
We were in a small town somewhere in Utah, coming back from a Young Women’s event. I wanted a shake. She wanted a malt.
“Anne. The malt is better. You need the malt.”
“Anne! You really should get the malt.”
“Anne, are you serious? Do you really want just the shake?”
Fine! I got the malt. She grinned the biggest grin and I rolled my eyes and drank my malt.
She was right. It was better than the shake.