I’ve always been concerned with time management. Sure, in the future my consciousness might be digitally injected into some anthropomorphic super computer or virtual reality paradise where I can live out the rest of eternity leaping from one simulated life to the next, oh boy, but it’s more likely that I’ll eventually die of an incurable something that destroys my body like a slow motion personal apocalypse. You’d think since I don’t have Kyle Reese to send me a save-the-date postcard for Judgment Day, I’d live every second as if it could be my last, eating my favorite foods, watching my favorite movies, reading my favorite books, loving my favorite people, but I don’t. At least, not without help.

When I stop to consider my last moments on the planet, it’s almost always a cinematic fantasy of Citizen Kane proportions, complete with my own mysterious last words that will undoubtedly send those closest to me on a Goonies-esque scavenger hunt for whatever truth I may have found in life. Of course,in reality, I’ll probably have a heart attack while eating fistfuls of cashews, more concerned over missing the season finale of Silicon Valley than constructing meaningful or poetic last words. Rather than adventuring through a cave of clever musical traps, or finding a pirate ship full of gold, my family will discover stacks and stacks of incomprehensible personal journals. This is how I manage my time.

Each morning, at 8 o’clock my phone reminds me to be a better person. When I say “my phone” what I really mean is, an alarm set by some well intended but unfortunately misguided past version of me who seems to think that I have to do whatever he says just because I am living in his body and happen to be wearing his jeans. He does his best to haunt me through a series of daily messages, according to him these reminders are intended to create an efficacious ritual of perpetual productivity, and I hate his guts and do what I can to punch him in the snooze button whenever possible. Around 8:05, when I’m finished shaking my fist and rebelling against my own best interests, I usually sit down and write a note to myself. It always begins with “Dear Anthony” and then, well, what follows in the body of these notes can best be described as the deluded, slightly-sociopathic thumbwrestle of an elementary intellect. It’s like rock, paper, scissors, but with power tools and weapons of mass destruction all aimed at my stupid face.

The notes were initially supposed to help me recognize development, to find out what works or doesn’t work, to define and reevaluate goals, but most of them read like a rebuke from middle management. It’s your usual compliment sandwich with a side order of self deprecation. I thank myself for the effort, gently suggest improvements while doing my best to avoid discouragement (as a stay-at-home dad, I really don’t want anyone going postal in the workplace) and usually I end with something motivational. At the bottom of every note I write the words “Today I will” followed by a series of bullet pointed activities that I often spend the rest of the day dodging.

I don’t have to be Keanu Reeves or live in the Matrix to avoid these sort of bullets. Being a father seems to come with a built in bullet proof vest. It’s kind of like being Superman. Impervious to all things with the exception of the child’s needs. My son is like a little kryptonite coated Lex Luthor. That’s right, he is the villain of this story. Okay, he isn’t but still. Regardless of how well intended, or carefully constructed my ritual appears to be on any given day, there is no better distraction in the world than a needy toddler. Want to write a book? Too bad, the baby needs bubbles to pop. Want to watch the new Coen Brothers film? Sorry, the baby is too tired to go to sleep. Because that is a thing that happens when you’re a parent. You learn that someone can be so unimaginably exhausted that sleeping becomes impossible. And when your baby is that someone, you are that someone. The best laid plans of moms and dads often get spit up on.

Children are simultaneously the greatest motivation to be a better person while also being the worst and most justifiable distraction known to man. There is nothing better or worse than having a perfect reason to do nothing. And, in case you are concerned over the fact that I say that I’m doing “Nothing” when, in reality I’m spending all of my time raising decent human beings, let me say that parenting is easy. You just spend the day showing oddly shaped potato monsters how to live. You know as the saying goes, those who can’t do, teach and as such, noone is better suited for the job of teaching someone how to live than a parent.

When I do have time. When my son is napping, or temporarily amused by whatever new discovery he is making in the world, I usually glance at my phone just in time to silence one of my daily alarms. Time to eat one of those bullets. This is when I have to make a real decision. For roughly two hours, give or take two hours depending on how my little ball of Kryptonite is feeling on any given day, I have the opportunity to completely imbibe, ingest, indulge, create, or destroy as I see fit. It’s when I have to choose how I feed my human.

In an attempt to justify my stupidity, I associate everything I consume, be it tv, film, literature, music, random memes and so on, with some form of food. If I spend too much time watching movie reviews or thumbing through my twitter feed, it is sort of like eating cheetos for dinner. Which means that the next morning’s letter to myself will read like a ransom note. “If you ever want to see your body again, you’ll do exactly as I say.” I’m not a great negotiator, and I really don’t want to have to use any Liam Neeson throat chopping skills on myself, so I try to avoid sticking my hand in that particular cookie jar.

Anyway, with limited time, both on Earth and just day to day, how do you choose what you consume?

I’m going to use this blog as a sort of dietary diary. A way to keep myself humble while also cataloging my ridiculousness as I complete my first novel and do what I can to live as well as possible. I’ll be talking about parenting, writing, and pop culture. Mostly, I’ll be addressing my own absurd predilection toward perpetual progress and the Sisyphean task of trying to make a life while pushing a toddler-shaped boulder up a mountain day after day.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ll return next week. Or the week after, depending on how much I regret posting this and how awful everyone thinks it is. Feel free to email me your comments or questions at AnthonyLaFauci@gmail.com