Day 8

I’m not sure what day of my stated weight loss intention this is, but needless to say I am way off schedule. I do like the blogging of simply categorizing it by days, because it cuts down on my time spent coming up with clever titles for the piece.

These days, it’s always about time efficiency, isn’t it?

I have noticed this blog run has not caught on with the viewers. Kinda like having a show on Discovery Health Network; it’s interesting, but the more compelling ratings grabbers involve some sort of consequences like a fall into a sewage pit or a verbal reaming from an actor playing a military sergeant diet coach.

Frankly, my losing it has lost its steam. I went down 7 pounds immediately, but then stalled. I’m not gaining, but am stuck in neutral. Hell, I am part Swiss!

Yesterday, I realized that having kids does not help with the eating well system I’d like to fully adopt. And since they’re 3 boys 11 years apart, the variety of events and tastes adds to the bad menu choices.

For instance, yesterday I woke up earlier than I would have liked, with Jackson the (almost) two year old repeating over and over into the baby monitor, “daddy, daddy, daddy,” a beautiful thing, but hearing it at 5am diminishes the cuteness. I went in his room and rocked him in my arms for a while, which is great for my heart, yet not so good for my stomach, which is now thinking it is breakfast time and wants an omelet.

Then it’s time to get the 7 year old to camp. He is happier with the dreams he was having, so now I spend an hour trying to convince him that kickball was a better thing than the sugar plumbs (or Twix) dancing in his head. So, he’s now late and we are wolfing down food on the run, always a great idea for digestion, right? We are supposed to chew a few dozen times a bite. I think every other bite passed the teeth on the way down.

Now it’s time for my eldest son’s 13^th birthday party. By the way. Can I ask you all something? Is it “eldest” or “oldest?”

He is hosting 19 twelve year olds at a big trampoline place called “Sky High,” where kids bounce around for hours on end, with the future prison guard teenagers yelling rules every few seconds to justify their summer job. If I heard the word “policy” one more time…

So, daddy has to feed the tweeting tweens, and the place will only allow their food to be served – pizza.

My wife laughed at me when I was serving the kids, as I made sure I got my slices of pepperoni. “Honey, you are supposed to give the kids their food and then you take what is left over.”

Yeah, right.

“I’m paying. Like they’re gonna remember this party for the food. And the girls are already in their not-going-to-eat-in-front-of-boys mode anyway, so I’m taking some slices for me. I’m starving from all this work I’m doing on the party.”

Needless to say I held the same attitude when doling out the cake. My wife is cutting it like she’s trying to win a geometry contest, so I grab the knife and begins chopping away. Each square loses a little section on the pass to the plate, and all the extras went in my mouth. I’m glad they were occupied, because I was licking me some fingers.

Now we have 13 year olds not only possessing hormonal changes, but are now hopped up on sugar. Added a whole new meaning to the sky high thing.