When I was a preschool Redhead-Next-Door my mum (still an emergency room nurse) used to pride herself on not giving my sister and I junk food. Instead she gave us raisins, doesn't-even-taste-like-chocolate carib chocolate chips and mini marshmellows (or so my therapist tells me after our regression hypo-therapy sessions) saying they were "candy".
We didn't eat at McDonalds; unless you count my sister's 6th birthday party (talk about favoritism...I had to wait until my 18th birthday party). We didn't get popcorn at the movies; unless you count the butter-free low-fat kind mum smuggled into the theatre in sandwich baggies in a nap sack.
It wasn't until I was a teen Redhead-Next-Door that I discovered the wondrous world of junk food (and hair gel but that's a whole other story). And so began my secret affair with all things junk (which could possibly explain my first marriage but that's a whole other story).
Even after my son was born, I was shamed by my inability to follow the way of the carib. The pull of salty artery-clogging chips was strong it was. I vowed not to be so saturated-fat strict with my child but also not make it a feel good food free for all.
One day I knew my junk jiving had reached epic proportions. I was in the bathroom unwrapping a maxi pad and my son Aidan (aged 5) knocked on the door and asked, "Mum, what are you eating in there? I hope you're not eating all the chips!"