“Can we have ice cream?” said Dolly, just after I returned to our seats with trays of hot dogs and drinks. Back up the concrete stairs I went.
Last weekend was all about baseball. Buddy, my seven-year-old son, had a game Saturday morning, there were games on TV Saturday night, and we had great seats for the Phillies Sunday afternoon. Since baseball is one of my favorite things on earth, I felt pretty good.
Aside from the self-inflicted heartburn.
In the homebound traffic Sunday evening, I realized just how easily I had excused myself, because of these events, out of our decent eating habits. It weirdly annoyed me. I understand that occasional slips are supposed to make doing the right thing easier, but I apparently didn’t bother to put my arms out when I fell off the wagon. As I hunted for antacids Sunday night, I recalled everything I put in my face over the weekend. The list made me picture my doctor giving me a big smack:
- A large coffee
- A wrap with some kind of breakfast “meat” in it (which I ate in the truck because we were late for Buddy’s game)
- Most of a cheesesteak
- A small salad (by dinner, I must have been conscious of what I was doing)
- A donut
- More coffee
- A breakfast sandwich (so much for consciousness)
- Another donut
- A hot dog (which I ate in forty seconds because, well, it was a hot dog at the ballpark)
- Another hot dog
- Another beer
- Ice cream
- Cotton candy
- A fast-food chicken wrap
And I’d had the nerve to wonder why I’d felt like my stomach was taking it personally.
There are a couple of things I realized from this. The first is that I’m an adult and capable of paying attention to what I do to myself. The other is that behaving that way makes maintaining credibility with the kids that much harder, and I now have to spend time getting everyone else back on the right path. I have only myself to thank.
On the other hand, I could blame it on baseball.