We have a growing problem (pardon the pun) with obesity in this country. So much that its reaching near-epidemic levels.
We have children going to their pediatrician already riddled with heart disease, diabetes, and other disorders that could land them in their graves by the time they're 20.
Sad, isn't it?
And much of the blame lies with the parents.
Good eating habits begin at home.
With us being a two-income household, the only chance we get to eat as a family during the week is at dinner. Breakfast is usually on the run, and lunch at our workstations. Breakfast and lunch for our daughter is at school (daycare).
My wife very painstakingly finds healthy dinner ideas that taste very good. Lots of poultry-based dishes. Pork every now and then, and red meat is very rare (pardon the pun) in our house.
We have a refrigerator in the basement full of soda, but reserve it primarily for guests when we entertain.
We have chocolate in the house. But only eat it when the craving hits, and as we eat healthier, we don't have those cravings as much.
We don't serve our daughter anything we wouldn't eat ourselves, and most of you who know me know I hate vegetables.
Yet I drink V8 juice like it's going out of style. I know, it doesn't make sense to me either.
And when we go out for dinner, one of us usually brings back half the meal. Usually it's my wife. That's my lunch the following day.
And we do our best to stay fit.
I walk with the older folks up at the local shopping mall here four days a week, Monday through Thursday. It's after I take my daughter to school and before I go to work...guaranteed 'alone time' I can use productively.
Add to the fact that my doctor, who's the same age as me, said at my last check-up "I want to see ten pounds less of you the next time I see you."
So I chug along at the mall...with my noise-cancelling headphones and my iPhone with the Nike pedometer app on it. I do anywhere from three to four miles each day.
Once the weather gets better, I can take my daughter with me and we can walk together on Fridays when she's out of school.
And I'm sure she'll complain about it every now and again. I'll be the first to remind her why we do it.
So we can be healthy enough to live life to the fullest.
Especially me...I have a lot to live for.
My family.
I mean, isn't that enough?
NEXT WEEK: Managing 'treats'
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
(Bleep) Our Kids Say Online
Tommy Jordan is my hero.
You may have already found out about this on social media.
A 15-year-old girl named Hannah posts a scathing dissertation about her parents on Facebook. Namely her father.
I should point out that he works in IT for a living.
He's posted a video to YouTube, where he responds to Hannah's little online tirade.
I will also point out that Mr. Jordan is a second-amendment advocate. While he doesn't say this openly, it's pretty much implied through the .45 automatic he's wearing on his hip.
I like this guy already before he even says a word in his thick North Carolina accent.
Cowboy hat, buckle, jeans, pistol. A man's man.
But he's hurting.
This big fella is wrestling with emotions...sadness and anger, among others.
Because Hannah posted her thoughts of him online for the whole world to see.
She blocked family and church from it. How was she that foolish to think that this would NOT somehow get back to him?
Especially when he's an IT guy who does most of the work on her laptop when she wants it?
To make a long story short, he does find out what she says. It's painful.
While you may believe that this kind of behavior is typical of your average 15-year-old girl, the way she chose to express it is not.
I was a teenager once. I hated having to do chores. I may have even mumbled an expletive under my breath while doing so. And my father may have thrown me up against a wall a couple times for it. Even after giving me ample warning beforehand.
But I took it like the man I wanted to be. And learned from it.
I never, ever would have resorted to broadcasting my thoughts about the whole business. Because hard work was rewarded in my house. Misdeeds were appropriately punished.
And this time the punishment fit the crime.
Mr. Jordan fired his .45 pistol at Hannah's laptop in retribution for the private thoughts she chose to make public. He did not do this in a knee-jerk fashion.
He called his wife to try and get her to talk him out of it. Once she learned of what the girl had done, she told him to put a bullet in it for her. Mr. Jordan emptied his clip into it.
You want a new laptop, kid? Go out and buy one.
He's already told her to get a job if she doesn't want to do chores. Her efforts have been non-existent.
"I'm not your damn slave," Hannah writes.
Well guess what, honey...Daddy's not yours, either.
Upgrading your laptop so it can do what you want it to do isn't part of a parent's obligation to his or her kid. Until you're 18, our responsibilities are to make sure you're educated, fed, clothed, and housed in a habitable environment.
That's what the law dictates insofar as your 'rights'. Anything above that is a PRIVILEGE.
And she believes she should be paid for her chores around the house.
She might want to rethink her strategy...she's actually had entry-level offers for part-time work by potential employers who have seen the video.
According to Money Magazine, the cost of raising a child from birth to 18 in today's dollars translates to almost a quarter of a million dollars.
That's an awful lot of money.
So the question Hannah should ask herself this:
Is that quarter of a million from her parents a gift...or a LOAN???
NEXT WEEK: Fit over Fat
You may have already found out about this on social media.
A 15-year-old girl named Hannah posts a scathing dissertation about her parents on Facebook. Namely her father.
I should point out that he works in IT for a living.
He's posted a video to YouTube, where he responds to Hannah's little online tirade.
I will also point out that Mr. Jordan is a second-amendment advocate. While he doesn't say this openly, it's pretty much implied through the .45 automatic he's wearing on his hip.
I like this guy already before he even says a word in his thick North Carolina accent.
Cowboy hat, buckle, jeans, pistol. A man's man.
But he's hurting.
This big fella is wrestling with emotions...sadness and anger, among others.
Because Hannah posted her thoughts of him online for the whole world to see.
She blocked family and church from it. How was she that foolish to think that this would NOT somehow get back to him?
Especially when he's an IT guy who does most of the work on her laptop when she wants it?
To make a long story short, he does find out what she says. It's painful.
While you may believe that this kind of behavior is typical of your average 15-year-old girl, the way she chose to express it is not.
I was a teenager once. I hated having to do chores. I may have even mumbled an expletive under my breath while doing so. And my father may have thrown me up against a wall a couple times for it. Even after giving me ample warning beforehand.
But I took it like the man I wanted to be. And learned from it.
I never, ever would have resorted to broadcasting my thoughts about the whole business. Because hard work was rewarded in my house. Misdeeds were appropriately punished.
And this time the punishment fit the crime.
Mr. Jordan fired his .45 pistol at Hannah's laptop in retribution for the private thoughts she chose to make public. He did not do this in a knee-jerk fashion.
He called his wife to try and get her to talk him out of it. Once she learned of what the girl had done, she told him to put a bullet in it for her. Mr. Jordan emptied his clip into it.
You want a new laptop, kid? Go out and buy one.
He's already told her to get a job if she doesn't want to do chores. Her efforts have been non-existent.
"I'm not your damn slave," Hannah writes.
Well guess what, honey...Daddy's not yours, either.
Upgrading your laptop so it can do what you want it to do isn't part of a parent's obligation to his or her kid. Until you're 18, our responsibilities are to make sure you're educated, fed, clothed, and housed in a habitable environment.
That's what the law dictates insofar as your 'rights'. Anything above that is a PRIVILEGE.
And she believes she should be paid for her chores around the house.
She might want to rethink her strategy...she's actually had entry-level offers for part-time work by potential employers who have seen the video.
According to Money Magazine, the cost of raising a child from birth to 18 in today's dollars translates to almost a quarter of a million dollars.
That's an awful lot of money.
So the question Hannah should ask herself this:
Is that quarter of a million from her parents a gift...or a LOAN???
NEXT WEEK: Fit over Fat
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Ode to a Caregiver
You are the one I trust with my child.
I trust you the way I would want to be trusted.
I trust you with my life.
Because all I am living for is entrusted to you.
I trust you to love my child.
I trust you to kiss away hurts, cuddle away sadness, wipe noses and backsides for a child that you have no blood attachment to.
You are my child's protector, when I cannot be.
You are my child's soft touch, a firm hand, a gentle whisper, a stern order.
You are everything I want to be.
You stand for everything I want my child to be.
Because my child is priceless.
Your work is priceless.
You will witness moments in my child's life for the first time that I will not.
You are underpaid, and often underappreciated by others.
No amount of money is sufficient for the work you are charged to do.
No words can ever fully express what you mean to some people.
You have made room in your life for my child's life.
You do what you do out of choice, not obligation or duty.
You play a very substantial role in what my child will grow up to be.
You and I together will watch my child grow.
For we not only want our children to survive in this world,
we want them to thrive.
To do better than us. To go further in life. To have more opportunities.
You are a partner, and never an adversary.
I close by saying this:
Thank you.
NEXT WEEK: S@#t our kids say on Facebook
I trust you the way I would want to be trusted.
I trust you with my life.
Because all I am living for is entrusted to you.
I trust you to love my child.
I trust you to kiss away hurts, cuddle away sadness, wipe noses and backsides for a child that you have no blood attachment to.
You are my child's protector, when I cannot be.
You are my child's soft touch, a firm hand, a gentle whisper, a stern order.
You are everything I want to be.
You stand for everything I want my child to be.
Because my child is priceless.
Your work is priceless.
You will witness moments in my child's life for the first time that I will not.
You are underpaid, and often underappreciated by others.
No amount of money is sufficient for the work you are charged to do.
No words can ever fully express what you mean to some people.
You have made room in your life for my child's life.
You do what you do out of choice, not obligation or duty.
You play a very substantial role in what my child will grow up to be.
You and I together will watch my child grow.
For we not only want our children to survive in this world,
we want them to thrive.
To do better than us. To go further in life. To have more opportunities.
You are a partner, and never an adversary.
I close by saying this:
Thank you.
NEXT WEEK: S@#t our kids say on Facebook
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Chew on This
Even though we had less trouble than anticipated with getting our now two-and-a-half year old daughter weaned off her pacifier, that didn't mean that she didn't find substitutes when she could.
Crib rails, the ear of her stuffed Minnie Mouse, even a chair leg wasn't safe from Savannah's terrible teeth. Even I underestimated the sharpness of her teeth when I held her up for a goodnight kiss one night only to see Baby Dracula bare her fangs and bite into my cheek in mere milliseconds.
Hard.
Not that I hadn't brought this on myself at one point or another. In fact, while carrying her in my arms every once in awhile I whisper in her ear 'I'm gonna eat you up!'
She giggles and says 'don't eat me, Dad.'
Margie gets in on the act every once in a while, too. 'Hey, leave some for me!' is what she'll say as she pretends to descend on our little munchkin.
Heh...I said 'munch'. Hence the cute nickname.
Not long after our daughter's birth, we discovered Hyland's teething tablets. The best thing since sliced bread. My former co-worker, who has a son about a year older than my daughter can confirm this. He calls it 'kiddie crack'.
And Savannah can't get enough of it either. Or so I thought.
'Want medicine' is what she'll sometimes say right before bed. Or 'mouth medicine'. We do give it to her, sometimes suspiciously as to whether it's a legitimate need, but fortunately, since it's homeopathic, it can't harm her in a normal dose.
Then one morning, as I was getting her ready for daycare, she asked for it again.
I was tearing apart the drawer next to her changing table, trying to find it, but to no avail.
So I carried her downstairs with me to see if it migrated to the medicine cabinet. I opened the cabinet, with my eyes darting about desparately seeking the elusive tablets.
"I found it!" Savannah says triumphantly.
She actually reached for the Baby Orajel, which I had given to her when the tablets were off the market. It's yucky stuff even for little ones.
"You want the Orajel, Savannah?" I say with a raised eyebrow. She nods.
I press an amount onto my fingertip and work it into the back of her teeth where molars are about to sprout.
"Thanks, Dad."
If she's reaching for the Orajel, she's serious.
Since we've had problems with her eating her dinner lately, we decided to give her teething medicine prior to eating. It's resulted in her eating a little more. Though she's not close to cleaning her plate, it's a good start.
And any start is better than none at all.
NEXT WEEK: Caring Hands
Crib rails, the ear of her stuffed Minnie Mouse, even a chair leg wasn't safe from Savannah's terrible teeth. Even I underestimated the sharpness of her teeth when I held her up for a goodnight kiss one night only to see Baby Dracula bare her fangs and bite into my cheek in mere milliseconds.
Hard.
Not that I hadn't brought this on myself at one point or another. In fact, while carrying her in my arms every once in awhile I whisper in her ear 'I'm gonna eat you up!'
She giggles and says 'don't eat me, Dad.'
Margie gets in on the act every once in a while, too. 'Hey, leave some for me!' is what she'll say as she pretends to descend on our little munchkin.
Heh...I said 'munch'. Hence the cute nickname.
Not long after our daughter's birth, we discovered Hyland's teething tablets. The best thing since sliced bread. My former co-worker, who has a son about a year older than my daughter can confirm this. He calls it 'kiddie crack'.
And Savannah can't get enough of it either. Or so I thought.
'Want medicine' is what she'll sometimes say right before bed. Or 'mouth medicine'. We do give it to her, sometimes suspiciously as to whether it's a legitimate need, but fortunately, since it's homeopathic, it can't harm her in a normal dose.
Then one morning, as I was getting her ready for daycare, she asked for it again.
I was tearing apart the drawer next to her changing table, trying to find it, but to no avail.
So I carried her downstairs with me to see if it migrated to the medicine cabinet. I opened the cabinet, with my eyes darting about desparately seeking the elusive tablets.
"I found it!" Savannah says triumphantly.
She actually reached for the Baby Orajel, which I had given to her when the tablets were off the market. It's yucky stuff even for little ones.
"You want the Orajel, Savannah?" I say with a raised eyebrow. She nods.
I press an amount onto my fingertip and work it into the back of her teeth where molars are about to sprout.
"Thanks, Dad."
If she's reaching for the Orajel, she's serious.
Since we've had problems with her eating her dinner lately, we decided to give her teething medicine prior to eating. It's resulted in her eating a little more. Though she's not close to cleaning her plate, it's a good start.
And any start is better than none at all.
NEXT WEEK: Caring Hands
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