Open top menu
Fred Flintstone lives at my house

Fred Flintstone lives at my house

Share this article:

I KNEW, from the time he was born, that my son had feet like Fred Flintstone.

You know, wide feet with bulbous toes. The kind of feet you’d need if you ever had to kick a small dinosaur like Dino.

As he’s gotten older, his feet have simply gotten bigger, along with the rest of his body.

My son, Solomon III, is husky. Not because he exercises. He doesn’t, because he has not yet discovered girls. It is girls, after all, who provide the encouragement that men need to do everything from bathing to dressing. If it weren’t for our desire to impress them, I’m convinced we’d spend our lives adorned in rags while fighting, passing gas and rolling in mud.

I’m not going to let my son go that route. I’m going to make him take advantage of his huskiness, because I know he’ll eventually outgrow me. Even at age 9, he is able to outeat everyone in our house.

The eating is not just about volume, either. In many ways, it’s about strategy. Every time we eat pasta, cheesesteaks, burritos or ribs, Little Solomon makes sure he’s involved in putting away the leftovers. That’s how it begins.

Click here to read the rest of this Philadelphia Daily News column

Illustration by Richard Harrington

solomon thumbnailSolomon Jones is an Essence bestselling author and award-winning columnist. He is the creator and editor of Click here to learn more about Solomon