By Megan Bracher

In our latest argument, my partner has dared to declare that some foods are “unhealthy,” and I’ve stormed off to the bedroom. 

In my conversations with our three-year-old, “all foods are good food,” and as long as we “listen to our bodies,” we can have as many bites of donuts as we like. “Healthy” and “unhealthy” are banned words; diet, sugar, and references to weight are similarly omitted from my vocabulary. I try to offer a variety of choices—protein, fats, carbohydrates—at most meals, but my son can choose to eat some, none, or all the food on his plate without additional commentary. 

My partner disagrees. Like many children of the 90’s, he survived on Pop-Tarts, Eggo Waffles, and other ultra-processed foods popular at the time. He recalls the ignorance surrounding food choices and wants to instill a focus on nutrition in our own children. 

Given this, his conversations with our son go a little differently: “Two chocolates are enough for today. Let’s save the rest of our ice cream for tomorrow. Yes, we have to eat some chicken before dessert.”

Today’s argument comes after my partner declares that I (I!) have been “eating a lot of sugar lately,” and because my son wants to eat whatever I am eating, he is too. Thus follows the image of a thirty-four-year-old mother of two storming off to the bedroom, buttered cake slice in hand. 

This is not our first fight over what our children eat. My partner says I operate from a place of fear. As I stomp up the stairs, I retort that he operates from a place of ignorance with a helping of male privilege, and I slam the door. 

Growing up, my mother was always starting a new diet on Monday. She took my sister to Weight Watchers in fourth grade. Even today, sometimes she will begin a conversation about her recent weight loss, until I gently remind her that I’d rather talk about something else.  

When it comes to food, my father may have done more damage. Scolding was a certainty following any one of his children attempting to pour more than a single bowl of cereal at breakfast. “She’ll stretch out when she grows taller,” my mother would reply to another one of his seemingly endless comments about my size. The worst of them (as ten-year-old me reaches for another cupcake): “Careful with that—your ass is getting as big as your sister’s.”

Unsurprisingly, I resorted to restricting food, starting at age ten, and began sneaking food around that same time. Picture two bites of instant oatmeal to start the day while in the after-school hours I slipped candy wrappers under my mattress to avoid detection. The binging and purging came later, and I struggled with bulimia throughout college and young adulthood. 

There are many painful years in between, but a decade and a half after I first began restricting, I started to settle into a better place. Less binging. Fewer trips to the bathroom after dinner. Longer stretches in between relapses. Many, many therapy sessions. 

I began eating more intuitively. Started lifting heavy weights—not to tone, but because for once I was able to see my body for what it could do, not just what it could look like. I started to focus on what I could add to my meals rather than what I could take away. For me, the key to recovery has become a trust within myself that it is okay to be more and not less.  

Back in the bedroom, my partner comes in to apologize. He knows that he has overstepped. I draw a hard line at any more comments about what I am eating. We note that he is hypercritical. That I am hypersensitive. He says it isn’t fair for me to compare him to my father. This is true. We resolve to find a path forward for our son. 

We get a kitchen scale. My partner uses it to make sure he’s getting enough grams of protein after his workouts in the garage gym. I use it to find the perfect proportion of water-to-flour for sourdough.  

We practice self-care. Even with juggling a toddler and an infant, we give each other an hour a day to move our bodies or take a bath or read or write. I share research with my partner about common triggers for eating disorders. He shares articles with me about the health consequences of too much s****. 

We end up settling somewhere in the middle. 

One day last week, with a milk mustache perched atop his upper lip, our son lets us know this is how his muscles will grow as big and strong as mine are. That already, he is taller than Daddy. “Juice gives us quick energy,” he declares. And we nod. “May-maize and candy also have lot of good protein.” And we laugh. 

We are not perfect. Food is not a reward, but we leverage cotton candy for potty training and ice cream bribes for trips to the pediatrician. Our son happily reports back to Daddy every single treat I give him (“Mommy shared me chocolate, yummy!”), so there are no secrets here, but I’m glad for it. These days, I refuse to hide away. I am more. 

My son tells the doctor his favorite food is pomegranate. He eats two avocados in one sitting—scooping out the flesh in giant spoonfuls. He eats a few bites of cupcake and leaves the table to play with his cars. He gets a gummy vitamin a day, and so do I. His father and I have yet to agree whether “unhealthy” is a bad word. 

We are still getting the hang of it. 

We are doing okay.

Megan Bracher is a writer and poet living in Colorado, USA with her partner and two kiddos. You can find her at a local Crossfit gym, queuing up for pastries every Saturday at the nearest bakery, or on Instagram @meggo_my_eggos_.

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