From the outside looking in, it may seem like we have
everything together. We live in a nice house and in a nice neighborhood. I own
a small but successful company. I have a beautiful wife who is, if possible,
even more gorgeous than on the day we married. She’s always put together and
you’d never guess she’s given birth to five kids and home schools each one
(Well, four out of the five anyway. We have a ten month old but he doesn’t seem
like “academic material” yet. He can’t write worth a darn, he’s a very poor
reader and his pronunciation of words is so terrible so we are holding him
back. He was born premature so maybe we will give him another chance in the
future.)
Ah yes, the five kids. This is where things get interesting.
Kids have a way of undermining your best of intentions and exposing any and all
of your weaknesses. They are relentless and, just like sharks, can smell fear.
I love my kids very much, but they often make me question my parenting
abilities. Perhaps this being a dad business is above my paygrade?
Let me give you an example: My entire adult life I have
always tried to eat a very healthy diet. My wife and I not only strive to model
this for the kids, but also include them in it as well. Throughout the week,
healthy, nutritious food is the norm. However, we instituted something we call
“Sunday Funday” at the end of every week. Rather than completely ban junk food
from the house, we try to reinforce a clean diet and delayed gratification by
having a fun, festive Sunday evening with snacks and treats we wouldn’t
otherwise eat, then go right back to clean living on Monday.
Sounds like a good plan, right? Teach self-discipline and
instill delayed gratification while giving my offspring a foundation for good
health – a rock solid plan. I was feeling pretty good about all this when my
ten year old daughter, Braelynn, filled me in that my five year old, Ben, has
been gaming the system. She explained her little brother has been taking junk
food on Sunday night, wrapping it in tin foil and then hiding it in the oven
for later. The little thief then gets up
on Monday morning, waits for me to leave for work, and then pulls his treats
out of the oven to eat before his mom wakes up.
I was already feeling bad about myself and embarrassed as a father,
but then it got worse. Braelynn continued with her story, emphasizing how
impressed she was with her little brother’s deception ingenuity. She was
really impressed. My spirit started to sink as I suddenly realize I am living
with a bunch of kids that I have apparently raised for the re-birth of Enron.
Then one last dagger: After Braelynn finishes praising her devious brother, she
exclaims, “yeah, that’s so smart to hide junk food in the oven. Way better than
what we do!”
“Well, what do you do?” I asked cautiously, fearful of the
answer. “Oh, Bryson (her eight year old brother) and I usually get up on Monday
and go through the trash. But don’t worry dad, we don’t dig too far, we just
look for a piece of pizza or cake or something kinda near the top of the
garbage.” I was too horrified to fully process what I was hearing, so I
probably responded with something like, “okay, just as long as it’s not food
from the bottom of the can.”
So that’s cool, not only do I have one kid
“stashing” (yes, my kids have coined a phrase for it now), the others are
dumpster divers in my own kitchen. I swear they are being raised better than
this, but I am not sure who else to blame. So much for character building and
teaching discipline. But such is life at the Hufford Hotel.
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