Food Fixation - this is one aspect of my mom's Narcissism that I have yet to understand. I'm not sure where to start, it's really even difficult to explain, so this post may get edited and updated a few times.
I'm not sure how far back I remember my mom's Food Fixations being a problem... if she was like that since before I was born, or if she grew into the problem as she grew into her adult years. But it IS a problem, and the problem just grows, and grows, and grows with the years.
I do wish I could remember as far back as when I was a baby, so that I could remember what her methods of feeding me were. I do recall all of the stories, both from her, and other family members, as to how badly I was afflicted with colic and as to how badly I screamed and cried with it through the nights. I don't; however, recall her mentioning much about changing formulas, switching to goat's milk (I know she didn't do that, but that is what I would have done), nor anything of the like. I only remember hearing stories as to how much I screamed, cried, and doubled up every night while on a bottle, how much sleep she lost, and how stressful it was for her. As I see her now, from an adult viewpoint, and know how pushy she gets in her efforts to get people to eat the things she cooks, I have my doubts that she made many, if any, changes in my formula. And that is what it was back then, a formula that mothers mixed themselves .... not this 'ready made', chemical laden stuff that is pushed on us today.
So I guess I have answered my own question, Mom's Food Fixation goes back to even before I was born. I now see her attitude towards her 'cooking' from adult eyes, I see that she expects everyone to absolutely love everything she cooks. She is a pretty good cook, and uses this skill as one of her narcissistic suppliers. She fishes and pushes for compliments to the point you can't even enjoy what you are eating. Often times, her probing begins the second your teeth sink into that first bite, before the flavor even has a chance to hit your tongue. If you don't eat what she pushes at you, and compliment her on it, she becomes insulted, rubbing it in your face for a long while to come. So I can see where, after 'making' my formula and being so proud of herself, my tiny little body's rejection of it would have infuriated her so badly that she would have just kept feeding it to me with the attitude, "I made it and you are going to drink it and like it." When Little Brother was born, at his very first whimper, his formula was changed to ensure that he was comfortable.
As a small child, I was a pretty picky eater (you would never know that now, ha, ha). It's no wonder with the shape my tummy must have been in (It turned out that I was allergic to cow's milk.). But there were still quite a few things, in every food group, that I did like, so it wasn't difficult to feed me a well balanced meal (I even liked spinach and Brussels sprouts.). I also was not a big eater. I was small, but a healthy weight on the low side. And I was always in a hurry to get dinner over with so I could go back outside to play. Mom would pile my plate high, with servings that nearly matched hers, and expect me to eat 'every bite.' I was not to leave the table until my plate was 'clean.' (Looking back, now, I can see that, in part, that was done in resentment for how happy going outside and playing made me.) Once full, I would sit there for hours on end, the only one left at the table, staring at my plate, crying because I was too full to eat another bite, and listening to Mom, standing over me, screaming at me because she had gone to the trouble of cooking my meal and I was GOING TO EAT IT! Course, all that screaming just made my little tummy knot up, making it even harder to finish the adult-sized portions staring back at me from my plate. And Little Brother? Where was he? He was outside playing. Was his plate clean? NO! Why? "He is smaller than you and can't eat as much."
Then there were the foods that I didn't like, but she did. When she was in one of her "moods", she would pile generous amounts of those foods on my plate. No, I couldn't take just a bite or two (like the average parent has their kids do with foods they don't like, in an effort to culture their tastes), I had to eat the entire serving! She liked it, it was delicious, and therefore, I was going to like it, too! There were some foods, such as radishes, that I disliked so much, I gagged at even the tiniest of tastes. But when she was in one of those 'moods', she would put several of those nasty, hot, pethy things on my plate and insist I eat every bite and like it, because she loved them. I would try, take little bites, gag, then cry, and cry, and cry, wishing like everything that 'it' was over and I could go outside and play. (I was around 5-7 years old here.) Then I would cry harder at the thought of what I knew was coming next, which brought on louder derogatory screams in my ear, and knotted my full little tummy up even tighter. Everyone else had gone outside, it was just she and I. Under threat of physical harm, I finally took bigger bites of those nasty old radishes to try and get them down faster, but the taste was soooo offensive, that I threw up on the floor next to my chair. It wasn't at all intentional. Their taste was just that disgusting to me, I was already full from the things I did like, and my little tummy was all nervous and knotted up. But then.... just as I feared.... the belt came out! It was unthinkable, and unforgivable, to so strongly dislike a food that she loved so much. So, I had to be punished. Her insulted ego, anger, and frustrations were then taken out on my legs and bottom (Little girls wore light weight dresses, then.). This process was repeated until the food was consumed. Finally, offensive food consumed, mess all cleaned up, I was allowed to leave the table. By then, playtime was over, bedtime was near, and my next duty was to pick out a dress for school the next day, one that would hide the whelps on my legs.
to be continued. . . . . . . .
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