Of all the skills bludgeoned into me in my two-and-half years of fatherhood, there’s one I never saw coming.Â
I assumed the diaper changing and bottle feeding would come naturally through mere repetition. Mind you, I didn’t realize I’d be changing my tenth or eleventh diaper less than two hours into Maala’s gorgeous young life.Â
Those little gremlins sure know how to poop.Â
Lucky they’re cute.Â
I figured I’d master the Dad-catch—the single outstretched arm efforts to prevent catastrophe at exactly the right moment—effortlessly and without tutelage.Â
I took it as a given that my ability to say no would evaporate like mist, and to my daughter’s whims and wants I’d provide as much resistance as a room-temperature flan.Â
I knew I’d become accustomed to operating on a nip’s worth of sleep; a razor’s edge of patience.Â
It was all part of the Dad Deal.
Whether you sign for it or not, the Deal is from the day you first hold the little bean in your arms, the universe begins manifesting skills and knowledge and wisdom that you’d otherwise remain ignorant to.Â
Also part of the Deal is the growing adulation of checkered shirts tucked into khaki shorts, bad one-liners, rants about the thermostat, and the seamless transition from wise-cracking jokester to threatening to turn this bloody car around if you both don’t stop whining!
Despite all this, there’s one entirely unexpected skill that I’ve honed and hacked at on the way to proficiency. Not by choice but of necessity. A skill child-rearers through the ages and all over the world have never received the credit for.Â
The subtle art of sneak-eating.Â
For the childless readers, sneak-eating is the act of shoveling forbidden treats, savored sweets, or any other foods you wish to keep from destruction at the behest of a pair of sticky hands and hungry eyes.Â
These are stolen moments in the pantry or by the fridge to enjoy a snack out of view from your needy little mess-masters.Â
I think of it as the parenting equivalent of the junk-food orgy you single, spritely, and infuriatingly well-slept people indulge in after a night of heavy drinking and care-free livin’.Â
I remember those times fondly, although the memories are sadly fading. Those late-night moments when my eyes were crossed four ways to Sunday, body slouched over the living room couch while munching down the messy goodness of a hopeful hangover cure feel like a lifetime ago.Â
But the same sacred feelings gallop back into my orbit when I steal a second or maybe three for sneak-eating.Â
In my short, blossoming career as a sneak-eater, I’ve developed three rules for the practice that I think are enough to get anyone started or to keep seasoned eaters eating. I’m sharing them with you in the hope that one day if and when you find yourself in a similar situation, you’ll know what to do.Â
It’s not about the food. While expensive chocolates and decadent leftovers are thrilling to eat, they’re not essential. In fact, it’s not so much about the food as it is about stealing a moment to yourself. I’ve enjoyed a few luxurious moments of sneak-eating a dry cracker while Maala was distracted by a dead fly on the kitchen floor and it hit the same.Â
Stand your ground. If you get caught in the act and a pair of toddler's eyes start getting wet and whiney, embrace it. Lock eyes with your miniature foe and finish your final bite. Even accentuate the chewing and embellish the pleasure of it all.Â
Consider it payback for getting pummelled in the nether regions on a daily basis, the 73 consecutive days of 4:45 am wake-ups, or losing the ability to ever wear a clean white t-shirt ever again.Â
Stay nimble, eat free. A good sneak-eater stretches conventions. By that I mean, you can scoff your face anywhere and everywhere without losing a step. Sneak-eating is, by all means, an adventure sport, and when you join our tight-knit fraternity you’ll notice how we deem any nook, cranny, or crusty corner of the house a good place for eating. Heck, you may find a sweet little spot behind the washer and dryer if it suits you. I’m not judging.
Similarly, any time is a good time for sneak-eating. Want to eat a forkful of two-day-old carbonara at 7:30 am? Or some fudge ice cream before rushing to the park to push your kid on the swings? You do you, baby.Â
Those are some rules to live by. And I’ll get to living them in a moment, but right now Maala’s preoccupied with an errant shoelace and there’s half a cold sausage from last night’s dinner with my name on it.Â
Be back in a jiffy.Â
Wait, before you go… A quick one.
This section of text is a call-to-action, often abbreviated to CTA.
In marketing circles, everything we write needs to have a CTA. We have to encourage the reader to do something—anything—else the point of the piece is lost.
It needs to have an end goal.
This CTA is far too long, and so many people won’t read it.
Except for you. You’re a cherished kind. I thank you.
But back to the CTA—the longest CTA in the history of CTAs.
(Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still reading this. It’s really far too long).
I don't have an end goal. My only goal is to place some irrelevant story or thought into your inbox every few weeks that you enjoy reading.