Familyhood by Paul Reiser

“Done!” they say as they push away from the table, darting off to go fool around. But then they think of something.
    â€œOh, wait—I forgot to put my name on it.” So they scribble their name and jump away from the table.
    â€œNo, wait, wait—I forgot to finish that last part.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “Done!” (Beat.) “Oh, hang on a second—I think we were supposed to draw a picture on question four—I forgot to draw the picture.”
    It never ends. Don’t these computer people understand we’re not going anywhere? Relax. Take a second, make sure you got it right, and then hand it in.
    BUT WE HAVE GROWN accustomed to— addicted to—getting newer, better, faster . . . more all the time. And I don’t see how it can ever end well.
    My boys like rolled-up dried fruit. It used to come in little strips—a couple of bites’ worth per serving. Now it’s sold by the foot. I’m delighted they want to eat something relatively healthy, but putting a foot of anything in your mouth is just wrong.
    We were at the movies and my kids talked me into getting them each a Slurpee the size of my first apartment. I know it can’t be good for them, but to be honest, it’s just that the cup is so big, I figure whatever’s going on inside it must be pretty terrific to justify that kind of commitment.
    And besides: the price of a massive amount of Slurpee is not that much more than a small. Same with the large size of popcorn or fries or anything; having already jumped off the ledge of good health and reason, why quibble over the amount? Might as well go whole-hog. (Do you notice, by the way, it’s never “half-hog”? Even in describing our gluttony, we have to go overboard. You would think half a hog would be more than enough to paint the appropriate picture, but no—we need the whole hog.)
    I KNOW THAT, AS PARENTS, it’s our job to guide our children in these matters, to help them develop that muscle, that internal mechanism that tells them when they’ve “had enough”—of anything. But I may be the wrong person to lead on this one; from the get-go, portion control has never been one of my strengths.
    My wife continues to be bewildered at my inability, when eating, to distinguish what might be reasonably called “a portion.” I continually defend myself by arguing that I only eat “one” of anything.
    My units of measurements are, however, admittedly murky. A platter of roasted potatoes, for example, meant to serve many , is, to my way of thinking, still just one thing of potatoes. Eating two families’ worth of potatoes would be piggish, no question. But one family’s worth? Come on! It was there, on the plate. I assumed it was meant to be consumed in its entirety, so I did . Why is that wrong?
    Eating one muffin and then another muffin could, I understand, be considered eating two muffins. But I don’t see it that way. I round up to the largest unit of measurement . There was a box/a plate/a bag/a container—a thing , whatever you want to call it—of muffins and I ate it. I ate the thing of muffins. I didn’t have two things of muffins, because that would clearly be unhealthful and inconsiderate.
    Do you see what I’m saying? I fear you don’t. Yeah, well . . . I’m not arguing; it can be a problem. Even without entire industries conspiring against me, I sometimes have a hard time knowing when enough is, in fact, enough.
    I’m the same way with work . I love to work. I also love doing absolutely nothing. What I do not enjoy is doing just a little of either. I tend to lean toward all or nothing.
    If I’m doing nothing, I really must do absolutely nothing; I’m talking about a not-moving, staring-into-space, slack-jawed, spittle-on-the-bottom-lip Nothing.
    When I’m on vacation, I have great clarity of purpose. I know what I’m there to