From the beginning, Reagan has been concerned about my health and she's made it her business to keep me in shape. I sincerely appreciate her efforts and thought I'd share a few of them with you in case you'd like to implement them in your own training.
Reagan never misses an opportunity to deny me the sinful pleasure of eating. She knows I need help refusing the temptation of a meal every 5 or 6 hours, and she's there for me, bless her little heart. Just as I sit down to enjoy a few moments of culinary satisfaction and perhaps a niblet or two of adult conversation with my beloved, Reagan pulls the rug out from under me. If she's in her high chair, mid-meal, she suddenly needs "more" of something and alternately signs and squeals for it. Or she coughs/chokes on something. Or her sippy cup takes a suicide dive to the floor. Sometimes when she sees these distractions aren't having the effect she's going for, she cries to be released from her tower prison. Once on the floor, she rushes to my chair and looks up at me with the best puppy dog eyes she can muster. She holds her hands in the air and motions for me to pick her up. She clings to my legs, desperate to distract me from my fork. If I put her in my lap, hoping to calm her and therefore, get to eat, she lunges for the plate with all her might, grabbing and pushing for anything in sight. She knows her mission and she takes it seriously: stop Mom from eating at all costs.
I find myself standing up eating bread crusts, drinking apple juice while she gobbles pear chunks off her tray. I don't make eye contact for fear she'll remember I'm not supposed to eat. I open the fridge door and nosh down whatever I can behind its protective barrier. I hunch down to a lower cabinet, pretending to retrieve a pot or pan, all the while cramming pepperoni into my mouth. Reagan strains in her high chair. She knows something is going on. She arches her back, puts her feet on the step and stands as much as she can, craning her neck so she can see whether I'm really preparing her precious peas or am actually woofing down a sandwich.
I'm not sure how long this stage of "Pay attention to me NOW. Put the food down and no one will get hurt" lasts. Other people have kids and I've seen them eat. Perhaps their children just don't love them as much as Reagan loves me. Perhaps they don't care if their parents are obese but my angel does. Reagan wants me to be a size 4 and isn't letting anyone or anything stand in her way.
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