Feeding My Child

When I realized that I was treating my eldest as the scapegoat in our family, treating her as a bit of an outsider and displacing my negative feelings on her, the ways in which I was doing it were there, staring me in the face.  I didn’t have to sit and think hard about the “how” of it all.  I had always been conscious of what I was doing, but always had excuses that allowed me to get by with it.  Now I have no excuses.  I see the excuses as the bunk that they are.    

One of the things that I routinely did with my eldest was I prepared food for the younger kids and didn’t prepare anything for her.  Why?  Well, my excuse was that she knew what she wanted and would get it herself.  Why not?  First, I can tell you that it was most certainly neglect,
and second, it was arising from a deep seated resentment . . . ironically it wasn’t resentment for this beloved child of mine, rather it was resentment arising from my “martyr” story.

Still, this one might have slipped by my scapegoating radar, except for the fact that my mom still does this very thing with me, and it really hurts. 

My mom and my sister in the past have come for unexpected noontime/afternoon visits.  On several occasions, my mom has brought beautiful salads, sometimes homemade, sometimes from a restaurant.  She lays them out on my table.  Then she opens the dishes and then divides the food between herself and my sister.  As my mom does this, it is always as if I am not in the room.  I watch and the feeling that I am, indeed, the outsider permeates my being.  My sister surely feels it because she always welcomes me in once the food is out, “Do you want half of my salad?  I’ll split it with you.”  I tell her no, that’s okay.  She usually pulls me down to sit beside her and begins shoveling the food into my mouth.  A bite for her, a bite for me.  My mom continues to eat as if I am not there, like I am really invisible, and by not looking at me, she can keep me that way.

One time, out of what insanity I do not know, I offered to paint multiple rooms in my mother’s new house.  Interestingly, what lingers in my memory most about the month of painting is this.  My mother also had a tile man working in her house throughout that month.  Daily, she would go out and buy him excellent food--steaks and fancy meals from restaurants.  But she didn’t feed me at all . . . at all.  I painted all day every day without food.  I lost about eight pounds, which took me to my very minimum weight.  (You might wonder why I didn’t go out and get myself food.  Well, eating issues have been my coping mechanism with my mom since I was seven.  The pain of not being included in the daily feasts was enough to make me lose my appetite.)  

So back to my own beloved daughter.  Now, at every mealtime, if we are not sitting down as a family, I go and knock on my thirteen- year-old’s door and ask, “What can I make you?”  I can see from her responses that she most certainly feels the warmth of it and is glad for it.  I love preparing food for her.  It feels good to be feeding my child.