The Imperfect Parent - Articles || Donuts Anonymous

PUBLISHED September, 2005
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Donuts Anonymous

Hi, my name is Karrie and I'm a donutaholic.

by Karrie McAllister

We moms, including myself, talk a big game when it comes to the extreme measures we take to feed our families. We're always bragging about spinach this or whole grain that, and I'm no different. I do try to squeeze in cooking wholesome meals when I'm not living in my car, but it's about time I stand up and honestly introduce myself.
My name is Karrie, and I'm a donut-aholic. And *gasp* I eat french fries too. And *double gasp* I feed them to my kids.

Now before anyone squirts non-fat soy milk out their nose, let me also say that I do take plenty of time to cook meals that don't come out of a box. In fact, I make a mean mac and cheese that doesn't have any ingredients that are fluorescent orange and powdered. But everything in moderation, even the good stuff, right?

I had a conversation awhile back with a parent of kids aged 4 and 2. I was dragging my kid to work, hoping to keep her quiet with a tiny bag of french fries and he told me that his kids had never eaten at a fast food restaurant.

WHAT??? HOW DO YOU SURVIVE?

Beyond the fact that if McDonald's didn't exist my family would probably be emaciated, I firmly believe that part of being a kid is getting a cheap plastic toy with some greasy food. It's called a Happy Meal, for Pete's sake, and it makes kids happy. How can I deny my children this bliss? Besides, when they get to be my age, they won't be able to eat that food anymore without suffering unpleasant intestinal consequences.

While I'm getting this all out in the open, we also frequently eat breakfast in the car on the way to school, as seen by the pile of Nutrigrain wrappers under the back seat. I also keep a stash of mini-marshmallows in my car for whenever we need a quick pick-me-up because the kids just can't stomach coffee yet.

The thing is, with all of this hoopla about childhood obesity and health problems, I have to remind myself of my own childhood when most of the time we ate real food that my mom actually cooked. Pot roast on Sunday, leftovers Monday. The rest of the week it was a square meal, whether I liked it or not, with a meat, a starch, and two vegetables. And on Friday, french fries and a big meaty cheeseburger. (We're big carnivores here in the Midwest.) It was a treat to get a kid's meal with a piece of plastic junk, and I knew it.

We never ate the sorry substitutes they've got now for everyone's favorite dessert. No, we all ate real ice cream. Not every day, but it was real. Creamy, sweet, and enough fat to keep us warm for the winter, and it was a delicacy. In fact, it's one of my fondest memories as a child; my grandfather took me every Tuesday night to the shake shop in town for a hot fudge sundae while my mother and grandmother had their bowling league. (Remember, it's the Midwest...)

Chances are I ran around enough outside most days to wear off three of those fast food meals and the ice cream too...but we'll save the laziness issue for another column. I think I'll call it "We don't use video games for coordination excuses. (Or why you'll learn to swing a bat if the ball is headed straight for your face.)"

This weekend I think we’ll take a family walk into town and swing by the local bakery for a much-enjoyed glazed donut. We’ll even make a morning of it. And now that I’m out in the open on our family’s eating habits, I won’t mind if anyone sees me stuffing a creamstick into my mouth or a cookie into my son’s. I’ll even invite that person to my DA meeting, where they too can come clean and feel better about themselves. I’m sure it’ll be a spiritually uplifting event– I just wish they served donuts.