Losing the chemical wars

By Susan Bilheimer
Press writer

Before my son was even born, I made up my mind to provide him with the perfect foundation for a lifetime of health. Never would he struggle in hand-to-hand combat with a chocolate chip cookie. No sir, my son was going to develop healthy taste buds from the start. It had taken decades for me to win the battle, but my own daily fare was finally Mother Nature-based. Since they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I figured Sam better have a strong head start when it came to food.

As for the rest, here were the rules: limited exposure to television for the first seven years and no toy guns EVER. Sam's father didn't share my philosophy. He was of the opinion that if it didn't make you belch or otherwise pass gas, it wasn't worth eating. And if it didn't involve some form of massacre, it wasn't worth watching. But since I was Sam's primary caretaker, I could breathe easy.

I nursed my son until he was 14 months old. He ate only organic baby food. My heart leapt at the sight of my pride and joy scarfing down gobs of peas and handfuls of carrots. The lilting tones of Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers graced our home. Life was as it should be.

When Sam was 2, I had to return to work. His father wasn't working at the time. I had no choice. Sam and his daddy were going to be a team. As I left the first morning, I took out the big guns. "Don't," I repeat, "DON'T give this child anything to eat that doesn't grow on a tree or in the ground. OK, it can moo or cluck...in moderation. AND, we ONLY watch public television. If it isn't on PBS, then it isn't on. GOT IT?" I left confident that I had put my foot down with sufficient force to ensure my little one's safety until my return that evening.

I came home at 6:30 that night, yearning for my gentle baby. As I pulled into the driveway, I heard a racket coming from inside. I raced to the front door. When I opened it, there stood Sam, face full of pizza, soda drizzling out of his mouth. He gleefully dragged me to the living room where the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were engaged in heavy battle. Life would never be the same.

Fast forward six years. Sam is now 8 1/2. His father no longer lives with us. When the TV isn't on, it's because the power is out. When the TV is on, we're either watching Pokemon, Beast Wars or both. And if it isn't blue, green or red, Sam won't eat it. Still, as a mother, I continue to fight the war.

My son looks at me with horror when I mention the idea of eating a piece of fruit. On more than one occasion, I've bought organic cookies and slid them into the enemy package. "Opph! Ptooey! Accch! What is that awful stuff?" I think the manufacturers of snacks for the new millennium imbed some kind of radar chip so kids will sense something healthy passing their uvula and react with revulsion.

When I go to the grocery store, I try my best to steer Sam toward the least poisonous brand of whatever we're buying. But when I read the list of ingredients on even the most innocuous item, my stomach quivers.

Take juice, for instance. I just love the companies who proudly proclaim that their product contains "10 percent juice." I guess in our artificially colored and flavored society, it's a step up.

I wonder what on earth could juice be made of besides the nectar of a fruit? Well, lots of long names and a couple of numbers, that's what. And sugar, of course. How silly of me to think that apple juice, ostensibly made from apples, might be sweet enough for those tender palates without having to dump in another tubful of bounce-you-off-the-wall stimulants. The word "Apples," by the way, is usually buried waaaay down on that list of ingredients, which looks more like a recipe for chemical warfare than food.

Then I started thinking about your basic staples. Rice, for example. Why is it that white rice, polished and processed, is far cheaper than brown rice? In fact, anything organic, meaning it is grown without the use of pesticides and herbicides, costs twice as much the same item produced non-organically. Wouldn't you think the non-organic gardener, wanting to recoup the money spent on all those pesticides, would charge more?

Chicken is another bone of contention to me (pardon the pun). Free-roaming fowl and their little egg-y offspring cost at least double what those pent-up wild-eyed squawkers do. I guess freedom does have its price.

Is there something wrong with preferring the food my son eats not have a list of ingredients a mile long, two-thirds of which I can't even pronounce?

As I exit the health food store with my two bags of groceries which cost close to $60, I shudder when think about that same $60 and my son's grocery list. Together they would garner me about eight bags, brimming with delightful, deadly delicacies.

Generally, while I rant about injustice and the American way, my son rolls his eyes and continues to enjoy his chocolate pudding. I then point out him that "chocolate pudding" may be a misnomer. Nowhere on the list of ingredients does the word chocolate, or even cocoa, appear. "Sure," I say, "enjoy your brown dye #450 mixed with artificial flavor and preserved with eithsidhereoidjfenltjs-anol. It's your body." He's 8 now, I can speak to him that way.

I once looked at the label on my son's cereal. Among the ingredients - "Yellow #5, Yellow #6, Red #40, and Blue #1." The strange part is that these tasty little morsels are beige. Next, I checked out a bag of Sam's candy - chocolate, sugar, color added (includes Red #40), artificial flavors, natural flavor. What the heck's an artificial flavor anyway? If it has a taste, isn't it safe to assume it's a real flavor? More importantly, since chocolate and sugar top the ingredient list, what natural flavor did they need to add...and why?

Red #40, a notorious trouble-maker for kids (and the parents who have to scrape them off the wall), is the only color listed. Hey, aren't we entitled to know what other colors have been added to our food? But after looking in the bag at the green, orange, red and brown candy, I decided ignorance was bliss.

Lest you think I am a prude about food, let me say that I have indulged in junk food with the best of them...probably better, judging by my cellulite.

One day, I picked up the ingredient sheet of a certain fast food spot I used to cherish. After reading it, I wanted to tell them to burn these things if they had hopes of staying in business.

Some companies capitalize on the desire of people like myself to find wholesome food in the supermarket. Many of us trust the front of the box to convey the healthful nature of a product. For instance, granola bars may state on the package that there is "no sugar added," but a glance at he label tells you that fructose or corn syrup, which is just sugar with a "Groucho nose," is second on the list.

My son thinks I should stop reading labels. At the least, he wishes I'd stop reading them to him. "Oh Mom," he insists, "A little bit won't hurt me." But, I tell him, those little bits add up. "If you are what you eat," I warn, "then eventually you'll glow in the dark and have skin a sickening shade of blue #1." As his eyes widened in joyful anticipation, I knew, with certainty, that I had lost the war.