Father Figure

There is something wrong with the scale in my bathroom.  Apparently, every time I step on it, the number gets a little bigger and bigger.  I know it can’t possibly be me, so it must be the scale.  Funny thing is, the last four scales I have purchased have all had the same problem.  I guess I am just cursed with consumer bad luck when it comes to these products.

If I try to identify when this string of faulty devices began, I think it’s right around the time my daughter began eating solid foods.  The one thing that changed is that I began sampling, and later finishing, any foods she didn’t eat.  This was compounded when Daniel came along, but I am not sure if there is a correlation between these events and my faulty scales.

In all seriousness, I think one of the biggest challenges I face as a dad is watching my figure.  I know I can eat better and make time to exercise, but doing so requires a whole lot of energy.  And with two kids, a full time job, going out with “The Fellas”, and … oh yeah, writing … there’s not a whole lot of energy left in the tank.  Instead of watching my figure, I find it much more rewarding to watch the figures of the nice women at the mall or grocery store or the check out lane at The Home Depot.  Ok, maybe not the Home Depot part, but you get my point.

I know I should work out and live a healthier lifestyle.  Not just for myself, although I am the first to admit I need to lose these ever impressive love handles, but also for my kids.  Firstly, I want to be able to keep up with them as they, and I, grow older.  On my chart, energy is on a decline as age increases.  On their chart, both those lines are still running in parallel.  Secondly, I need to be a good example to them in terms of eating right and being healthy.  How can I expect them to eat their vegetables when I have pop-tart dust all over my shirt?  Kids do what they see.

It’s all part of that sometimes burdensome cloud called parental responsibility.  It’s no different than when I bite my tongue when a woman applying make-up cuts me off in traffic.  It’s no different than when I am tempted to take a swig right out of the milk carton, only to realize I am being hawked by the human surveillance system I call my children.  It’s no different than when I lose my temper when the quarterback for the Dolphins throws an interception.  But I guess that explains how it is my kids know how to say the word ‘bastard’.

And as tough as it may be, it’s yet another one of those things I will gladly do for my kids.  Notice how I said ‘will do’.  That’s because I still find myself finishing their Mac N Cheese or chicken fingers or PB&J’s, and for some reason I still end up buying those pesky, defective scales!


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