Yesterday my daughter asked me to make chocolate covered marshmallows with sprinkles. I did it.

I did it because I love her and she’s a normal healthy eater who’s a normal healthy weight and who, at age 7, loves vegetables and lean proteins, stops eating when she’s full, and who’s still a child who loves sweet treats. I want her to feel normal with food because I can see that she already does and I don’t want that to get lost as she grows up.

Also, because I don’t feel normal with food and I see she is blessed with an enjoyment of food that is not tainted with obsession.

Also, because my mother’s withholding of sweets and treats was fierce and the intensity of her imposed deprivation clashed horribly with my own pre-disposition to be a food addict and nurtured my life long food battle with food.

But more of that past dynamic in the coming days since my mother is visiting for the next two weeks (arrived this afternoon) and no doubt this will result in much blogging fodder.

Back to the chocolate dipped marshmallows with sprinkles… it was one of the few moments that has been difficult for me on this diet. It wasn’t the finished product that was difficult for me to manage. That I couldn’t care less about. No, it was the melted chocolate that got all over my hands. It seemed like such a natural thing to do to simply lick it off.

Somehow, though, I didn’t. I just washed my hands.


Thank you higher power.

Then, this morning, with the imminent arrival of my parents I went to the farmer’s market and bought some lovely vegetables but also blueberries and peaches because they are my father’s favorites and I want to be a good host. (There’s quite a few blog posts in that sentence too!) Resisting their call wasn’t easy, especially when they are right here in the house with me now.

But here’s the thing… I had an ace in the hole, that made the call of the fruits a no-brainer easy-peasy avoid: I tried on an old pair of jeans this morning. They were a size 8 and they fit. I haven’t worn anything smaller than a 10 since my son was born 4 years ago and most of the time it was a 12. Now? The 8s fit.

Chocolate covered marshmallows? Blueberries? Peaches?


Size 8 jeans?

Hell yes!