Too Much of a Good Thing

Tom is VERY good to me. I fully admit that and am ever so grateful. I’m mean, the dude drove 18 miles on way recently to put air in my tire after my car alerted me that one of my tires was low. So there that.

But if that man does not stop putting two cuties a day in my lunch bag, I’m going to start throwing said cuties at his head.

Ahem.

Sorry.

Remember way back when I was pregnant with Alyssa and was diagnosed with gestational diabetes? No? Well, it happened.

And once I got that diagnosis, I saw a dietitian who gave me a bunch of charts and colorful diagrams of things I should be eating.

Tom took those charts and ran with them. He packed my lunch every day for almost twelve weeks. It was very sweet of him.

But he sent me way too much food. Every single day, I would open my lunch and be overwhelmed by how much food was there. It was all very healthy food (the bananas were a nice touch since he KNEW I wouldn’t touch those things if they were the last food on earth) but there was too much of it.

So, after being gently scolded the first couple of days for not eating all my food, I simply started chucking food (all biodegradable, I’m not a litterer) out the car window as I drove home each evening.

Uneaten peach? Out the window. (For what it’s worth, I do not eat peaches as one might eat an apple. The fuzz is a no-go for me.) A huge hoagie bun? Chucked out that window so fast. Hey, it would be a nice treat for some wild animal. You’re welcome, Bambi.

I just couldn’t deal with the food and I also didn’t want to deal with the mild looks of disappointment thrown my way when my loving husband took in what I’d eaten, and more importantly, what I hadn’t eaten that day.

So…it’s a long-running issue for us. He wants to take care of me and ‘feeding’ me is one of his love languages. I get that. I am also a grown-ass adult who can figure out my own food, thank you very much. So these days, I’m taking those stupid cuties to work and offering them to anyone and everyone who walks past my desk. And when they start to get a little wrinkled, into the trash they go.

Is it a waste? Yes. But it’s also not worth the ‘discussion’ we would have to have it I went home and said, as gently as possible, “I love you. And I love that you take such good care of me but enough with the cuties!”

Okay, I could probably word it differently but you know what? I hate confrontation so, so much. I hate confrontation almost as much as I hate bananas and milk. Over those things, I will confront the hell out of you. But cuties aren’t worth the stress and so…I’m drowning in cuties over here.