As I sat Mother's Day dinner, after the waitress brought out the bread, after I helped myself to a third slice, I realized I had a problem. Never-ending bread baskets, platefuls of pasta, sugary desserts. But I realized I had a problem controlling my urge to eat came to me as I buttered the bread.
"Don't fill up on the bread," my father said. My mouth was too full of butter and carbs to respond. I took a big gulp from my water glass, remembering the pattern: bite of food, drink water, bite of food, drink water. I laid my hands in my lap, fidgeting, contemplating another piece of bread. Conversations were flying back and forth across the table. Finally, I gave into Mia. 'One more won't hurt', she whispered softly into my hear. I knew I'd be taking care of it later.