Kale chips. Whole-wheat pancakes. Water instead of juice. Minimal, if any, screen time. Video games? Out of the question.
I was one of those moms.
You know the kind: ensuring my children’s bodies were fed nothing but the healthiest, most nutritious foods, casting unapproving glances at the other moms who nonchalantly mentioned their kids’ video game habits and happily packed their snacks with fruit gummies rather than carrot sticks.
Of course, this couldn’t last. But I was determined to hold out as long as possible against the over-processed, over-commercialization of modern childhood. That is, until a little thing we call a global pandemic forced me into five-months of isolation with my kids. Challenged with keeping them occupied through Zoom meetings and assignments as my grip on my sanity grew weaker by the day, I did the only thing I could: basically, throw my hands up and say, “Fuck it.”
My careful screen-time limits and dietary standards evaporated slowly, and then suddenly all at once.
Minecraft? Sure—there’s creativity involved, right? Lego Star Wars game? No redeeming features, but not overly violent; sure. Spongebob episodes on repeat for hours on end? Like ADHD in cartoon form but, what the hell, if it keeps you out of my hair, it’s a go. Whatever worked, I did it. I was all in. Without the screens there were fistfights, meltdowns, and constant interruptions, tears, and whining. With them, there were still fistfights, meltdowns, interruptions, tears, and whining, but at least they were fewer and farther between.
When, after months of what I casually described to a fellow mom—who gushed about all the wonderful family time she’d had over the summer—as “a living hell,” the kids were allowed back to school, I signed them up without hesitation. Trepidation, yes. But I had no doubt in my mind that this was absolutely necessary for our collective mental wellbeing.
I thought, perhaps, that once I had regained my quiet working hours, the screens would lose their appeal, and that I’d tighten back up on the dietary side.
But I found myself shrugging rather than shirking when asked if I could find “Mamie Monster Noodle Snacks” for their lunches (for which I paid an alarmingly low $2.50 for a package of ten), or include “fruit snacks” (aka green-washed candy) because everyone else gets them and “it’s not fair wah wah wah.” Instead of kefir smoothies, I now stoop to sugar-saturated yoghurt drinks. Instead of oven-baked apple chips, I toss in apple sauce encased in plastic cups. And as for the carrot sticks that would inevitably come back home anyway? I’ve stopped bothering (for the most part).
No, I’m not proud of my descent into mild parental negligence. But also? It’s kind of awesome how much easier everything is. It now takes me literally three minutes to pack a lunch, instead of 20. And they actually eat most of what’s in there, instead of going hangry at school all day and then melting down at home.
And now, for an hour or two after school, while they remain glommed onto their screens, I can putter around, down a glass of wine that I call “self-care,” half-heartedly unload the dishes, and toss chicken nuggets (CHICKEN NUGGETS!) into the oven—all the while doom-scrolling on my phone and trying to breathe.
There are twinges of guilt, for sure. But also? I’ve accepted that this is about what I can handle right now. I honestly don’t have the energy to fight over the screens, or to beg them to try just one bite of spinach quiche. I’m taking the path of least resistance—which, I now realize, has been how many parents had been operating to deal with the day-to-day stress of their pre-pandemic lives. So this is me, acknowledging my mommy privilege.
And trying to decide between fishsticks and Kraft dinner for supper.
BATSHIT PARENTING 