We Gotta Get Out Of This Place, If It's The Last Thing We Ever Do

When I babysit my grandkids, they love to be read to before nap time, and they usually bring out the biggest books in the pile.  One of the most beautifully illustrated is a book of fairy tales which I always enjoy reading plus oohing and aahing over the pictures.

All except Hansel and Gretel.  I hate that story. Because while I'm waiting on my condo to close, I'm living the "fattening up the kids" part with my mother. In just six short weeks I've put on five pounds.  That's all I'm admitting to and the scale will never tell it's version of the truth.

I'm not saying that my mother is a mean old witch by any means.  She is everyone's idea of the perfect grandma. She's gone to every game of every sport for all eight grandkids for almost 30 years. She's babysat, done homework with (and yes, even spanked them when they needed it).  She brings her homemade chocolate chip cookies everywhere she goes. She goes down in the books with the story that when son #2 wanted lasagna as a kid, he called grandma, and she made it-just for him.  She gives the rest of us a bad name.

No, she's not a witch but my mother has never met a carb she doesn't like. The night of the move, I got to her house where she had a wonderful dinner waiting: Roast chicken, roasted potatoes, corn, lima beans and garlic bread.  The two vegetables were higher in carbs than the potatoes. And every night that she's cooked, there have always been a plethora of starches:  Mac and cheese, stuffed pork chops with stuffing on the side, baked ziti. Did I mention that she's a Type 2 diabetic, and is also feeding my Type 1 son? Pass the gravy and the insulin, please.

The snack closet is filled with potato and corn chips, and cake and brownie mixes. The freezer is stacked with a vast assortment of ice cream. But she only bought them when they were on sale, she insisted. And we only eat them on day that end in "Y".

At breakfast, there is always that damn Entenmann's Crumb Cake on the table, joined by a box of donuts and Thomas' English Muffins.  My Special K with fruit was sniffed at, and the morning I made egg whites with spinach, she created a little castle wall around her plate with the boxes, lest something healthy get too close. But those donuts, those powdered sugar donuts...like white crack. Even when I finished my egg whites, I found myself drawn to taking one. They're irresistible, and keep calling my name, and just like Michael Corleone said in Godfather Part III:

For the past week, Mom has been down in Florida, and I've been able to eat more of what my son's GF who's a nutritionist tells me to eat.  Sweet potato toast with avocado, bone broth soup, plain egg omelets and salads.  Between eating better and taking the dog for longer walks on the warmer days and nights, I should be able to knock off that extra five and a few more before the two-wedding weekend in the fall.

And when I move, I'll miss Mom even though I'll only be 20 minutes away.  Maybe not her retelling every episode of Everyone Loves Raymond, or what Judge Judy ruled in every case.

But I will miss those high calorie, home-cooked meals every night.  And the powdered sugar donuts every morning most of all.