Hoover Parenting

Dearest Rachel –

It should hardly come as breaking news that, with a few exceptions, I’m no fan of leftovers. There’s something decidedly distasteful about being obliged to eat more of the same meal you couldn’t finish the day or two before, simply because if you don’t, it’s going to be forgotten about in the fridge and eventually go bad. Even given the fact that we often would arrive at dinnertime with no idea or desire for any particular thing to eat, and the presence of such leftovers serving as the meal plan our minds were lacking, their requiring nature – “you must eat me, and soon!” – tended to make me that much less likely to want them.

I honestly can’t remember if you agreed with that sentiment, deep down – I think, when I tried to explain it to you, you seemed to at least understand it, even as you would tease me about my overall distaste for leftovers – but your loathing of waste was more than sufficient to override it. You couldn’t bear to throw anything out, even stuff that you acknowledged we were never going to be willing to eat (although generally that wasn’t so much the case; more often than not, things just got lost in the fridge and forgotten about). Even sauces from restaurants got put into storage – a trait that I’ve picked up and still engage in. In fairness, they’re at least still in their packaging, so they should last longer than most things.

But let’s face it; no one really enjoys eating leftovers, especially if there are other options available to them. Even you would finish Daniel’s leftovers, ruefully calling yourself his “hoover mommy.” I think it was a term you picked up from the same place as the phrase “helicopter mommy,” as you rarely referred to yourself as his ‘mommy’ in other contexts; it was usually ‘mother’ or ‘mom,’ as far as I can remember (to be fair, I wasn’t around during the day throughout his childhood, so I may have missed much of the time that he would have been calling you that. Likewise, I’ve spent an additional four-plus years with the young man who would only refer to you as ‘mom,’ so what memories I might have of you as his ‘mommy’ have been well and truly superseded).

In any event, the phrase, like the helicopter one, isn’t meant to be particularly complimentary. It describes a parent who does more for their child(ren) than they really ought to, because they figure their child(ren) won’t – or can’t – do this or that thing for themselves. In this case, finish what they’ve been served to eat. And it would seem that, at this point, I’m picking up your mantle, to a certain extent.

In my defense, I’ve been around Daniel long enough to know what he will and won’t eat – it’s not just an assumption on my part. Even when I buy food with him in mind – for instance, a fruit bowl with pineapple and kiwi chunks – and leave it for him, it goes untouched until I have to give up and eat it (and while pineapple survives for a reasonably long time, the kiwi suffers from exposure. It tastes okay, but it gets soft and soggy, like Cap’n Crunch left in its milk for a twenty-four hour period or so). And restaurant leftovers? Well, he’s occasionally given me explicit dispensation to finish off what he brought home from force of habit. I don’t know if you’d be proud of him for continuing as you trained him (however inadvertently) or rolling your eyes in amused exasperation at the pointlessness of his having done so.

Now, Easter dinner isn’t quite the same situation as a fancy restaurant, since we were the ones to put together the vegetable casserole; it was ours to bring home, since we’d made it. And while I wouldn’t say it was a failure – it seemed to have turned out all right – it wasn’t exactly a hit, either. We wound up bringing home a dish that was two-thirds full; I wasn’t exactly looking forward to polishing it off, as I knew I’d have to. Thankfully – sort of? – it wasn’t the only thing we brought home; Jenn sent us off with leftover potato casserole and ham, enough to have several helpings of Easter dinner throughout the coming week.

And that’s pretty much what I had, three times this week, while Daniel ate whatever, either with Logan or on his own. I asked him about it, and he replied with indifference, which is basically what I expected. I did plus up the ham by putting it in a sandwich with swiss cheese and toasting it in the oven for some forty minutes or so (twenty on each side; not sure why the oven can only toast one side or the other at a time, but whatever), but otherwise, it was a full meal each time, with side dishes and everything.

Now, you would think that – compared to our old diet of restaurant (especially fast food joints) meals and more than occasional snacking – these sorts of square meals would be a healthy alternative, wouldn’t you? Well, not as much as all that. Both of the casseroles contained a fair amount of both cheese and cream in their sauces, and the portions we were sent home with were substantial. And while the ham wasn’t nearly as fatty or greasy as I thought it might be (I tried to fry some in a pan one morning and then cook a couple of eggs in the same pan thereafter, but it didn’t leave behind enough residue to adequately prevent the latter from sticking – and burning slightly – in the pan), it was also a more than generous portion for me to go through. This shouldn’t be meant as a complaint, but when you’re watching your weight, portion size does turn out to be an issue – and when there’s a lot of food to go through, you’re caught between wanting to finish off as much as possible while it’s still good, and keeping an eye on those portion sizes. As a result, this morning’s weigh-in had me tipping the scales at just over the two-fifteen line (and between this morning’s study and the afternoon in the booth, I’ve no time to whittle that down in the gym). I’ve no doubt the leftovers may have had something to do with my being at this level.

Well, at least I’m back to my usual weekend routine of being too busy to bother with eating for at least twenty-four hours or so. We’ll see if I can manage – and what weight I can drop back down to – before the siren song of the leftover pizza (from my walk with Lars last Tuesday) gets to me.

And with that being said, honey, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.