Adventures in excess

Amazing things can happen when you spend a week in paradise. The combination of laziness, an abundance of alcohol, and the never-ending availability of poor food choices can lead an otherwise healthy person down a dark path.

At least, this is what happens to me. And as I sit here back at home, writing grocery lists for detox soup and green smoothies, I find myself wondering which of these personas is actually mine. Am I truly a health-conscious person who lives for the purity of whole food or am I just a margarita-drinking wolf forcing myself to live in a lettuce-loving sheep’s clothing?

This has been my lifelong identity crisis. Instinctively, I want nachos and pizza and fresh-baked cookies. Selfishly, I want to fit into my pants. These two realities can’t exist together, which is why the aforementioned food items are rarely available (to me) in our house. So I go into these trips with trepidation, knowing at some point my will power is bound to give out.

I tell myself I will resist the chips and guac, that I will limit myself to one or two desserts. I aspire to commit to my usual morning routine of bulletproof coffee, a cathartic workout, then an egg or some nuts. I fool myself into believing I can stay strong in the face of carbs and salt-laden treasures. Then I see the sausages. And they offer me gluten-free toast. And they bring me two slices even though I asked for one. And the tikka masala comes on a bed of basmati. And there is a melting chocolate dome for dessert. And there are chips. And guac.

Le sigh.

Because I’m an over-thinker, I’ve analyzed a few ways I lead myself astray:

1) Denial of tastiness. If I didn’t spend the rest of the year trying to avoid these evil delights, I might not be inclined to gorge on them when they are made so readily and incessantly available. (A subsection to that might be that maybe I’m not supposed to label them as evil.)

2) Denial of basic cause and effect. I have the metabolism of a hibernating bear. If I stray from my largely vegetable/lean protein diet for even one day, all the fat cells in my body blow up like party balloons that won’t deflate for a month.

3) Denial of facts. If the foods I crave are in my vicinity, they will be consumed. This is why I don’t bake gluten-free goodies or cook gluten-free pasta. It’s just easier if the option isn’t there. So maybe we need to go places that don’t understand the word gluten or who employ people like our smarmy Air Canada flight attendant who said, “I don’t even know what gluten is. Look at the menu.” Ironically, chips and guac were the only choice.

(There also exists the possibility that I’ve created an issue with gluten to make it easier to say no to things I crave. I’m pretty sure I consumed gluten several times on this trip—having learned on the last night that the salad dressings and ice cream were both culprits —and all I suffered was an extra inner tube around my waist. Is that a gluten intolerance or a daily diet of tequila and tortillas?)

4) Denial of… something. I know there’s a fourth option here. That is to just enjoy the things I enjoy and get past the desire to be a certain size. I don’t even know where to go with that other than to say adopting such a mindset would likely require electroshock therapy.

Please don’t take this as a complaint about having to suffer through a week in Mexico. Woe is me, right? Besides, I’m the one who got myself into this situation in the first place by requesting a vacation from cooking and a week off dish-duty. This checked those boxes and more. I just wish I had the self-control to enjoy the abundance without diving head first into it.

So even though we’ve returned to winter and reality is setting back in, there is a part of me that’s thankful to be back in the safety of my thoughtfully-stocked kitchen. What better way to end a vacation than to be happy to be home?

The kids are feeling it, too. After a week of grilled cheese, mac & cheese, french fries, sugar-laden slushie drinks and more bacon than one thought possible, their simple stir-fry dinner was met with high praise from one kid and at least a willingness to consume from the other. This is huge for him, especially since there were recognizable vegetables involved.

I think a lot of us get sucked into this dionysian snowball, forsaking all knowledge of health in the name of a jolly good time. At least, this is what I gather from all the people commiserating on my Facebook post about the struggle to put on real pants after a week at the buffet. Thankfully, we have Lycra and long sweaters to get us through to the next bikini season, and the comfort of knowing we aren’t alone.

A missing side to our square

Luke was away last weekend, in Panama, of all places. People kept asking me why Panama and honestly I have no clue. This is how strange our conversations are these days. I knew when he was going, who with, and when he was coming back, but I had no idea why they went there and what they were planning to do. Maybe he had a secret passion for canals as a kid.  

He wasn’t gone long—in the neighbourhood of four days—but the littles acted like he was off on some round-the-world trek with no end in sight. She had an emotional breakdown the day before he left, thinking she hadn’t given him an adequate goodbye and wouldn’t see him again. And man was she pissed when she woke up on Sunday to find him not yet home. Clearly she inherited her calendar skills from the maternal side of the gene pool. 

She talked about missing him much more than the boy, though that may be a factor of age and understanding. One minute, she was acting out about some random thing only to break down in tears a moment later, desperate for a hug from dad. Hugs from me were not an adequate substitute. 

The boy was okay during the day but then kept waking up at night for more snuggles. I was okay with this the first couple of nights—who doesn’t want a warm, cuddly bundle of affection right next to them in bed— but by the last night I was in need of a little space. There’s only so much touching an introvert can handle, even if it is in the form of an adorable, nuzzling little boy.

The problem is I'm a sucker and the boy knows it. This is why Luke has been on middle-of-the-night duty ever since Judah was about 15 months old. I can’t fathom the idea of losing more sleep than is necessary, so I always just crawl into bed with him which results in neither of us getting a good rest. Somehow when he falls back asleep in the middle of the night it’s that light, not-really-sleeping sleep that causes him to jolt back upright anytime he senses my desire to go back to my own bed. 

“DON’T LEAVE,” he whisper-yells as he reaches out to grab my arm. At 3 am, I don’t have the mental capacity to argue nor the physical stamina to resist so back down I go. This is partially the reason why his big boy bed is a double. I never understood why people got huge beds for little kids until this guy came along. 

The night that Luke came home, everything came back around. The girl chilled out and the little guy slept in his own bed for the whole night, possibly because I told him he had to but that’s putting a lot of stock in my ability to influence the actions of a sleepy preschooler.

I always find it amazing how Luke’s return can bring them back down to earth, which is why I often hesitate to write these sorts of things. I realize how lucky I am to have a partner who’s here more often than not and who shares in a lot of the child-rearing when he is here. 

So many parents out there are doing this on their own full-time, with either no end in sight, or with the moments of reprieve months away. I don’t give them sympathy—no one needs pity—but my compassion and empathy for the struggle that is managing kids on your own. It’s probably the same way people who have family support might look at me and wonder how I manage to get by every day. A lot of the time, it’s really friggin’ hard. But what other choice do we have? 

The times when Luke is away are definitely getting easier, despite the afore mentioned struggles. It’s nothing like the trip to Nova Scotia a couple years ago. I think we’re all still traumatized by that one. But there is still something about having him missing from our foursome that sends them into emotional upheaval. It’s like we’re a square with a missing face. We aren’t a triangle, just a box with a big hole on one side.

With two more trips near on the horizon, I’d be wise to consider a strategy for managing the next hole. Perhaps a bit more patience when little man loses his shit over an uncomfortable sock. Perhaps a bit more empathy when she snaps at of me or gives Judah heck for not “playing right.” And, if all that fails, baking cupcakes in our pyjamas always seems to help.