Recently, I found myself at a children’s birthday celebration. If you have kids under the age of seven, you know that birthday parties are a regular part of life. The festivities had just kicked off, and while the kids weren’t yet in full chaos mode, my 4-year-old son, Max, had already made headlines by calling one of his friends a “Sillyhead.” I decided to take advantage of the moment and hit the food table before everything was touched and tasted.
At these gatherings, the spread is often impressive, as moms seem to take pleasure in outdoing each other’s culinary contributions. I’m all for a little friendly competition; it just means better food at each event.
On my plate, I piled an international feast of meatballs, spanakopita, garlic bread, herb dip, Margherita pizza, and, of course, a selection of fruits and veggies to maintain the illusion of healthy eating. One of the other moms mentioned that she was feeling quite hungry because she had “forgotten” to eat lunch. She admitted that this happens often and that her husband sometimes has to remind her to eat.
I found this utterly absurd. This was, after all, my second lunch of the day! I honestly can’t recall a time when I’ve forgotten to eat—certainly not in the four years since becoming a mom. With my sleep schedule already compromised, there is no way I could function on an empty stomach.
Food is my motivation to get out of bed when Max wakes up at 6:24 AM, ready to start the day. It fuels my ability to simultaneously prepare his school lunch, remind him to get dressed for the tenth time, and even sort LEGOs with my teeth. It gives me the energy to shower and put on something other than the same t-shirt I’ve worn for the last three days. Food is the secret ingredient that helps me navigate the morning chaos, coaxing him into the car for school while he insists on finishing a LEGO train with only three pieces attached—the very pieces I separated with my teeth.
Food even helps me survive birthday parties. As long as I’ve eaten my “three squares,” I can make it to the toy store, purchase a gift, hide it, and manage the inevitable tantrum when Max discovers it and wants to play with it. On the day of the party, as long as my stomach is full of Margherita pizza and meatballs, I can supervise the bounce house and keep the kids safe. “Max, watch out! Don’t fall on Lily’s head!” I can console him when the balloon animal he waited for pops, and during cake time, I can firmly remind him, “Wait your turn! Your piece is coming!”
Even when the goody bag explodes in the car, scattering fifty-cent toys that will never be seen again, I can remain calm as Max screams for his toy to be fixed “right now!” All of this is possible because I am a mom who “remembers to eat.” I’ve learned that a satisfied stomach equals a capable mom.
Even if, by some cosmic twist, I were to lose track of time and not eat lunch by 2:30 PM, I’m convinced that simply walking into the kitchen would trigger doors to fling open, the fridge would hum and light up, and apples would roll into my hands, pre-peeled and ready to eat.
You know those survival shows where people are stranded in the wilderness, surviving on drops of water collected from leaves, only to celebrate a meal of roast squirrel after three days? I would not last. I would literally perish before they could even capture the footage for editing. If Max were with me on such a journey, my demise would come even sooner.
Forgetting to eat? I would be more likely to forget to breathe.
In conclusion, it’s a mystery how some can forget to eat, but for me, food is essential to motherhood.
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