I wait for her to say no, we count from today and I get the full nine. When she doesn’t, I take it as a sign that she’s not really inside my head.
I’m relieved.
I’m disappointed. I was enjoying the company.
Where do you disappear to when I want to talk? I ask.
There’s no answer, so I turn to her hardcover self.
Following the Natural Weight Loss Plan takes time and energy at first, she says. Soon it will become second nature, but right now you need to focus on two simple things: Follow the meal plans conscientiously, and keep an honest and accurate log of everything you eat and all the exercise you get.
That’s all. Just those two things.
Fine, then. Meal plan; log. Soon it will all seem natural. The person I want to become is not a pudge. The person I want to become finds it natural to write down everything she eats and does.
I’m not sure I like the person I want to become.
This is not a helpful thought and I put it aside, which is easy to do since Rosie just woke up.
I lift Rosie from the crib, change her, and set her on the kitchen floor to whack at the linoleum with a plastic duck. This gives me a minute to check my meal plan.
Breakfast is one slice of whole wheat toast, one poached egg, and a banana. I’ve never poached an egg in my life, not because I can’t, but because poached eggs are disgusting. Still, if I’m going to follow this diet I want to do it right.
My mother’s ancient Settlement Cook Book says to add salt and a touch of vinegar to the poaching water. I break the egg into a saucer, and when the water boils I slide the egg in. The kitchen smells like Easter eggs.
No, more like Easter eggs with dirty diapers.
“You didn’t,” I say to Rosie. “Not when Mama’s cooking herself the most beautiful poached yuck.”
She did, though, and she did it thoroughly, dirtying her diaper, her sleeper, the floor, and the plastic duck, defying the laws of gravity, physics, and probability, all in one shot.
I hold her at arm’s length and rush to the changing table. I rinse the diaper—if there’s one thing I believe in it’s cloth diapers—the sleeper, the hind end, the middle end, and a fair portion of the legs, along with the hands, the wrists, and the duck.
The smell of burnt egg overpowers the smell of diaper and the smoke detector shrieks. I diaper Rosie, wash my hands, turn off the burner, and yank the battery out of the smoke detector.
The house goes very, very quiet.
I wash the kitchen floor while Rosie whacks her plastic duck against the tile.
Even when I’m running a soapy mop across them, I love the tiles Thad and I chose. I love this kitchen, this house, this baby.
I kiss Rosie and scrub my hands.
Calories burned: 27; maybe even 28.
I scrape burnt egg into the trash.
Soon I will become a person who loves poached eggs, but since it will happen naturally, I don’t have to force it. In the meantime, I’m happy to cut myself a slice of bread, grab an old notebook, and write down what I’m about to eat.
Breakfast: coffee, black; 1 slice of dry multigrain toast from a loaf I bought yesterday at this great little neighborhood bakery that doesn’t use preservatives. I believe in bakeries that don’t use preservatives. I believe in neighborhood stores.
Exercise: I promise myself and my new best friend that I will be meticulous about keeping my food and exercise log, but first I slot Rosie into her highchair and hold a spoonful of baby cereal in front of the spot where her mouth was just a second ago.
I say, “Mmmm.”
I move the spoon to the new spot where her mouth used to be and she moves her mouth to a third spot.
I pretend to eat the spoonful of cereal.
I say, “This is so good.”
I hold the spoon out.
Rosie turns her head toward the window. I move the spoon. She blows a raspberry. She learned to do this a couple of weeks ago. At the time, I thought it was charming.
Snack: 1 spoonful of baby cereal.
Exercise: I say, “Mmmm.”
I hold the spoon out. Rosie turns her head toward the doorway.
Snack: remainder of baby cereal.
Exercise: I place the bowl in the sink, turn on the Food Channel, and nurse Rosie.
Calories burned: 780. I admit I’m making up the numbers, but creating milk does burn calories. Why else would cows spend so much time eating?
Okay, that’s a terrible comparison and I hope my invisible friend didn’t hear it, because I don’t want her to think I’m the kind of person who’d say a thing like that.
I spend the rest of the morning cleaning the house, playing with Rosie, reading my diet book, fitting the battery back into the smoke detector, and watching the Food Channel. I love the Food Channel. As much as I believe in being a full-time mother and as much as I love Rosie, I’d have lost my mind by now without it.
I check my diet book to see what I get for lunch.
It tells me to eat a “beanadilla.” This is one small whole wheat tortilla wrapped around a quarter cup of nonfat refried beans and one ounce of low-fat cheddar cheese, topped with a tablespoon of nonfat sour cream and a washtub of tomato salsa. Plus a half cup of baby carrots. Not adult carrots. You have to catch them before they develop calories.
Why, I ask my new best friend, does the beanadilla have to go in quotation marks? If the name embarrasses you, call it a burrito. Call it a taco. Call it anything that comes from a language spoken by some actual group of human beings living on this planet.
Does my new best friend answer? She does not. She’s not that kind of friend. And I haven’t even gone into the question of how something refried can be nonfat. Do you not-fry it twice? Do you fry more than once in nonfat?
I check my cupboards and refrigerator for the carrots and the ingredients for the—oh, come on, I can’t even think that word. Beanadilla? What kind of person comes up with a name like that?
I don’t have the ingredients. I knew that before I looked, but checking seemed like something I owed my invisible friend.
Make a shopping list, my invisible friend says. Read the week’s food plans and stock up so you won’t be tempted to substitute.
Right, I say. List. Stock up. Substitute.
No, she says. Don’t substitute.
Just wanted to see if you were listening.
She’s not, though. She’s gone again.
I substitute two slices of multigrain for the whole wheat tortilla. I substitute part-skim mozzarella for the low-fat cheese, and two slices of hydroponic tomato for the salsa. For the beans, the carrots, and the nonfat sour cream, I substitute air, and I grill it all in just the tiniest hint of unsalted butter. It makes a lovely little substichilla, and I leave out the quotation marks because they’re fattening.
I sit at the kitchen table with Rosie on my lap.
Lunch: ½ grilled part-skim mozzarella sandwich with sliced tomato on multigrain bread from this great little neighborhood bakery that doesn’t use preservatives.
Exercise: Rosie smacks her arm into my plate, launching it off the table. I grab at the sandwich in midair, breaking it into pieces.
Be sure to eat everything listed in your meal