Skipping Dessert … and taking the stairs

Earlier this week I took my six-year-old daughter out for ice-cream (TCBY actually – they post her drawings on the wall, so she likes the product).  She looked over the offerings, consulted with me about the colors, made her choice and we sat down.  About halfway through it occurred to me that I wasn’t the least bit tempted to get a cone (or a golden-vanilla-and-cookie-dough Shiver) for myself.  Didn’t even think about it until then.

Then last night we went out to dinner at a local diner to celebrate the end of the school year and my lovely wife and spritely daughters shared a hot-fudge brownie sundae for dessert.  Again, it didn’t even budge my hunger meter.  To be fair, I had just finished a plate of corned-beef hash and eggs, but still …

I was never a big ice-cream eater, but if it was an option … even a remote one … I was always on-board for it, and would regret if I didn’t join in the fun.  Of course, sharing dessert or just having a taste or two was never enough, if I got started I needed a sundae of my own, and a big one.

I remember when our oldest was about three months old it occurred to me one afternoon that she was part of the family, part of my life.  That she wasn’t just visiting, and this was the new (wonderful, but different) normal.  Last night I had a similar realization:  Skipping dessert isn’t just something I’m doing for a couple of weeks.  This is the new normal, and I don’t miss the old one.  At least in this respect.