B's Pizza

I can't eat food that a kid has touched. It's true. I think it's disgusting, I can't help it. I couldn't even do it when B was a baby. She would do that super cute thing that babies do when they are just learning to share and they offer you the cheerio that's stuck to their finger. Most moms that I know eat that cheerio. I fake-ate that cheerio. Over and over. I was never able to share food with B like most moms do with their kids either. My plate was my plate, and hers, in all it's slobbery glory, was hers.
I'm also completely paralyzed by the thought of sharing a drink (especially a water bottle) with a kid, yes, even my own. Once B takes a drink from my bottle it becomes hers, no matter how thirsty I am. The idea of what food remnants might be on the mouth of the bottle, let alone the amount of backwash that went into the actual bottle, just turns my stomach. So it may come as a shock to you that I let B make dinner tonight...pizza. I exercised all the restraint I could muster to let her slop on the sauce and then smash on the cheese, mixing it deftly with the sauce in only the way that a 7, almost 8 year old, can. As I congratulated her heartily and put the pinkish pizza in the oven I made a deal with myself that I would let her see me eat one small piece, and then gorge myself on chex mix after she went to bed.