My family is at it again.
Ever since going public with the man boobs debacle my home life has been anything but the unnormalness that it usually is. There is no escaping their not so subtle reminders that I need to lose some weight.
Perhaps it’s that I’ve started taking everything my family says out of context. Traci likes to remind me that my version of the story isn't always exactly how events unfold. Yes, it’s possible my perception of how things really happen might be a bit askew. Not much. But maybe a little.
Take the other day for instance.
In an effort to wean myself off sweets during the week, Traci had came up with the plan that a few Peanut M&M’s after dinner might be a sufficient way to squelch the desire for sugar. In theory it was a good idea.
Anyway, we’d just finished dinner and I was on my second handful of protein fortified candy while watching the last bit of evening news before “Wheel of Fortune.”
“Daddy,” Brady said, climbing onto the arm of the denim chair I’d nestled myself into, “you can’t eat those. You’re fat, remember? Better eat some fruit. It’s more helfy.”
I explained to him why it was okay to eat a few M&M’s.
“No more candy. You need to make better choices.”
My first mistake was trying to rationalize with the four-year-old about the nutritional value of a peanut covered in chocolate when he’d clearly heard Mommy harp on his big sister about her after school snack choices one too many times.
Knowing Kacie like I do, I glanced at her as she watched from the kitchen, perhaps feeling her perch on the stool behind the island was a safe enough distance to provide some sort of smart-aleck conjecture.
I stared her down, making sure our eyes held the other’s gaze long enough to convey telepathically that she had better not pipe in. She smiled, acknowledging her acceptance of the terms set before her. We were bound by a silent pact.
“Maybe you should give Daddy a vitamin, Brady,” she said. “That’s healthy.”
Having felt her idea was a solid one, Brady hopped off the chair and made his way to the kitchen, where he labored to drag the unoccupied barstool across the faux hardwood floor to the set of cabinets where the bottle of sour Toy Story chewy children’s vitamins were kept.
After climbing the impromptu trellis, maneuvering the landmine of dirty dishes on the counter, and climbing back down, Brady stood in front of me, gummy vitamin bottle in hand, waiting for me to complete my part in the mission as the child-proof cap impeded any further progress on his part.
“I want some too,” Kacie said.
I twisted the cap off with extreme ease, making sure he noticed my bulging bicep as it played its part in conquering the villainous bottle.
“Okay, Kacie. You get one like me. Daddy gets two,” he said, making no mention of having the strongest father in the world.
“Why does he get two?” she asked.
Something in her voice struck me as odd. I let it slide. The sour goodness of Buzz Lightyear and whatever other character Brady had handed me were begging to be devoured. M&M’s were a nice treat in their own right, but the chewy children’s vitamins were the real prize in our house.
“Because he’s fat and needs more vitamins to be helfy.”
Say what? How could my only son betray me like that? And when did I start raising a family full of traitors?
Kacie giggled. What looked like guilt behind her blue eyes made me question if the two of them had previously rehearsed the details of their little ruse. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, my baby had girl turned into Geppetto and learned how to control her little brother. Brilliantly, I might add.
I made reference to kicking a dog while he’s down.
“You said we couldn’t have a dog until we got a house,” Kacie said, breathing more life into an already inextinguishable fire.
“And a baby,” Brady chimed in. “We get a baby when we get a house. Right, Daddy?”
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s what you said!” he cried, his voice changing from an ornery tone to pleading one. It was as if he’d just been told his destiny to be a middle child was no longer fated and that he’d have to suffer the miserable journey of loneliness while being the youngest.
I wasn’t about to explain to him that what I’d actually said however many months prior was that we couldn’t have a baby until we got a house, not that we can’t. Instead I let him sulk off to his bedroom and pout until he felt like he no longer needed to hide from the horrible father that didn’t love him enough to provide him with a baby brother or sister.
It could be said that I’m the one to blame for their dissention. I guess it’s inevitable that by being a wise guy dad my kids will grow up to be wisenheimers in their own right even though I’ve explicitly told them on numerous occasions that I’m in charge of comedy hour in our family. Throw in the X-Factor of telling the world via a media with which your 12-year-old daughter and her friends have total access to that your wife thinks you have man boobs and you may as well admit defeat before getting out of bed.
I love my life.
I love my grandkids!!
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