Bad Parent: Supersize Me
How becoming a parent sold me on fast food.
by Jennifer Blaise Kramer
October 9, 2008
I swore I'd never turn into a hobbit when I had a baby, reassuring myself that we'd still go out to dinner. I was terrified of living — and eating — vicariously through friends. Once pregnant I tuned out other parents who said they couldn't remember the last movie they saw in the theatre and hadn't heard of any of the new restaurants we'd mention. They'd tell us to live it up while we could, because once the baby came, we'd lose our freedom. On some level I knew deep down, it just didn't have to be this way.
Since part of my job used to be reviewing restaurants and I'd put my time in as a server, I wanted our daughter to grow up with a variety of foods and a respect for the restaurant business. I remember a couple of encouraging chefs (ones with kids) saying that new parents should keep frequenting their favorite neighborhood restaurants, just go earlier and eat quicker — i.e., order wines by the glass, not the bottle, and skip the cheese course.
Determined, we took our Stella out when she was four days old, staring with a trip to Starbucks. Since that went so well we spent the following months introducing her to all sorts of places and ethnic foods . . . even if she merely watched from her little bucket seat. We did the taquerias where lively Mexican music made a nice backdrop to the meltdowns — tip: never, ever leave the pacifier at home. We hit the Irish pubs, sipping Guinness while the proprietor congratulated us for starting her early. And we adored Italian, given they're the same bunch of lovely people who poured me wine without asking when I was pregnant, God love them.
Around the three-month mark I met a friend at a local coffee shop, the one that prides itself on being the anti-Starbucks, selling whole-grain goodies and swirling foam designs into their lattes. It was packed with the usuals — designers, hipsters, students, writers — all eyeing me as I settled in with my small cappuccino and rather less small stroller, which required major maneuvering to squeeze it out of the walkway.
Everyone smirked. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Stella started moaning and tossing toys aside anxiously, so I began to mix up a bottle, fumbling with the formula. My friend nervously offered to hold the baby now turning red in the face with impatient hunger cries. Someone bumped into the stroller while I tore apart my diaper bag for a burp cloth and the water and coffee spilled with a mess of napkins onto the floor. Every face turned toward me with irritated and annoyed smirks. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman — "You're obviously in the wrong place, pleeaase leave!"
To give a nod to the pros who warned us it'd be tough, it got worse when we had to swap the infant carrier for a high chair. Suddenly we required special furniture and, more importantly, an extra-tolerant environment. When blood sugar runs low in our household we call it "Feed the beast!" and our baby in her pre-Cheerio state is no exception.
When the beast came out during a recent road trip, we ducked into a McDonald's for the first time since getting scared straight by Fast Food Nation. It was instant gratification without the agony of waiting. I indulged in chicken nuggets and fries. So did Stella. She squealed with delight, which brought smiles, not stares, to the faces around us. I pushed aside her organic applesauce and semi-soft cheese and let her get all greasy. Memories of sitting there with my mom and my grandma came flooding back and I felt strangely proud.
©2008 Jennifer Blaise Kramer and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Jennifer Blaise Kramer is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in the Boston Globe, Boston Magazine and National Geographic Traveler. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband, daughter and black lab.
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