Gastronomy 101: Nursing Mom's Lament.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Evil Things
In which I confess to an eating disorder in years past, and relate a heartwarming tale of how a girl who considers herself chubby in a size 6 struggles with food issues to this very day.

In the early '90s, baby, I had a body. Some of you saw it for yourselves: size 2 -- sometimes size zero; totally buffed out. I lifted weights every day. I rose each morning at 5:00 and rode my bicycle all the way around the Upper Newport Bay, the estuary which has been my esteemed neighbor for 13 years now. My ass cheeks were totally firm and taut, with zero overhang -- at age 38, I wore a thong bikini and got away with it. That was before having my three youngest kids, of course. And guess what? No one knew it, but I had an eating disorder.

No, I didn't throw up or starve myself down to 85 pounds. But I binged and starved; I had a very problematic relationship with food, that being as follows: I loved it, but I felt terribly guilty whenever I indulged in it. So I would eat very little all week long, mostly because I was feeling guilty about weekend indulgences. On Mondays? I didn't eat anything at all. And by the weekend I was so ravenous I would eat everything in sight, and by Monday I felt so awful about eating so much that it was back to eating nothing again. I always felt ill from hunger, or ill from overeating.

I also looked fantastic. But you must agree I wasn't a happy camper. This was during my second marriage; it was very important to Anthony that I be perfectly lean and terrific. And I was so stupid, even in my early 30s, that I allowed the better part of my sense of self-worth to revolve around this.

So, fast forward to the late '90s. A divorce. And a new love, Ben Crumpacker, a man who loves me primarily for who and what I am, and not for how large or small my Polish ass might be. My relationship with food straightened out immensely. But because I still like to stay thin -- reasonably thin -- and because I have now been pregnant and/or nursing for six years almost without interruption (three miscarriages, three children, breastfeeding till my kids turn two) -- I still have to grapple with my weight, and with my relationship with food.

During my pregnancy with Sam, I gained an incredible amount of weight. During my pregnancy with Matt, much less so -- in fact, I lost weight rather steadily during my first trimester, but no worry -- I was losing fat, not starving my baby; I ate well, but sensibly. I gained 40 pounds with Julia, lost 30 of that in the first two weeks or so after the birth, and am still playing cat-and-mouse with the last 10 pounds. I can't diet very hard while nursing and pumping; the caloric demand is incredible, and I'm possibly even more ravenous than I was during pregnancy. So food, while it is now my friend rather than my sworn enemy, remains a problem. I wear a size 4 when I'm "thin" and a size 6 when I'm "fat", but I'm very fine-boned; even in a size 4, I carry a good amount of body fat.

And now here come the holidays -- Helloooooo, Holidays! -- and today I had Brownie Bites for Breakfast. Because they were left over from a little office get-together yesterday afternoon, and when I walked into the kitchen this morning they hailed me, like so:

Good morning! Yes, it's us! And let us tell you, we would be just terrific with coffee. Come on, why not? It's the holidays! Time to have fun! And believe us you, nothing says holiday fun like Brownie Bites for Breakfast!

I've probably gained a few pounds since Halloween. The jeans I put on this morning told me that. But guess what? I refuse to have food for an enemy. I'm a nursing mom. I have to choose my battles, and I'm opting out of that one. Because as much fun as it was having that little tiny rock-hard ass, I choose Matt, Sam and Julia.

And now I hear the Brownie Bites calling me back for a celebratory nibble. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!