By Caitlin Q. Bailey O'Neill
Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.
~Author Unknown
My mother tricked me. And not just me. She tricked my sister and brother as well. In the midst of three children and an additional half dozen or so in an at-home daycare, she had the nerve -- the audacity -- to absolutely fool us into leading healthy lives.
Sure, we were allowed two cookies after dinner. But she had us convinced that we didn't need the Sugar-Frosted Chocolate Krispie Gems calling out to us from the cereal aisle. We had something better.
We had "fruit plates."
Arranged on a brightly colored plastic plate would be a yogurt, an apple and a peach, sliced and rationed among the troops, and a handful of crackers or pretzels. Sometimes there'd be toast or half of a sandwich. And man, were we thrilled.
Fruit plates offered a brief respite from the "well-balanced" healthy meals we were forced to enjoy as a family at roughly 5:12 p.m. every single day. Fruit plates could be enjoyed at 4:30 p.m. when an elementary school open house beckoned at 5:30 p.m., or even after 6:30 p.m. on the days when soccer ran late. Fruit plates were the rebellion against the norm.
It wasn't until I tried to pass off a bagel, a handful of raspberries, and an apple as dinner for my ravenous husband that it hit me like a brick wall.
Fruit plates were the result of a woman who, once in a blue moon, didn't have time to cook a full meal in the midst of running a household, running a daycare, and running after three kids. One last-ditch effort to pull together a meal that satisfied the food pyramid.
And that woman made us think it was a treat.
Sneaky.
She probably even made us go to bed before ten so we'd be awake in school and stay on the honor roll. I wouldn't put it past her.
My mother probably knew what was best for me all along, and what's worse, she probably did what was best for me every day.
And here I am now, making fruit plates. And turning into my mom in other ways too. When I remind my sister to write down all her credit card numbers and phone numbers in case her wallet's stolen, I get it. After telling my collegiate brother to be careful at a party, the response taunts me: "Thanks, Mom."
Anyone who has ever met my mother has been let in on the secret mantra, which they then joyfully recite for their own entertainment: "You are your mother's daughter."
It's worse, though, and I don't know if anyone but me and my all-knowing mother know the extent of just how bad it is.
I am my mother.
I already type up lists of emergency phone numbers -- and laminate those lists before posting them on the refrigerator. I can't stand crossing out dates on the calendar and instead take the extra seventeen minutes to locate the Wite-Out. I worry when my husband or siblings are out late and forget to call. Christmas isn't complete without a tree in every single room.
And the prognosis? Incurable. My affliction will only get worse.
Someday, I'll hang every hand-drawn picture on the fridge, and a framed drawing of a stick-people family will sit on my mantle long after the artist has gone off to college. I'll feel the need to sit in the bleachers at every basketball game and hang up posters for every school play.
Someday, I'll trick innocent young children into believing that crackers, a cut-up apple, and a peach yogurt is a treat.
Someday, I'll be the sneaky mom I was blessed to have.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.
~Author Unknown
My mother tricked me. And not just me. She tricked my sister and brother as well. In the midst of three children and an additional half dozen or so in an at-home daycare, she had the nerve -- the audacity -- to absolutely fool us into leading healthy lives.
Sure, we were allowed two cookies after dinner. But she had us convinced that we didn't need the Sugar-Frosted Chocolate Krispie Gems calling out to us from the cereal aisle. We had something better.
We had "fruit plates."
Arranged on a brightly colored plastic plate would be a yogurt, an apple and a peach, sliced and rationed among the troops, and a handful of crackers or pretzels. Sometimes there'd be toast or half of a sandwich. And man, were we thrilled.
Fruit plates offered a brief respite from the "well-balanced" healthy meals we were forced to enjoy as a family at roughly 5:12 p.m. every single day. Fruit plates could be enjoyed at 4:30 p.m. when an elementary school open house beckoned at 5:30 p.m., or even after 6:30 p.m. on the days when soccer ran late. Fruit plates were the rebellion against the norm.
It wasn't until I tried to pass off a bagel, a handful of raspberries, and an apple as dinner for my ravenous husband that it hit me like a brick wall.
Fruit plates were the result of a woman who, once in a blue moon, didn't have time to cook a full meal in the midst of running a household, running a daycare, and running after three kids. One last-ditch effort to pull together a meal that satisfied the food pyramid.
And that woman made us think it was a treat.
Sneaky.
She probably even made us go to bed before ten so we'd be awake in school and stay on the honor roll. I wouldn't put it past her.
My mother probably knew what was best for me all along, and what's worse, she probably did what was best for me every day.
And here I am now, making fruit plates. And turning into my mom in other ways too. When I remind my sister to write down all her credit card numbers and phone numbers in case her wallet's stolen, I get it. After telling my collegiate brother to be careful at a party, the response taunts me: "Thanks, Mom."
Anyone who has ever met my mother has been let in on the secret mantra, which they then joyfully recite for their own entertainment: "You are your mother's daughter."
It's worse, though, and I don't know if anyone but me and my all-knowing mother know the extent of just how bad it is.
I am my mother.
I already type up lists of emergency phone numbers -- and laminate those lists before posting them on the refrigerator. I can't stand crossing out dates on the calendar and instead take the extra seventeen minutes to locate the Wite-Out. I worry when my husband or siblings are out late and forget to call. Christmas isn't complete without a tree in every single room.
And the prognosis? Incurable. My affliction will only get worse.
Someday, I'll hang every hand-drawn picture on the fridge, and a framed drawing of a stick-people family will sit on my mantle long after the artist has gone off to college. I'll feel the need to sit in the bleachers at every basketball game and hang up posters for every school play.
Someday, I'll trick innocent young children into believing that crackers, a cut-up apple, and a peach yogurt is a treat.
Someday, I'll be the sneaky mom I was blessed to have.
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