We can’t outrun our diets—for a long time I didn’t want this statement to be true. But it is.

We absolutely cannot outrun our diets.

But what can we do?

I’ve written before about how it’s not fair for celebrity moms to pretend publicly that their workouts consist of chasing children. Come on—we all know this isn’t true.

That said, when a mom friend of mine recently jokingly replied to a post of mine about “skinny moms” that, darn we can’t get “skinny” chasing children? It really got me thinking because, frankly—we can.

Because we cannot outrun what we eat. What we eat, how much we eat, how we eat—these things all catch up to us, eventually at least.

I love to exercise.

I do not get to exercise as much as I would like to during the span of my full-time parenting days, but I do move my body often and regularly.

So while we cannot outrun what we eat, we can move our bodies because it feels good and it makes our bodies healthier.

I move my body every damn day. Every day. Still, I made a commit to myself before becoming a parent that I would not let working out be more important than my family. I’ve found, too, that this is a delicate balance at times, especially because my taking care of myself is a positive thing for my family and for me.

I used to run over 13 miles a day, weight lift, do cardio, Pilates, etc, etc—essentially I completely over-exercised and was full-on eating disordered.

Along my road to recovery, I visited a nutritionist who said my diet was wonderful. And it was, wonderful. What it wasn’t, however, was enough food for how much I was moving myself.

Part of recovering fully from my eating disorder was admitting to myself that I do genuinely love working out and moving, and then learning how to be true to my athletic nature while also not becoming unhealthily obsessed with it. I decided it was unhealthy, for instance, to place a workout above the welfare of my family, but this doesn’t mean not prioritizing exercise either; making excuses or not demanding a little bit of time most days.

I remember sitting around a campfire late one night with my husband-then-boyfriend, when we lived in New Mexico. We got into a discussion with another avid backpacker and exerciser that, essentially, we didn’t think a person could exercise away a bad diet.

My husband-then-boyfriend and I shared our passion for movement and, especially, for outdoor exercise, but, equally, we shared the passion for eating good food and eating what our bodies needed. In short, we practiced moderation.

Moderation was not easy for me to achieve.

For years, as an eating disordered person, I spent time either consuming an entire pint of ice cream or banning it from my diet. It took me awhile to finally admit that these two patterns went hand in hand: when we ban “bad” foods, or foods that we can’t control ourselves around, it fuels this lack of control when we have access to them again, because we know it’s limited.

So what I did was simple, but it wasn’t easy.

I stocked my freezer, at first with pint-sized ice cream containers and insisted on having part of it, in special little bowls, without just ripping into them with a spoon. There were many nights when I overindulged and wanted to once again ban ice cream from my freezer, but I didn’t. I kept trying and doing this, until it registered subconsciously that I would always have ice cream in my freezer, if I wanted it.

I “upgraded” to stocking larger containers of ice cream.

It took trial and error, but it worked—having foods that scared me around my house helped me to not be afraid of food in general.

When we were younger, my husband-then-boyfriend and I loved having Cheetos as a treat. He always bought smaller bags and I, being frugal, always bought the larger. He—this guy who has always had an unusually healthy relationship with food—told me that he didn’t know how I could stop myself from continually reaching my hand into the larger-sized bag. I told him that I had “trained” myself.

He moved to New Mexico a college semester before I did. After he moved, I realized that I still wanted to have Cheetos every now and then—it turned out that my college boyfriend wasn’t the only one I kept them around our apartment for.

But, still not fully recovered from my eating disorder, foods like that scared the bejeezus out of me. So I, having even less money as a poor student who now didn’t have her boyfriend as a roommate, still bought the large-sized bag, but I would come home from the grocery store and immediately divide them into smaller, individual “servings” in Ziploc bags.

However, by the time I moved out to New Mexico, I had already “graduated” and didn’t need to divide them up anymore—I had, again, subconsciously recognized that the Cheetos weren’t going anywhere and that I could have more at another time. Because the following is the biggest, overall nugget of truth that I’ve gleaned on my quest to be an eater of moderation; this is what always helps me to not overindulge.

There is always tomorrow.

Truly.

I don’t need to have a third helping of Cheetos because I can eat more of them tomorrow if I still want them. Spoiler alert: you won’t usually wake up still thinking about one more Cheeto, or that extra spoonful of ice cream.

This also helps during those times when I do eat a little too much: there’s always tomorrow and a healthy diet and, more, a healthy person, is not created by one day of living.

No, our lives are made up of our choices, and our choices become our habits; become our lifestyle, become our days, become our lives, become our stories.

My story sometimes involves ice cream—and sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll be honest, I don’t eat really Cheetos anymore. It’s not that I don’t like them, but I don’t run 13 miles anymore and, even if I did, it’s just not what I typically crave as my indulgence.

Because I’m not a celebrity stay-at-home mom with a nanny or even an extra set of hands on most days, unless you count my five year old, who genuinely loves to help.

This said, I’m glad that I got out of the trap of needing to workout in order to burn off what I ate the day before—that’s an awful cycle to be in. Now, I move my body because I want to, and while I don’t eat everything that I sometimes want to, I found another secret of being a balanced eater: I don’t find my joy in my food.

Not that I don’t love food—I do.

Not that I don’t believe that food is something that is meant to be enjoyed and appreciated—I do. But people who are able to say “no” or, as my twin sister and I did when my dad was pouring us milk as kids—“when”—know that happiness will never be sitting there waiting at the bottom of an empty ice cream container. And that’s the real thing to address: is food something that we are enjoying, or has it become a frenemy?

I made friends with food.

After a long time of being outright enemies, and then frenemies, I made peace with my diet; my diet that I can’t outrun or out-lift or out-Pilates.

Sometimes the simplest answer is the one that works. For me, this was true. Food will always be there tomorrow. So will second chances.

So today was a day of choices you wish you hadn’t made? The great thing about life is that each day is a new beginning; every day is an opportunity to become a new “best.”

It starts with making friends with ourselves.

We can’t outrun ourselves either.

The problems that I carried inside moved with me to New Mexico. I had to address them there, unless I wanted them to move with me again, when we got married and moved to Pennsylvania.

Eating too much, running too much, drinking too much: these are all covers for what is going on underneath our surfaces. Self-discovery isn’t always fun—it’s not always pretty and easy to deal with—but it’s necessary, if we want to ultimately like ourselves.

My food choices reflect my self-love—the self-love that I worked hard for.

I reached a point in my life years ago, where I got tired of hating myself and tired of having a bad relationship with food—so I said “when.”

The funny thing is that when I stopped fighting food, my relationship with it healed almost naturally—that’s why having “scary” foods around the house helped: food wasn’t actually my enemy, I was.

And that’s exactly the piece of knowledge that helped me the most: I had to stop placing my self-love and acceptance into bowls with my ice cream.

The post How I Made Friends with Food. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Have you ever tried to go to the bathroom with someone leaning on your leg? Because that’s motherhood.

There are no secrets from your kids; or, rather, there are, but they are carefully concealed while the rest of who you are easily shines through with very little filter—it’s why we have such power as parents to mess our kids up.

They see that time I lost my temper, even if no one above four feet was here to witness it.

They see if I have a glass of wine while I’m cooking dinner, and then another wine when I finally sit down.

They see how I look at myself in the mirror, they listen to the things that I say about my body; in short, kids see everything we do, and then take that in and process it.

In other words, we have a direct ability to choose what our kids see us do—and what they don’t.

So my kids won’t hear me call myself fat.

My kids won’t hear me call something “retarded” or “gay” or a number of other derogatory words that shouldn’t be taken lightly, but often are.

My kids will, however, see me do these things—thank goodness.

 1. Exercise.

I’ve worked exceedingly hard, as someone who could exercise for hours given the opportunity, to understand what’s a healthy amount of exercise both for my body and my life. I never want to be a mom who places a workout above my children.

This said, last night when my body really needed to move, I parked my purple yoga mat and my oldest daughter’s pink one on the floor in front of the television, placed the baby in her swing facing us, and put on a Kristin McGee Pilates DVD.

Was it easy? No. Did the baby whimper every now and then because she’d rather be practicing how to sit up on floor? Yes. Did my oldest daughter attempt to “help” me during my ab work? Yes. Still, I soldiered on and, afterwards, thanked my girls for helping mommy workout because it made me feel so much better.

2. Drink wine.

Alcohol is a very private thing. There’s a great amount of shame attached to alcohol, as well as a strong amount of (appropriate) responsibility. Because of this, I’m trying to show my children that drinking alcohol moderately is acceptable.

Now, this isn’t to say that I don’t have my weeks where I give up my nightly glass of wine completely because I need a break from it—because I think part of being a responsible drinker is checking in often with intention.

For example, I don’t want to need a glass of wine. If I’m having a day where I fee like I really need a drink at the end of it, then I’ll have a 20 to 30 minute yoga practice instead and, if I still want the wine after, then I’ll ask myself why.

But, generally, I think it’s perfectly okay to let my children see mommy have a couple glasses of wine while we’re kitchen dancing and cooking. I think this helps teach moderation rather than bingeing.

3. Argue—and make up.

To be fair, I don’t like arguing with my husband in front of my kids. Regardless, I think a healthy display of differing opinions (like that?) followed by a solution is helpful for our kids to see that, first, people who love each other do fight from time to time and, also, that we can be models of healthy conflict resolution.

4. Lose my shit—and then belly breathe and regain it.

Any mother who stays at home with small children will lose her shit on occasion. Period. She may not admit it like I am right now, but she will. Because it’s downright frustrating to be in this situation all day every day. What’s important, though, is that our kids see us have a mini freak out—and then they see us calm back down.

5. Walk away.

My children will also see me walk away.

When I cannot control my anger or frustration, the best thing for all parties is to walk away and wait out the adrenaline rush. This is part of being a responsible adult, plain and simple.

Our kids might not be fully capable of doing this themselves yet, but they will be someday—and they’ll have a much easier time learning how to walk away instead of blowing up if they see us do it too.

6. Not attach shame to food.

I loathe the current “it” phrase “clean eating.” To me, it’s a new way to attach shame and guilt to food.

Do I try to eat few processed foods; ones that make my body feel good after I enjoy them? Yes—but I won’t call my diet “clean,” because it conversely implies that some foods are “dirty.”

Another thing I won’t do is use food as a reward. My daughter gets “treat” foods because she ate healthy food beforehand, period. We’re also learning that we don’t eat a lot of some foods at a time or every day, not because they’re “dirty,” but because this won’t make our bodies feel good. So, no, we don’t attach shame to food in my house.

7. Take time outs.

Another thing my daughters see me do is take a mommy time out.

My husband comes home from work and it’s been one of those days where I’m biting my tongue off to not lose my temper. So I hand him the kids and go take a “time out.”

Maybe it’s a short yoga practice in another room, a quick spin on my bike downstairs, writing in bed or a glass of wine on the couch with a crappy Netflix show. It doesn’t matter—what does matter is that my children see me using a period of alone time to self-soothe and regroup myself.

8. Eat ice cream. (Or any other indulgent food.)

I already touched upon “clean eating,” but what about when we really are trying to fit back into our jeans after having a baby or just all-around shape up and feel good?

I’ve been on a weight training kick lately, and it feels great. I’m seeing muscles pop up and my pants fit after having my daughter in October. And, hey, we’re all about to wear much less clothing here in the Midwest.

Yet I took my daughter out for a surprise ice cream date on Friday, where we usually share a small bowl.

But I was feeling extra motivated and geared up to shape up that day, and, for a brief moment, I contemplated not having any with her—but in that instant of hesitation I saw who I want myself to be.

And I want myself to be fit and healthy and strong, but I also want to be the kind of mom who eats cake at birthday parties and has a couple mouthfuls of ice cream on an ice cream date.

Also, this is a great time to help display healthy moderation.

Because kids pretend they are not listening—my four year old is quickly becoming a pro at acting like she didn’t hear me ask her to “pick that up.”

But they are listening—and watching.

(Like how my daughter places her hands on her belly and breathes when I send her to time out. Or how she does downward-facing dog in the hallway while I put my make-up on in the bathroom.)

My kids are watching me and right now, when they’re small, is maybe one of the very few times in our lives where my opinions and example matter much more than their peers’ or anyone else’s.

So I’m taking advantage of that.

And while I’m sure that, some day, my daughters will be the first to admit that mom is far from perfect, I can only hope that they’ll also be the first to recognize that mommy loves them so much—she let them in.

I’ll let them in to see the real me, so that one day they’ll be open with me about who they are. And, no, I won’t share everything with my kids, but I will share these things and gladly.

Because one day much too soon, there will be no one hanging on my leg when I’m reaching for the toilet paper.

Photos: Author’s own.

The post Drink Wine, Eat Ice Cream & Other Things I Want My Kids to See Me Do. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.