Zibby Mag

By Melissa Marietta

The drive home from work takes forty minutes. My two-year-old is safely tucked in her car seat behind me, munching crackers. I pass the usual daily sights: churches, farms, farm stands, dilapidated houses, houses with carefully curated yards. We cruise past the only strip mall found in the landscape of rural, upstate New York. The golden arches of McDonald’s and the red roof of Pizza Hut are in my periphery. My daughter kicks her feet rhythmically, singing along to a chipper song I’ve heard one hundred times.

“Momma!” she calls out and, in the rearview mirror, I catch her chubby arm pointing directly at the grocery store. “Momma!” she calls again, her voice building with excitement, “Look! It’s Daddy’s donut shop!”

That was a long time ago — twelve years to be exact. But I think of that conversation each time I pass the shopping plaza. Some things have changed. My daughter no longer uses a car seat, she calls me Mom, and her taste in music is less chipper and more emo. Some things have stayed the same. She and my husband still go to that grocery store for donuts, and they bring my youngest daughter with them.

My husband, Andy, is a junk-food-a-holic. In 2001, his staple diet was Coca-Cola and Hot Pockets. As he matured (and at the behest of his physician), he scaled back to one Diet Coke a day. His menu now looks something like a flour tortilla with Skippy peanut butter for breakfast, a handful of Rolos that he hides in his desk for lunch, and Target trail mix for snacks. He concludes the day with one of his favorite midwestern casseroles from childhood, some baked combination of hot dogs and beans, topped with crescent rolls or tater tots. To my chagrin, there is always dessert — brownies, ice cream, or a cookie.

Diet was one of a million values we did not address before marrying, nor did we discuss it when we decided to start a family. Since I couldn’t cook, meal planning went downhill in a hurry once we had children. The last time I was in control of my kids’ diets was when I breastfed them. We went from puréed veggies in those cute little jars to microwavable Chef Boyardee within a year. I knew this behavior was unhealthy, but I was too tired and stressed to correct our course. Both kids were always bathed, clothed, fed, well-rested, and very loved. To me, these were great accomplishments.

I’ve made small efforts to incorporate healthier food choices. For a year, I subscribed to a meal service, which resulted in me having to make a second, more palatable meal, for my family, but at least I was starting to feel more comfortable in the kitchen. Now, I mandate a serving of veggies on each dinner plate and try not to gag while plopping their desired, bag-steamed blob of corn or peas next to tacos or chicken nuggets.

I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to ban soda, chips, bagels, and desserts from the house. I text Andy articles about processed foods. However, I am never surprised to find soda, chips, bagels, and desserts in the house and a response from Andy that he never received the text.

I am worried about the life-long challenges my kids will endure as a result of their diet. I resent Andy for not caring as much as I do.

Another belief we did not discuss prior to marriage is my dirty mouth. Growing up surrounded by blue-collar uncles with a penchant for profanity, f-bombs, b-words, and other taboo terminologies were commonplace. As a child, I learned not to use the words at school but regularly wove curse words into home life and extracurriculars. I continue to remain fairly clean in professional settings, but find joy in freely using offensive language at home. After a hard day in the office, taking my frustration out by writing sentences like, “per my previous email,” I can’t wait to get home and tell someone to f-off, like my kids when they don’t eat what I made them for dinner.

In an alternate universe, we would be a genteel, broccoli-eating family, who said, “Excuse me, please,” when reaching over the table to get a second helping of greens, instead of, “Get the hell out of my way,” while wrestling over the Pringles can.

Andy rarely swears, even when he is really mad. I can see him visibly cringe when I cuss, as he was not accustomed to it growing up in the Midwest. My guess is that cussing and casseroles don’t go well together. I have passed the family curse (words) down to the girls, who recently tossed their profanity-laced hats into the ring. Occasionally, after I deliver a particularly vulgar sentence, they parrot the sentence back to me, excited to join in during the heat of the moment. If Andy is present, he tells them to stop. I do, too. “Uh, yeah, you two! Stop it. That’s so… bad.”

Andy is worried about how others will perceive the kids if they continue to use curse words. He resents me for not caring as much as he does.

Neither of us is willing to change and the upshot is that we are raising two kids who eat donuts and call each other a-holes.

What was endearing when we were young is now a chronic point of contention. We have passed down our vices because we are obstinate and we find personal joy and freedom when taking these specific actions. I wish I could go back in time to tell Andy that eating junk food all day was a deal-breaker. I wonder if he wishes to do the same with me.

In an alternate universe, we would agree to change. We would be a genteel, broccoli-eating family, who said, “Excuse me, please,” when reaching over the table to get a second helping of greens, instead of, “Get the hell out of my way,” while wrestling over the Pringles can.

Alas, we have instilled poor habits in the spongy brains of these lovely little creatures who knew no better than to follow our lead. I hope, with time, they will learn to modify their own habits; or, if they continue to find joy and freedom in them as we do, that these habits won’t land them in the hospital or the principal’s office.

Last week, Andy and I were talking in the kitchen about something boring and benign. I swore at one point, and he sighed and asked why I insist on using profanity. I suggested an idea to help us reach a happy medium. I offered to try not to swear if he would try not to buy junk food.

He walked over to me, gave me a bear hug, and laughed. I laughed back. He called to the kids, letting them know he was heading to McDonald’s momentarily to buy hash browns for breakfast. I returned his hug with a squeeze back and told him to f-off.

++

Melissa Marietta is a contributing writer to Dress Rehearsals for Gun Violence: Confronting Trauma and Anxiety in America’s Schools. She lives in Cooperstown, New York, with her husband, two children, and a menagerie of pets. She is a higher-education administrator and writes essays exploring the polarities of personal identity and parenting.