A heavy conversation

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized I was fat.  There was not a defining epiphany, a pant button winging across the room like a mini Frisbee or waking up next to an empty jar of Skippy chunky peanut butter and a mound of multi-coloured bread tags, drowning in L-shaped crusts.  It was at age 13 or 14 I started to sport a mild paunch, but at six foot three, it was easy to conceal under a Beaver Canoe sweatshirt.  I was also a considerable high school athlete, both in football and basketball, so size, both height and girth, were more or less applauded then ridiculed. So I trudged through hallways, high fiving with one hand and eating Jamaican beef patties with the other.

My post high school life, both educational and social (more social) was a bit more gluttonous as beer came into play, so late night sub sandwiches also came into play.  The mild paunch sauntered to the side and began morphing into pear, first the Bosc and then the Anjou. In my mid twenties, my waist size was no longer being carried at hipster stores and comfortable khakis (my pant of choice) were only available at The Gap, or egads, The Bay.

Of course next I met my lovely wife, who loved me so ferociously and passionately (meow) that, once betrothed and thereby off the market (sorry pounding down the door ladies), I gained another 20 or so pounds, putting me at a jolly 280lbs at my wedding.  I know I was this heavy because in a black and white wedding picture of Steph and I standing next to a vintage car you can almost see the worried headlight eyes of the car hoping I was not going to get in the front seat.  I didn’t.  The car sighed.

Fast forward another 10 years and, less a year in Australasia where I managed to shed some significant weight; I ballooned to 328 lbs and thus signed up for lap band weight loss surgery in the fall of 2010.  I am now roughly 240lbs and relatively comfortable with my body type, yet still struggle with eating habits that sometimes border on masochistic.

Here is the rub; both my two boys have wee little paunches on them.  Noticeable more on Tasman because of his own stocky body shape and he also has the remnants of the toddler pudge still hanging on.  Hud is a different story, he was always so lean and tall for his age, yet the rotund beginnings of excess weight have appeared both in his stomach and around his hips. Something I have noticed in the past, but really noticed last night during an impromptu topless Tuesday night dance party.

So I had a word with them both.  A conversation about healthy eating and the need for exercise.  It was a bit heavy handed (hence the guilty handwringing masked in text here) and full of personal stories about what a true drag it is growing up with a weight problem.  They listened in earnest and Hudson actually sounded a bit frustrated about the lack of opportunities he had to get an hour of day exercise, particularly in the winter.

I know that I have to lead by example here.  I know I am the one that buys the groceries, prepares the meals and ultimately makes almost every decision about what food enters their system.  I know the significant bulk of responsibility sits with Steph and me and sometimes we fail because of two primary reasons: a) its sometimes easier to serve less that optimal food, b) we sometimes want less than optimal foods ourselves.  I also know that finding exercise, no matter what the forecast is, remains primarily our responsibility.  We must do more and we will.

That all being said, I still think my own example of weight loss struggle is important.  I am a real, viable, emotional case study of how difficult a life battling body image issues can have on someone, both physically and mentally.  While I know having a heart-to-heart about being fat with a five and nine year old may seem harsh, these two boys love the hell out of me.  To see me close to tears explaining my own personal challenges and my own need to make better food decisions for all of us and to set a better example for a healthier lifestyle, has an impact.   I only hope it will help them when it comes time to make their own decisions about why they are eating something, for sustenance  or simply for flavour, or to walk that extra block instead of asking for a ride. Just make better decisions.

I want so much better for my kids than I have given myself.  I am not sure if I am doing it the right way.  But it’s rooted in huge love and I hope when they eventually fuck up in some way; it will only be a mild blip in otherwise full, rich, productive and healthy life.