My wife bleeds coffee, premium blend. Every extravagant coffee house receipt I receive prompts the sharp sting of reality that as much as I search for individuality, to the point of being ridiculously introverted and anti-social, I find myself horribly entrenched in this ludicrous Latte Day phenomenon.

Everyone in our house seems taken with some idiosyncrasy that's not uncommon but still individually personal. My middle daughter's innate time clock has been hijacked by Comcast and a profound desire for television has been insidiously inserted into the folds of her DNA. Lucky for her, with the dawning of On Demand programming anytime is a good time to watch. I'm fully conscious of the implications of this confession concerning our erroneous parenting, but it's not that bad; she's not into Dukes of Hazzard or T.J. Hooker yet.

Disney has swapped my oldest daughter's soul for YouTube access to High School Musical 2 clips. Devoting all free time sneaking away to her rubber legged teenage friends, door closed to intruders, she pursues her life's work; slowly evolving into Vanessa Hudgens.

The pyramid of power in our house rises to a single, smooth, rotund little belly. My youngest daughter can absolutely, under no conditions, be disconnected from her tummy. If her little fingers aren't wandering across its expanse, like cattle grazing, there's trouble. All shirt snaps must remain incomplete and PJs are extracted before even contemplating her 3 hour bedtime squirm/scream ritual.

I guess I should assume responsibility for much of this addictive behaviour as I am a TVaholic. My wife and I shunned television on 3 different occasions and BOOM, 3 kids popped out, sending her whirling down the Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole ending at Espresso Royale. I spend most evenings settling my youngest to sleep while squeezing in an hour blissfully enjoying 10 shows at once, while flicking small, sleepily dumb hands off the remote. Considering these genetics, TV girl never had a chance. As far as my YouTuber goes, her overexposure to my 80's air guitar certainly could have pounded an impression.

Finally, my belly girl's obsession may have sprung from my own slice of vanity. My running shoes have undergone a lonely, cold spell in the darkness of the closet these past few months as I've been forced to succumb to a slew of injuries. The most obvious result has been the slow expansion of my stomach from satisfactorily fitting my shirts to a fleshy, toneless, disgusting mess. My self-involved trips to the mirror may not have gone totally unnoticed, especially to a curious little lady. Never have I thought I'd be so anxious to return to form, even with full appreciation of the slow and arduous process ahead. Looking at my youngest little cutie, tummy beautifully bare, I can only hope to someday equal her unfettered sense of contentment. IF