I feel like I’ve been eating terribly lately. Frozen burritos, frozen pizza… frozen anything, really. The kids are still eating their regular stuff; they’re willing to believe that convenience food is “grownup food.” (This may not be the wisest lesson I could impart, but I suspect they’re going to eat what they like when they’re grown regardless of what I suggest.)

So today, when I cringingly admitted to scarfing down these not-made-by-me entrees, my midwife said something along the lines of, “Yeah… I have no problem with that.” Oh. Really? I can just eat the burrito and get on with my day, no need to obsess over whether I ought to have tried harder to gag down the whole-wheat spaghetti?

Because at the moment, there are entire categories of foods I can not be in the same room with, and I still somehow have to get enough calories in a day. So maybe I ought to ditch the guilt over the white-flour noodles, and just be thankful for Amy’s macaroni and cheese. It’s a thought, anyway.