It all began with a sluggish thyroid and the Internet. In an attempt to help myself, I researched dietary solutions that might encourage my little adrenal gland to do her work.

Food isn’t the only solution. I have follow-up appointments with blood labs, ultrasound technicians, and my primary care doc. I’m also scheduled to meet with a dietitian, but I wanted to find some information for myself first.

I know. Control issues. But check it.

Soy protein and tofu contribute to a sluggish thyroid. For a while now, I’ve been cutting back on the processed fake meat variety, but still eat tons of tofu with yummy marinades. Four or five times a week, I sprinkle them on everything from rice to salads.

I feed them to my children as well.

For fun, I researched tofu’s effect on growing boys. Again, I found that, like chocolate and religion and Tony Hawk’s Underground, too much tofu is also bad for them. Something about estrogen.

As anyone who’s joined a mommy-group will tell you, estrogen is best in small doses.

Avoiding tofu in vegetarian diets is as effective as avoiding rednecks down south. Like HPV and Tony Stewart endorsements, soy is everywhere. Protein bars, trail mix, fruit snacks, and tons of veggie delights are made with this primary ingredient. Giving it up and finding meat-free substitutes require the same time and energy I lose every day somewhere between little league and flag football practice.

Plus, in order to get the right amount of protein, I’d have to eat enough legumes to choke a small horse.

Since I don’t want to take Synthroid and I don’t want my sons to suddenly get their period, I decided we should tip-toe back into the world of flesh eaters. Friends and relatives alike heard the news and started sending me chicken recipes, buy-one-get-one-free veal cutlet coupons, and links to steak company websites.

Baby steps, folks. I’m not going to serve my children ulcers and tumors anytime soon.

Fish. We are going to stick with fish and see how our systems react.

Last night, I attempted to cook some sea creatures, and our systems didn’t react well at all. In fact, they almost hauled ass without leaving a forwarding address.

I began our foray into fish-eating with salmon. That was a bad call. First of all, salmon smells worse than a hippy’s rear-end after a shower-free weekend at Bonnaroo. I opened up windows and doors and the neighbors immediately filed a complaint. Federal investigators arrived convinced I’d violated provisions of the Clean Air Act.

“These salmon burgers don’t look right,” Oldest complained when I put them on the table. “Is that milk coming out of them?”

I took a closer look at the white stuff floating on top of the patties.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

Youngest wrinkled his forehead and put his fingers over his nose. “Probably fish guts.”

I shook off the willies.

“Who wants ketchup?” I asked.

Both kids stuck out their tongues.

“Well what do you put on salmon burgers?” I asked. “Ranch dressing?”

“And cheese,” they said.

We’re like the blind leading the blind over here.

After a few bites, both boys asked for pizza and cried about how they want to stay vegetarians.

“We don’t want dead fishies swimming around in our bellies,” Youngest moaned.

“Would you rather boy boobies?” I snapped.

Federal investigators were soon replaced with Child Protective Services.

I can’t win.

Maybe I should order out next time. One of these days I will learn that my oven should only be used when Mom visits – to hide the good vodka.

“Settle down,” my sister said. “Kids usually eat something ten times before they learn to like it.”

Great.

One down, nine to go.

BIO: Catherine Durkin Robinson gave up her career in Boston as a corporate trainer, political activist and rabble-rouser to return to Tampa to stay at home with identical twin sons. Trapped in the suburbs, surrounded by Weber grills and confederate flags, she decided to launch her freelance writing career and explore all that is fun and frustrating about progressive parenting. Not easily defined, she’s a feminist who’s had cosmetic surgery, a wife who has never been domestically inclined, and a mommy who doesn’t particularly like kids. In her spare time, she investigates missing socks.