Hey, everybody! I’m over at Kindred Mom today, sharing about a part of my summer. Feel free to read the whole thing here or read on for an excerpt!
Dinner at our house has always been idyllic. Not “June Cleaver” perfect, but I’d make a simple meal, and the family would eat it—or at least try it—regardless of individual opinions about peas or soup. In general, I rotated a small number of easy-to-make meals, all of which were nutritious enough to serve but appealing enough to be eaten. On rough days, I threw spaghetti on the stove and broccoli in the microwave, and everyone was fine. I never forced anybody to finish, though they needed to eat what was on the plate before they had anything else. Dinner was low-drama. There was noise and laughter and love and tears and “she touched me!” and every other lovely, messy thing I ever imagined dinner with a big family to be, but the food part was easy.
And then I wrecked it.
With one doctor’s appointment, our simple dinner routine turned upside down.
I had some health concerns, so my doctor prescribed a super restricted diet. It was annoyingly nonstandard for me. I had about eighteen ingredients to work with at the beginning. Beets. Carrots. Kale. Chia seeds? What am I supposed to do with those?!? It would be hard, but I was willing to put in the effort for a chance to feel better.
I set myself up carefully. The day before I started, I spent hours making meals from the provided recipes and chopping vegetables to have on hand. I congratulated myself on my preparedness and perfect game plan. “I am strong. I am resilient. I am going to kick this diet’s ass!”…
To keep reading (and find at least one more occurrence of the word “ass,”) click here!