North Star Writers Group

I know what the experts would say. Childhood obesity is astronomically on the rise. That amount of sugar is inappropriate for him at this age. I’m a terrible mom. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Here’s how it all transpired. His great-grandmother made cookies. She’s almost 90, and has gotten to the stage where her favorite – sometimes only – topic of conversation is trying to figure out which of her possessions each of us wants and will treasure for the rest of our lives. She made cookies. I thought he should have one because she lives five hours away, and he might not get another chance.

I grew up eating those same cookies. I could be fitter. But if that’s true, it’s certainly not because of those cookies, it’s because of all of the other comfort foods that – slowly but surely – entered my life and I don’t doubt will enter my son’s life too.

First, there was the “great escape” that I started making with my friends when we were about seven. We rode our bikes across the tracks, which was strictly forbidden of course, to the convenience store. When we couldn’t get away on our bikes, we crossed the railroad tracks on foot – another strictly forbidden activity – to get there.

Our purpose? Candy.

I could find enough change beneath our couch cushions to pick up some peanut butter cups and taffy. Then, we’d climb a tree and eat it all – at once. Right before dinner.

I tried to picture us riding our bikes to the grocery store instead. In order to save up for some fresh carrot sticks, we’d need about $2.99. I don’t think we ever had that much money! We couldn’t throw them in our pockets and climb a tree either. Let’s be honest. This simply wasn’t going to happen then, and I have no idea if and how my son’s going to do it either.

At Girl Scout camp, we ate s’mores. Lots of them. I don’t remember our troop leader ever saying, “Girls, you can have one s’more. Then, I’m breaking out the fresh fruit.”

If she had done that, we never would have had one of the most classic camping experiences ever. Hearing a little noise in the middle of the night, and just knowing there was a raccoon or a bear in your tent because you tried to keep a tiny piece of that Hershey bar underneath your pillow. Surely that small piece of chocolate was going to lead to your demise – and that of your tentmates – right now!

You scream. The whole campsite awakes. The noise? Just the wind. But now everybody’s up in the middle of night and there’s only one thing to do. Crawl into the same tent and tell stories.

Somehow, I don’t think orange slices would have had the same outcome.

Then, there was the slumber party.

I literally tried hard to picture my parents serving my friends and me a nice big salad with all the fixings. The tomatoes. The cucumbers. I’d have been the laughing stock of the fifth grade, but hey, none of my friends would have gained an ounce at that party! And they’d have gone home with their daily recommended allowance of some great vitamins, too.

I guess the bottom line is that I’m all for my son’s health and nutrition. But I’m not going to read articles in women’s magazines about “healthy slumber parties” or the perfect healthy foods for climbing trees. I’ll pack him a healthy lunch, yes, even with carrot sticks. But I’m not going to send him to play in his treehouse with fat-free peanut butter, spread on high-fiber whole grain bread with slices of banana. Well, at least not every time.

And if my grandmother makes cookies again when we see her at Thanksgiving, he’s getting another one. A whole one this time!

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This is Column # CD043. Request permission to publish here.