My son was born eight months ago. I weigh 228 pounds. It’s the most I’ve ever weighed.
As the kids would say, “weird flex.” But that’s the problem. Right now, I do flex weird. I’m fully in the throws of “dad bod” — that cutesy, semi-sexist, colloquial term for any Dad with a kid and a gut. And I feel shame. Not body shame, regular shame. Because I did this to myself.
When I became a Dude Turned Dad, I stopped exercising and started stress eating. For eight months there was no time to work out, but there was time to eat a full pizza and wash it down with a pint of ice cream. I medicated with food. It was my “me” time. Except I wasn’t alone. Ben and Jerry were always by my side, giving me LIFE… and slowly killing me.
This is a familiar story. Parents gain weight from lack of sleep, stress eating, and time management. After my son was born, my lizard brain was in full effect: “You can’t get up early to work out. You need sleep.” “You work all day and then take care of the kid. When are you supposed to work out?” “You deserve a treat. Dip that hot dog into that gelato.”
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