There is much talking and worrying about possible food disorders in our young people these days. It is something all mothers of daughters talk about, worry about and read about. We look for signs of fast shrinking waists and hips. I admit to even thinking once or twice about it when daughter goes off to the loo right after eating. I am sure l have no worries there but it is sensible to be aware of the dangers, the vulnerabilities and the pressure on our girls from many different levels.
However I admit that I haven't given more than a fleeting thought to my son's possible susceptibility to any eating disorder. Bar one. The 'eating me out of house and frigging home syndrome'. WTF? Our son has metamorphosised like bloody Jeff Goldblum does in film The Fly. I mean overnight my son has grown six inches, his hands and feet are huge, his fingers are so long everytime I look I think of ET . His father and he are vying over that last half inch that will make son taller and Larry isn't giving in none too easily, I promise you!
Our son will no doubt beat Larry's 6ft 1.5' height by year end. He is currently 15 years and one month old, his feet are a size 12, he is all elbows and knees. Having his brace off last Christmas, after enduring four different rather disfiguring like braces over a 30 month period, these changed his profile and his teeth are beautiful, only enhancing his wide dimpled smile. He is a sensible, kind, thoughtful and is sensitive to the feelings of others. He appears to be popular with both the lads and lasses. His teachers speak well of him and he does all his school work on time. After a blip in junior school following a bout of glandular fever one Christmas, he learned the value of making good choices in his friendships and with his school work. He rarely cheeks or 'disses' me. Yet. Fingers crossed, I may have a good'un here.
What I cannot get my head around is the amount of food this tall, skinny lad consumes! The quantity must be in keeping with the European food mountain! I go to the supermarket and unpack and like the dealers who are allowed in early to a cold, dawn sunday boot fair, the boy hovers around me and furtively stretches around me to see wot I got, like Twizzle. He is often waiting my arrival behind the front door, offering to help me unpack. I would like to think that this is out of politeness or that he knows that I am suffering from my internal wonky heating system and I need a hand. But I believe none of these to be the prime source of his concern.
He needs to eat. Regularly. Not always healthily. for example there will be drawers full of fruit and vegetables, but they may well as be labelled for Mum 'cos no one else touches them. He will ignore the cheese and the cold meat, yoghurts and stuff. Favouring overful bowls of cereals, cinammon bagels slathered with Lurpak, and anything that resembles a cake, a fancy or chocolate biscuit preferably with high sugar content and preservatives, out of a box or wrapper.
If I bake a cake it's gone by sundown. I should do more baking, but after work is done, the catching up of housework and then some me time on the laptop or some decent tv, I'm stuck. But now that I think of it, home made is better than processed. The lunch money goes on baguettes at school or pies in town.
In the evening whilst sat in his darkened den, on Msn whilst doing his course work, he restocks regularly. This he does with utmost stealth, we often don't notice he has glided downstairs a bit like the daleks do, seemingly hovering down the stairs, then the kitchen light goes on. He is a BIG tea drinker so always asks if anyone, usually it is me that wants a cuppa. The toaster will snap down and pop up, waiting for his next foray, down the stairs into the land of the barmy shape shifters, his parents. He repeats this every 2 hours or so even whilst on holiday or in the evenings.
I am not sure how he makes it through the night, perhaps teens are like squirrels, they hoard it and don't digest it properly, so kind of half regurgitate it to gain succour and energy later!