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Life at Hotel Huff


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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