My daughter has become fascinated by health – good and bad – since she turned 4. Four is a year for discussions about death and sex, I’ve been warned by friends. It’s been true, so far, but far more interesting than either is health – what is good for us, what is bad for us. Her fascination with exercise, healthy eating and the horrors of smoking, among other things, is fodder for daily discussion. And while I’m all for healthy discussion about nearly anything, the talk of health hits me just as I’m occasionally starting to feel old. Or not old, exactly, but a little tired.
Exercise. Is running exercise? Certainly. Same goes for walking, swimming, bike riding, skipping. I started with the explanation that exercise is activity that uses your arms and legs. And then it got more complicated. Is coloring exercise? Well, perhaps exercise for your fingers. Toothbrushing? For your arm and hand, I allowed. Is eating exercise for your tongue? Uh. Is reading books exercising? Exercising for your brain, I decided. Every activity is accompanied by a discussion of how much exercise is involved, and how healthy it is making us. Which is a fine development. But I also get asked about my own exercise – and whether I’ve made it to the gym today. Uh.
Healthy eating? A common topic at our house, fostered by yours truly. And yet. My child is an anxious one, and a few bouts of nausea and recent tummy troubles have raised fears of eating and the consequences. “Too much candy can make you sick,” was the lesson of a Hallowe’en TV special she watched months ago, and the concept haunts her. All of it has been rolled into a need to know which foods are healthy and which are not. I feel like I’m on quicksand. Fruits and veggies? Easy. Chicken? Well, sure. Eggs and milk and dairy, okay. Meat? Well, this one but not that one. Is ham healthy? Well, yes and no. Is bologna? Definitely not, but eat it anyway, please. Bread? Pasta? Yes. It’s whole wheat. Eat it. But one day you’ll have a fear of bread and pasta like every other female on the planet. We’ll discuss it later. What about treats? Cookies? Muffins? Ice cream? In moderation. Of course, like exercise, my own habits come under scrutiny. “Don’t eat them all, mom,” is a phrase that both annoys and rebukes. Do I now have to wait until after the small children are asleep before the mint chip comes out? Possibly. Is hiding food and eating in secret a good idea? I don’ t think so. Healthy habits, healthy child. Shame has no place at the kitchen table. But the new nanny favors cheetos and kitkats, ruffles and dip, Lindt truffles and red velvet cupcakes. McDonald’s is a staple. Do I ask her not to eat in front of the children?
Exercise is interesting, food is a challenge, but oh, to see smoking again from the eyes of a child! We have two neighbors who smoke, outside of course. I’ve just taught Claire the word “cigarette” and was flummoxed at having to explain lighting something on fire and putting it in your mouth. “They light it on fire?” Yes. “And put it in their mouth?” That’s right. “And then they cough.” Yes again. But I think he’s very sick. My unprofessional guess is emphysema. “Why does he cough?” is a regular question. “Because of the smoking. It has made him very sick,” I say. “Will he die?” Eventually, I say. “I hope he dies soon.” Well. Don’t say that to him. It will hurt his feelings. Fortunately this neighbor, ever-present on his front porch three doors down, isn’t one for small talk. Why do people smoke? Well, they like it, and can’t stop, I explain. “Why do they like it?” I’m at a loss. It seems early for talk of addiction and self-destructive behavior. Or maybe it isn’t.
Exercise. Eating. Bad habits. Impossible to explain and understand and conceptualize from a cold start. Except so vitally important. My first chance to get it right, to foster good habits, to educate early and often. To set a good example.
Cadbury cream eggs were on sale this morning, the post-Easter clear-out. Three for a dollar. I left them on the shelf.