Bad Parent: Weight Watcher
Am I passing my eating disorder on to my daughter?
by Jeanne Sager
July 10, 2008
"Ooh, she's so petite!" My friend Kristen was eyeing my two-and-a-half-year-old from behind. "What size is she?"
Jillian towers over Kristen's son — born five days before her in June of 2005. On the weeks when she's eating like a human garbage compactor, she develops a belly that would put Buddha to shame. I wouldn't call her petite.
But who am I to judge? I have an eating disorder.
I don't throw up every day — not anymore. I consider myself a recovering bulimic, my habitual binging and purging quelled by feelings of fulfillment, by finding my happy place. Marriage to my husband brought an end to the daily ritual, limited my battles to a few times a year.
In pregnancy I got my comeuppance. I landed in the emergency room twice for IV fluids because of uncontrollable bouts of morning sickness. For seven months, I threw up daily even though I tried everything I could to keep food down. I was prescribed medicines reserved for cancer patients to stave off the nausea caused by chemotherapy, I crafted a diet of ice-cold milk to battle the heartburn and grease-laden grilled cheeses to soothe a sour stomach. It was like having a non-stop hangover.
I still gained forty pounds. When I read the reports about proper weight gain being twenty-something pounds, I wrung my hands.
I feel for moms who shame-facedly climb on the scale at the OB/GYN's office — the women who have been eating ice cream for the past six weeks because it's all they could keep down, the women who for the first time in their life feel like the world has accepted their size. I also feel for the moms who have never shopped outside the juniors' section, who are humiliated that in pregnancy they've stretched to an adult size small.
I worry constantly: Should she have another cookie?
They may not throw up. They may not starve themselves or exercise themselves into a frenzy. But life has taken its toll on their perceptions of food, their idea of the proper weight, the proper size.
Jillian's birth brought on the longest stretch of my adult life spent away from throwing up. I lost my baby weight the healthy way — hoisting an infant, working part-time and pure luck. But my eating disorder has been like a devil perched on my shoulder for the past three years as I've struggled to make the right decisions for both myself and for Jillian.
I worry constantly: Should she have another cookie? Should I buy the organic peanut butter or the Skippy that's on sale? Am I letting her get too fat? Am I making her too thin? When the Buddha belly pops over her jeans, I find myself filling her cups two-thirds full of water, one-third of juice rather than half and half. I exchange the jelly on her sandwich for dried banana chips. I give her multi-grain rice cakes instead of cookies. On Halloween and Easter, I cringe watching her shove chocolate kisses in her mouth.
©2008 Jeanne Sager and Babble
About the Author
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Jeanne Sager is a freelance writer and photographer living in upstate New York with her husband and daughter, Jillian. She maintains a blog of her award-winning columns at jeannesager.blogspot.com. |
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