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Finding Compassion and Mourning Loss

Most of what I write is done in my head while I’m actively engaged in other pursuits. If an idea sticks around long enough to congeal into a sentence and if I whittle and hammer that sentence into something I think might be of some value, I jot it down. Usually digitally, but this trait is so ingrained that I have boxes and boxes of handwritten sentences from the past 25 years or so stacked in various spots in and around my house. Of those I would guess that a substantial portion, perhaps as much as 5% of them, are about the topic of suicide. A good chunk from my teens and twenties was about my sincere and often serious consideration. It was a part of my character I referred to as ‘my death wish’. For me I faked my death by drinking ungodly amounts of liquor both sadly and alone. There are innumerable times in which I put myself in situations in which I could, and even should have wound up dead. I suppose that for me it was enough of a manifestation of my feelings to satisfy me.

In retrospect I have a hard time understanding why I was so sad. I thought I was awful for no real reason. And not ‘I’m really in the dumps’ kind of awful, but rather, ‘the lives of those near me would be better if I were dead. I make life awful just by being in it.’ It sounds crazy to me now, but when you have a soundtrack of your own voice working to construct sentences around such a feeling all day every day, it can really start to blot out reality and sound rational when it isn’t ever given the light of day to be refuted by the world around you.

Another part I’ve spent a good deal of time writing about was my grandfather. When I was 12 my grandfather killed himself. I’ve written quite a bit about this privately, but so many other people, almost all of the people in my life, are so effected by it that I feel sometimes like something as basic as simply saying it, saying that my grandfather killed himself is somehow stealing the pain of others or exacerbating the pain that others are experiencing. No one tells you not to say it, it just feels like something not to mention.

It’s had perhaps as profound an impact on my life as anything else. I’m a middle kid from a giant Irish-Catholic family and the timing of this for the person that had to bare the brunt of it in my household could not have been worse. Six kids to raise, more than half of them teens and a toddler for good measure. She has handled this with grace as she does all things. Much of the story is hers, but the small part that has been mine has been a weight and I bring it up only to inform you of the root of my perspective.

There are people who will read this who may have thoughts about my sharing of my perspective and my past. All of these peoples opinions are valid. As are mine. The thing is, we all see the world through our own personal keyhole. With such limited access to such a broad subject as life, what we see through that keyhole is at least as informed by what is on our side of the door as it is by what is on the other.

There have been several occasions, most recently the passing of Robin Williams, which have brought me closer and closer to a tipping point in terms of my feelings about suicide. My thoughts about those that go through with what I thought about often as a young man. Sadly, an event in my circle occurred last night which has made me think about the subject once more. An event so sad and only sad that I find myself changed.

A young man, far younger then me and far too young to have died, passed at his own hands last night. A man I didn’t know well but a person who profoundly touched many of the lives that have touched my own. There is infinite sadness filling the hole he has left.

Until now, due to my early, personal and all consuming experience with coping with suicide,the subject,I have held very stern and fairly cold and unforgiving opinions about people that have chosen to end their pain this way. I’ve always had endless compassion and empathy for the survivors. The sons and daughters and the brothers and sisters and of course, the mothers and fathers and husbands and wives. I’ve witnessed as best as one can from a short but protected distance the journey that ensues for those closest to the person in such pain. My feelings of anger led me to a position all these years of anger and judgment. How selfish, I’d think? These were my firm, defensible opinions. Not uninformed I might add. And every time popular culture would start godding up a Robin Williams for example or before him the similar feelings I found myself feeling in the aftermath of the overdose death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, I’d find myself prepped and ready to unleash all of my pent up anger and frustration and judgment. I’d craft an impenetrable wall of logic, passion and scorn, wad it up into a ball and hurl it at the world.

With this event, with this tragic and epically sad event I feel nothing but compassion. I fear all the judgment I’ve made in the past was merely a way of releasing the anger I felt at my grandfather for compromising my family. To some degree it took me getting to a certain age so I could get some perspective. He was my papa. If parents are gods to a child as the world slowly emerges while they hold your hand, Papa’s are Zeus. To such a small creature as myself the thought of compassion or empathy for Zeus sounds crazy. But you grow up and you learn that they are simply human, just like you. You know this earlier, but emotionally it takes some time to think of them as anything but residents of Mt. Olympus. This latest news has informed that perspective and filled me with sadness.

I’m sick for the mere thought of his parents. The journey they are on now is one with no maps, no guarantees and virtually no guides. I am positively sick for them.

He was a young man who accomplished impressive things in his short time. Not of the typical, garden variety worldly accomplishments kind. He accomplished great acts of caring and loving and giving that I was afforded the opportunity to witness first hand a thousand times over at the place where I knew him. It was a place of work, yes, but it was more a community of caring and he was an admired practitioner in a land of giants. To know that there was so much love their for the taking had it been what he needed just kills me. Love of truly good people who thought the world of him. And not just yesterday, everyday. He was squarely in the middle of this powerful community. And even that didn’t save him.

I have been there. I often had to remind myself of how awfully I judged people that did this in order to keep myself from trying it. I think it was chemical and I think it was situational and I think it lasted much longer than it should have because of depressants. Alcohol. But I also think I did things that put me in a position to die, and not little things we all did a few times, real things. I’m lucky. It always surprises me when I hear people say that they can’t imagine what he must have been feeling. I always assumed we all could understand it. I can put myself at the moment. I can see how one gets there. I can remember being that age and that stage and feeling it. Intensely.

As has been true since I first found out it had happened, my thoughts and feelings about my Grandfather continue to evolve. Thankfully. Now, as a man, as a parent I have a great deal more understanding and acceptance that despite whatever was happening, he didn’t know how his final act would so effect those around him. He had no idea, couldn’t see so far beyond the giant pain that was hurting him so deeply. Whatever ideas we all think we have about the event, we don’t know. What we can surmise though is this. He was in extreme pain. He was a man that loved his family dearly and deeply and the pain was enough to block out even that. So now I take the time to feel sorry for him. Truly sad for him. It took me almost 30 years.

Meltdowns and Moments

There’s a lot of little boy in Char these days but his fading toddlerhood is grasping tightly and asserting itself. He’s resisting a change that is as inevitable as it is terrifying as it is exciting. With every transition like this parts of him pass to history and parts of us do as well. While the resistance can be annoying, we all get it. We understand more than he knows. We abhor the idea of him being independent in all the ways we are diligently training him to be. We’re at the ‘finishing school’ stage of toddlerdom. We are working to teach him courtesy, niceties, the expected behavior of polite society. As a conscientious objector to such responsibility he is reverting to earlier tools of resistance, such as crying, yelling, aggressively resisting direction, stamping feet and crying louder.

The kid is in an epic phase of melting down. He has the toddler equivalent of senioritis. He’s resisting the change that he wants. Now that it’s upon him he’s freaking out. When I think of it this way I’m able to have some more patience. He doesn’t want to be acting this way either. He just is discovering that big parts of life are not controlled by him and he doesn’t believe that the way life should be.

He’s taken to hurting us to test the limits of his powers. To explore the darker side of life. He is fond of telling me my status in his eyes upon seeing me. “I don’t like you, daddy.’ He’s even said he hates us. He’s four and we are the safe space to explore these things, so I tell him that that’s fine, but that I’m still the grown up and he has to obey me because I’m in charge. I tell him that mommy and I and his teachers are in charge because we know how to keep him safe. To which he says, having heard who the hell knows what, ‘but daddy, I don’t like you.’

But here’s the thing, Charlie. In the way that you mean it, that I’m doing something that makes you unhappy or uncomfortable, even though it’s what must be done, in that exact same way, I don’t like you right now. In fact, when I see you, changing into a boy, leaving behind most of your toddler ways, and for the final time putting down all of what was you as my precious little baby, I too don’t like you for doing it. Were I as in tune and in touch with my emotions as you are, and lacking all of the niceties of adulthood, I’d have an epic tear spewing meltdown too. I may not be thinking it when I’m pulling my hair out trying to convince you to take your medicine or brush your teeth, but you are beginning the long walk away from me. You’re simple need to grow up is chipping away at your need for me. And once you’ve had that feeling, the feeling I still have for you, feelings that are ever so slightly less necessary with every tiny milestone you cross, I am sad and wistful. Sometimes I yell and shout and try desperately to hold on to every inch of my influence and necessity, because, and this is where I’m with you my melting down boy, the second I was given that gift of being your daddy I’ve treasured every difficult, painful, joyful, hysterical, maddening and delightful aspect of it and I know that I’m never going to have any of it back. I’m going to grow, and our relationship will morph into other things, but I’m never going to rock you to sleep in a swaddle ever again. I’m not going to change another one of your diapers. I won’t be buying you stuffed animals at Thruway rest stops and delighting in catching you in the rear view mirror, snuggling your buddy until you fall asleep. More things will be added, but now begins the subtractions. You are growing up, and for that I’m mad at you. Don’t mistake me, I’m proud of you, thrilled for you, impressed by you and awed by you and everything you do, even the tough and challenging stuff. Its just that I’m also sad. And when I realize what that portends, I’m even a little mad.

Life is full of change and transitions and they often are as painful as they are exciting. This won’t be the last time you are made uncomfortable by change. That’s okay. The changes are okay and so is the discomfort. The discomfort and the resistance are signs that we continue to move through life, accepting challenges, some of our choosing and many that are thrust upon us. While it may not be pleasant all the time, change is the one constant. Everything changes all the time. Resisting the change, being uncomfortable and even angry at the change makes you human. Keep changing, keep resisting, keep fighting and keep crying. It’s the road to where you’re going. It’s a road with beautiful and tragic changes and sometimes it’s hard to know which is which until it’s over. But keep changing, stay curious, keep that fire that so infuriates the people that fear the changes as much as you do and don’t be afraid to be afraid. Without the changes and the fears and the failures you’ll never get to where you’re going. But once you get there, and for me that’s here, with you and your brother and mommy, you’ll appreciate every fall and every wrong turn that got you to precisely where you were meant to be.

Our Second First Date

It’s strange to sit across from a person you clearly love, you’re clearly committed to and realize that you’ve forgotten how to be alone with them. I mean how can you be uncomfortable with a person with whom you have an open-door bathroom policy. With whom you have a nearly decade old conversation going with.

I’ll tell you how. Have kids and don’t even pretend to take care of yourself. Fall so head over heels in love with your kids and be so bowled over and unprepared emotionally that without a word you both decide to fling off all sense of reason and balance and dive headfirst into losing yourself in your kids. It’s exactly as unhealthy as it sounds. We made not even a passing attempt at fooling ourselves. We were goners at first sight. The last time we were on a date, one with drinks and hopes of romance, we were entirely different people. Our lives have been taken over by kids and we gave up our other identities long ago.

So when it finally came around, last weekend, our first true date in four years. we were woefully unprepared to let the shoulders down. We’d captured romance in the wild from time to time in the years since and we are as solid as solid can be. She is the love of my life and I’m perfectly comfortable stating that I’m the love of her life. But there is no sense denying that the giant elephant that trampled our previous selves has left us with some work to do.

We found ourselves across from one another in a quiet restaurant chosen by our former selves. Two people full of ideas and interests eagerly and enthusiastically looking to share and listen to this person we wanted to impress. Those people while still in their same shells, sort of, were gone. All we could think of was the kids. We both wanted this to be about something else, but what else is there at this point? They aren’t only our beloved children, they’re also our only context for a relationship at this point. It was uncomfortable. They didn’t even serve alcohol so we couldn’t loosen up chemically to hope to spark things. Nope. Just blank stares, apologies for everything, unable to get out of each others way. It was awkward and painful. In fact, by the time they came for the order we had already decided to get a RIDICULOUSLY overpriced appetizer each, to woof it down and get out of their as soon as possible. Which is exactly what we did.

We moved on to a pub. Sports on the TV’s, loud music and 50 or so adventurous and ordinary beers on tap. It was the best thing we could have done. We both started to unwind and we removed the unwritten rule that we had imposed about not talking about the kids. We ordered french fries and onion rings and about a beer in our shoulders relaxed and we started delighting in making one another laugh. Some of the laughter was about the kids, some of it was about our own foibles. Some of it was about what was occurring in the room. In the moment. It was a delight. It was natural and easy. Before long we were up to our old tricks. I may have even convinced her to write a guest post as ‘Developing Mom’. We welled up and we cracked up and we felt a giant spark and shared excitement. We started to plan our future dating life now that we had a wonderful babysitter (a story for another time). We made sure to have enough cash to tip her graciously so as to be sure she’d be willing to come back. Two toddlers isn’t every 25 year olds idea of an awesome Saturday night. Then we started to cop to our general difficulty. It’s midwinter and the combination of cabin fever, short days and freezing cold had made us both hard to be around from time to time. Not to mention the daily challenges of raising the boys. We haven’t always been either fair or loving to one another and it did us both some good both to admit it, and to be relieved of some of the responsibility for it by the other helping to carry the load.

I’m getting excited. We learned some things on our second first date. We certainly have more things to learn going forward. But what’s becoming clear to me and I think to us, is that we have to do some work on our own at this point. Each of us on our own have to think about how we want to engage the world around us and who we are each going to be as we slowly get out from under the crushing awesomeness of new parenthood. We have to share our new ideas and new dreams of the future with one another as many of the parameters have changed in the years since we related to each other what those dreams originally were. We have to discover ourselves again. We get to discover each other again.

A few months before the first one showed up... — A few months before the first one showed up…

I fell in love with my wife almost instantly when we met. We were married a year and a half later and we were parents 2 years after that. What’s happened since has changed us and we have to take time to remember those people that we were. The wonderful thing is that I get to do it all over again. At this stage of the game there’s nothing that holds so much excitement as getting the chance to fall in love all over again with the woman I love more than anything.

On The Road Again

Okay. It was a cruel trick to prompt your interest by using the great Willie Nelson’s song title. I have two children neither of whom can wipe their own butt yet. Both of whom are interested in doing so at the most improper times. We are not ‘on the road’ anytime soon.

You may have noticed a badge on my blog as of late (a picture, to the many people, myself included who wouldn’t have understood it to be a badge) that says ‘Original Bunker Punk’. Or something like that. It’s not here in the section I write in and I can’t be bothered to look.. Anyway, this badge is a welcome addition to my ever dwindling sense of self. A much needed boost to that portion of my brain and my person that has been neglected for the years since the kids turned up. It’s me. A newer and more up to date me. I couldn’t be prouder of that badge. I’m a bunker punk.

Now I have been called a punk precisely never. So what. One things for sure, I’m a weirdo and I’ve recently become not only comfortable with that, but also proud of it. The punks that have picked me were not looking for any credentials and I took them up on their invitation before anyone could look into my bona fide’s. I’ve come to truly love the daily support and ribaldry that membership in this syndicate has afforded me. We are a fairly talented, awfully opinionated, very supportive, hysterically funny and genuinely delusional group of auteurs and authors. So say I.

So when I was told we were going on tour I immediately started getting in tour shape. Beers for breakfast, sleeping in cars and driving from city to city selling bean burritos out of my trunk. When I sobered up in a Walmart parking lot, surrounded by various baby boomers in various recreational vehicles, I decided I should go back and try to figure out what my group leaders really meant by this. Thing is, I don’t really know. What I have determined is that they were, one at a time, posting a ‘tour piece’. This consisted of answering a standardized set of questions. It was an interview. Well, shit, why didn’t they say so. I mean the whole reason I did this was to get attention, and now you’re asking me questions! Form questions, but still, that’s an honor in my book. I’ll take it!

Without further adieu….

1. What is your most prized possession?

My most prized posessions are all the handmade pieces of art and loveliness my parents have made for me. Any of my dissatisfaction with life that peeks through from time to time is merely temperamental, human condition stuff. My parents, like all parents, are imperfect. But they are imperfect, perfectly so. They are wonderful people who have taught me how to love life and the people that are in mine.

2. How do you unwind after a long day?

I used to drink. A lot. Probably will again someday. But the truth is engaging my brain in activities that differ from what my stress is induced by is the best way to unwind. TV is the norm. Books, particularly novels and baseball books focusing on the sports history before 1901 have been my choice of late. Mostly, when I have a minute, I write. I’m pretty much engaged in the activity all the time, in my head, so the chance to get the ideas out is wonderful.

3. What is one song that has followed you throughout your whole life?

I have not been stalked by a song, but their are a few that stick out I suppose. Blackbird, The Beatles I remember from my youth and love it still. My mother would sing Stevie Wonder, ‘You are the apple of my eye’ to me as a kid. I’ve always loved ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty. I don’t know why, but it was always a song I thought was great, even though many find it mockworthy.

4. If you could give one piece of advice to new bloggers what would it be?

Write first with complete honesty and shamelessness then make it artful afterwards. For me writing is a way not only of understanding the world, but of getting to know myself, and unless I feel free to be as honest as I can on the first go round it’s usually not too good. At least on those pieces that are meaningful and connective. Funny can be applied to nearly any sincere piece of writing without harming that sincerity, but without the sincerity you’re just engaging in an intellectual exercise, which has it’s place, but doesn’t resonate as much as the really true stuff.

And finally, a quote from moi….

Nobody cares what you know until they know that you care.

And this one from my mom…

Cash rules everything around me, cream get the money, dollar dollar bills, y’all.

Deep stuff. Powerful.

The Dumb Dads Guide to Love and Parenthood

Those of you reading this are parents. If you are not a parent, go away. Go outside. Have a drink in the middle of the day. Have two. Go speed dating and drive anywhere within ten hours to go see live music that makes you happy, or even sad if that’s your thing with music. Go read a book, for hours, until you are so tired you fade to sleep. You get the hell out of here. Stop reading this instant and go live the life you will look back on fondly someday. Leave this echo chamber. You don’t belong here and the chatter of this place will only annoy you. TAKE. A. NAP. and know that we all look at you with piteous envy. Pity cause babies are awesome. Envy because of every other thing. Almost literally, every other one.

Now that it’s just us, allow me to tell you, my people, the people that will ‘get me’, what’s the what. But before that, if you go around telling people things like, ‘I never had any troubles with it. My kids slept through the night from the start.’ go to hell. Seriously. Get out of my sight. Its fine if your little magic unicorn babies were perfect. I believe you and I’m happy for you. But if you’ve been exposed to the same parent talk that all of the rest of us have and you still choose to say such things to people having really difficult times, I have no need of you. Disperse. You are not welcome here. You are simply one of two types of people. You are either just straight up a mean person that practices the unhealthy art of Schadenfreude or you are so lacking in self awareness and just plain old awareness that I don’t allow that you could possibly enjoy this. Get. Scatter.

For the rest of US, the brave truth tellers unafraid to bare themselves, failure in front (I happen to suffer a similar biological trait, come to think of it) this is our story. I wish that this were a list of misfortunes and that I would be deserving of your feelings of empathy. But it is not. It is in fact a listing of decisions made, some of them resulting in unnecessarily difficult situations, bordering on the untenable. While I appreciate the empathy you may have, I warn you now, it is undeserved. These are the decisions of a dumb and loving dad who has made many decisions that could be mocked by anyone with even a passing understanding of foresight.

We have a spare room, yet we choose to put our two toddlers in the same one. This is the result of idealism mixed with laziness. This is a standard form of reasoning for me. One that causes many a situation I regret, but one that almost never results in me learning a lesson.
We were so overwhelmed, and perhaps so old, that it took so much of our energy to get through the baby times that I walked away from a job because I wasn’t good at balancing my responsibilities. This comes from love. Pure love. Its dumb and defensible and I’d do it again. But if you’d like to donate to the dumb daddy fund please note this in the comments. I’d link to a fundraising page, but, you know, lazy.
We have had exactly one evening (maybe 3 and a half hours, give or take) away from our kids. Ever. Our oldest just turned 4. This may be the dumbest, and oddly, considering what it is we’re talking about, the laziest of our transgressions.
For all our tough talk with our kids we break like 7th grade shoplifters in the mall security office when they get feisty. Our precious little boy is now four and like many other four year olds he’s added a hefty dose of monstrousness to his repertoire. It’s to be expected and yet, it’s incredibly unpleasant. We are considering just barricading ourselves in the kitchen and throwing sugary treats at him when he gets ~~angry~~ emotional.
We have a memory of putting our little man to bed and it taking all of five minutes. Granted, the lead up has always been a bear, but now, both of them require their own hour of support, love, confrontation therapy and 7-12 separate tuck ins. I’m not really sure what of the many dumb things we’ve done has resulted in this, but make no mistake, whatever part of this is natural, we’ve done our share to make sure it is as bad as it can be.
Superheroes. We dumbly allowed these to happen. Damn. Wish I could have that one back.

Their is no amount of trials and tribulations that having kids has brought us that could even move the scale when it is balanced against the shear awesomeness of having kids. But my god, will I ever stop adding to the challenges with my own stubborn commitment to being a dummy.

Are You Mad At Me?

Dear reader. I am not a monster. I’m simply recognizing a flaw in my character and shining a big old stinking light on it. Besides, it’s winter and the mind turns strange during the shortest days of the year

I was difficult to be around this weekend. My wife may have been as well, but it would only have been a reflection of my own extreme defensiveness that would have made her so. The reality of such a weekend is unpleasant.

I try very hard to avoid my wife’s sensitivities.

That’s me passive aggressively assigning to her that which is my problem. Unfortunately my psyche is gifted in it’s desire to protect itself. The result is me setting up situations that leave us both walking on eggshells. For her the feeling is justified. For me, not so much.

My wife and I share a great many commonalities as well as many wonderful, synergistic differences. Where she sees trees I see forest and thank god for both of us that it is thus. Where she may have mild anxieties of the safety variety, I am so aloof as to be a danger at times. Furthermore, we crack each other up. Not everything we find funny is shared, but we find ourselves laughing hysterically all the time.

Fear is our downfall. Specifically my fear.

For much of my life I established norms that wouldn’t allow people to take up permanent residence. If I started to become invested in you, if I felt myself starting to pull you closer despite my emotionally locked elbows keeping you at arms length, I would go into rejection mode. There was a certain fleeting nature to my friendships and loves and connections.

I would tell people that my personal philosophy was, and I embarrassingly quote myself here, ‘float, don’t stick.’ As life philosophies go, ‘Float, don’t stick.’ is a remarkably efficient expression of a fairly broad worldview that I now see expressed more sensitivity and vulnerability then I thought it did. While my life has fortunately developed deep and meaningful roots, there is still a portion of my psyche that is still super sensitive and hyper vigilant to real and more often imagined indicators that I’m brushing up against someone who considers me objectionable. Perhaps I arrived fully in possession of this trait at birth or perhaps it was fostered and fed through my youth as I tried to find attention while conscientiously trying to avoid being seen looking for attention. My fear often flies out of me as self-righteous indignation. It flies loudly and has a perfect targeting system. It defends itself with meticulous and specific arguments of logic that are maddeningly effective. Anything that reflects any responsibility for bad feelings away from me is perfectly on target in my opinion. (I’d prefer to say ‘it’s’ opinion, but I suppose I have to own it now.) It so perfectly replicates true self-righteous indignation it’s not always easy to know the difference.

When my wife is annoyed, a state anyone is entitled to, my delicate and fragile sense of self goes into full on protection mode. I come baring arms in the attempt to make sure that if this is the one, if this little threat is gonna be the one, the one that takes this person away from me, I’m getting out in front, real loud. I’m getting big like a bear so you, me and all the world can see I’m not to blame, it’s not my fault. Can you imagine how hard it is to be with me in those moments? Don’t get me wrong, they are balanced out by a pretty awesome guy, but this aggressive little prick in defense of his ultimate value as a human is pretty impossible to tolerate. Even for me.

My wife finds aggressive confrontation unpleasant. She’s a rational adult that way. Her response may be to shut down a bit. Disengage from the unwarranted unpleasant guy. A very reasonable response to a scared lunatic. My subconscious worries that she’s abandoning me. So I do what I do. It’s a cycle propelled by me, at my worst.

If thing’s are awful at work or your sister said something that really hurt or if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed and the world has been in cahoots with your demons all day and you just don’t feel right, I’m often the worst kind of partner. The truth is I am taking the barometric pressure of your furrowed brows and long pauses and transmogrifying this data, this information pointing to your discomfort, and sculpting it to fit into my fear. I’m making your possible bad day worse, as I’ve stolen it from you and made it a me problem. I’m so scared in fact that I’m not going to lead with empathy, I’m not going to try to comfort you. I’m going to ask you if you’re mad at me. A terribly unfair and pointed question with a terrible disguise of concern, barely hiding a self centered concern for me.

‘Are you mad at me?’

What an awful way to care for a person. What a dismissive, even co-optive maneuver. you are experiencing some difficulty and pain? Maybe? Give it here! Mine mine mine! Cripes. Its my giant blind spot, much like my unavoidable self criticism.

The silver lining in this grey cloud? I’m aware of it and will try to be better. I will.

She’s lovely. She’s loving. She’s far too good for me.

The humility. Oh god, the humility.

She really is too good to me... — She really is too good to me…

To Charlie on his 4th Birthday

Our older boy turns 4 tomorrow. Its a funny thing that happens to time when you have kids. Some of the days can last a century, easy, but when you pick your head up on those days when the math is evident, unavoidable and unasailable it feels like it’s a total lie. Their is no way that our night in the hospital and our fist moments of parenthood in a delivery room as a family, running on pure adrenaline and love and fascination, were so long ago. Perhaps its that that moment has been adjacent to each and every moment since so it never feels like we’ve ever fully left that moment.

In the time since we have constructed memories that could sustain several lifetimes. Tiny moments of victory and failure and befuddlement and amusement. It’s enough to make your heart fill to overflowing to think of it. You have changed so much from that little baby boy to the big boy you are today and we are so very proud of you. While we know their are many roads to a magical and fulfilling life, we never knew that the roads we were on, separate at first then together, were roads that were leading us to you. We thank our lucky stars that we managed to find one another because now that we were given the chance to meet you we can’t imagine life without you.

To the world we are a young family (old parents, but young at being a family), toddlers in tow, fairly disheveled, but all in all getting it done. We could be doing a lot better, for sure, but theirs also no denying that we could be doing a lot worse. The truth is its a time in our little man’s life when he is learning at a rate that is so accelerated that you could never put his focus in a box. With every hello, with every question, with every sunrise he’s learning and it’s a journey that we like to think we are facilitating. I guess to a very small degree we are, but largely we’re the security team to our little boys curiosities. He is in the lead and we are trying our damnedest not to get in his way and slow him down. We fail in this effort everyday. Thankfully your determination is never deterred by our limited abilities. We just become one more obstacle to conquer. Which you do everyday.

The truth is that the roles are almost completely reversed from how they appear. Others may see two adults trying to teach their children about anything and everything, but from the second we could conceive of you we’ve been the students and you our tireless teacher who never has given up on us despite our many many attempts to give you reason to do so. But you never do.

I could write a manual about the techniques of parenting that you’ve taught us. Perhaps someday I will. But what I want to use this occasion to do is to simply say thank you to our guide through this greatest challenge and greatest joy we’ll ever know. As with any mentor/mentee dynamic, the lessons we’ve been taught are technical, yes, but it’s the lessons we’ve learned about life that were never the intended curriculum, but also always the whole point of the endeavor that we are thankful for.

I’m sure your mother’s list of cornerstone lessons would vary from mine. She is a different pupil with different needs. This is my list, and I can’t thank you enough for all you have taught me and for all that you will.

Beware the Tyranny of Cool: This is one that’s going to snap back to bite you in about ten years. Probably sooner. Thanks to you I’m almost completely over my need to be seen as cool on sight. I’m unabashedly and unashamedly and often unavoidably uncool these days. I’m in fact a bit of a hot mess. But since you’ve arrived all of that judgment, all of that self criticism for simply not being seen by others as, I don’t know, cool, is gone. I used to gauge my sense of myself by how I was assessed by others. I didn’t think I did, but you have made me self-possessed and unafraid of what the others think.
Embrace Failure. Make it Your Friend: Their are things I have to learn in this regard still, but you have started me down the road. Which isn’t to say I avoided failure in the past. Quite to the contrary, prior to you I would very much seek it out. I was so afraid of failure that I defanged it by being in control of it. Best way to control it was to ensure failure. It’s a tactic I’ve used my whole life. I dropped out of kindergarten. Think about that. Now I embrace failure after sincere efforts rather than after self defeating ones. Sincere ones like this very blog. Thanks to you I am no longer seeking out failure nor am I avoiding it. It’s just another outcome that is a thing to learn from. I know. I’ve failed so many times with you and each time I’ve eventually learned and never thrown up my hands and quit. Never could with you. Like all great teachers you inspire me to improve and face challenges forthrightly.
Put Down Childish Things: This means different things to different people. For me it meant putting down self-consciousness. It meant putting down the bottle or at least putting the bottle in its place. It meant letting go of fear. Fear of failure, fear of commitment, fear of judgment and fear of change. You pretty much took care of many of those that first hour I knew you. For me simply knowing you is enough to have caused a change of tides, a change of truth as I know it.
Confidence: Not some quantifiable confidence but the confidence that comes with purpose. You weren’t my first influence and your grandparents did a pretty good job of providing me with a sense of purpose. But their was an endpoint to what they could teach as their will be to what you’re able to learn from your mother and I. I have always known I was meant to be helpful and this was something that gave me a goal. But you, you my friend arrived with buckets and buckets of purpose for me to carry. And when you arrived you wasted no time in giving me those buckets. Their have been a great many ups and downs since then, times when it isn’t at all clear what the hell was right, but not for one second since have I ever lost my purpose.

Thank you. I love you with all my heart. Happy Birthday!

Losing the Fastball

First night as a dad, last night I was aware of things in the world outside my home

I’ve used up all my brain power. My intellectual fastball of yesteryear is gone. I’m a junkballer at this point. My capacity and my output in regard to my mind were often miles apart. Whatever natural intelligence I had was rarely used and slowly ossifying anyway. That said I miss it. I now wish I hadn’t so dismissed things like talent maximization to create personal cash flow. Would’ve been cool to get that machine running before losing all of my intelligence to my dadness, no?

Here’s a sample of what has been lost and what it’s been replaced by….

Where once their was a list of novels and various non-fiction works that I was working my way through, a list compiled through recommendations from literate friends in conversation and my weekly devouring of the New York TImes Book Review there is now a detailed knowledge of every way to access Nick Jr. and PBS Kids regardless of where I am or what time it is.
Where once their was an overarching commitment to staying current with the events of the day through consuming the distinguished and respectable news outlets daily their is a detailed list of museums and sporting events and community recreation spots that are kid friendly (bathrooms) and I can order them intuitively based on cost. Not just price mind you, but all the ways they get you. You know, dad math.
I used to enjoy a glass of wine or a beer or a scotch of an evening while reading or watching copious amounts of pop culture reference points from the worlds of all media in order to keep my witty repartee current. I now relax after the going to bed/cleaning-the-house-just-barely-enough-to-keep-child-services-at-bay portion of the evening with a bowl of ice cream and one of the same Big Bang Theory episodes I’ve seen a thousand times by now before slinking to bed, or turning to Sportscenter and zoning out like a four year old with an Ipad. Breaking Bad sounds like a mashup of an 80’s teen dance movie and a Michael Jackson cassingle to me.
Where I would formerly have had every note Phish had played from 1995-2002 committed to memory, as well as a completists knowledge of early rap/hip-hop that could be culled whenever the situation required it, I now have every single word of “Little Blue Truck” and “Good Night Moon” and “The Going to Bed Book” so committed to memory that I can convince my little ones that I can read in the dark, even knowing when to turn the page. It’s pretty awesome to set the kids on your lap, open the book and close your eyes for the entirety of the read. Except when you fall asleep, which you do a lot.
I used to dazzle my coworkers in meetings with my ability to synthesize creative solutions to divergent problems in a manner that was both genius and elegant. Now I respond to these problems by referencing how Curious George would go about closing the gap in the budget followed by endless bragging about my two year old’s ability to climb stairs and tiresome scrolls through thousands of pictures of them on my phone.
I used to accidentally and absentmindedly listen to NPR for whole days. Now when I come to I realize that I left it on Sprout and that cursed Caillou is on, and has been. For hours. With no kids in sight.

It’s a shame, really. These kids really missed the boat. Their daddy really had it going on.

My Days with Phish — Obviously photoshopped, but hoping to create false memories of my life as the fifth member of Phish

Luckiest Kid In the World

I’m pretty sure that my faded feelings of angst were borrowed. Perhaps they’re inherited. Whatever the case may be they are sincere. At least at one point they were. they’ve largely been replaced by more literary feelings better described as ennui or melancholia and these occupy a tiny spectrum of my mood wheel that would be a teeny tiny fraction of the area formerly owned by angst.
This is not to say that it wasn’t come upon honestly. While my supporting documentation wouldn’t seem to support my general affect, that’s not the same as saying the feelings were an act. They weren’t. They were just an inheritance. A side effect of a temperament that can lend itself to self-pity and biology that can skew toward depression.

The reality of my life couldn’t be more at odds with this discordant temperament. My family in all directions is nothing but wonderful. I have 5 to 8 siblings depending on how that term is defined. Strictly biologically speaking I have 5, but if you count all of the kin that grew up with seats at the table and familial relations it’s definitely the more inclusive number. All of whom have been a delight to know. They are smart and funny. Challenging and tolerant. They are supportive and fun. While we don’t all see each other as much as we’d like, we are a hoot to be around when we do get together. My brothers and sisters are generous with their time, money and love and we all have a deep appreciation at this point for the family we were blessed with.

My nuclear family at the moment is in a constant state of becoming and it’s a process i so clearly delight in. I’m learning every day to be better at being okay. My natural tendency to harsh self-criticism has been mitigated by the perspective and presentness of parenthood. It is impossible to dwell too in depthly at this point in my life and I couldn’t be more grateful. The morass that my wallowing would accompany was a useless emotional appendage that had become a dependable crutch and occasionally a warm security blanket. Make no mistake people, light depression surrounded by loving support is a perfectly sustainable and comfortable existence. It’s just not a very productive one.

But the greatest gift I’ve been given are my parents. I spent my youth, roughly age 9-30-something, defining myself away from them. A ridiculous but necessary endeavor. The only problem is I’m actually the luckiest person on earth in this regard. And this is not just bias. Other people, considerable numbers of others, would agree with this. My parents have opened their homes and their hearts to anyone in need for as long as I can remember. They have literally played Santa Claus for the world without ever taking credit. They hold hands and say prayers every night for all of their children, all of their children’s friends and express genuine thankfulness and appreciation for the beauty of life itself in the midst of challenges that would crush me and many others. Their generosity has literally known no bounds.

Beyond this they are such wonderful barometers of what is important in life. This year they have put the home I grew up in on the market and downsized to a beautiful new home that is much more suited to their current needs. While we are all delighted for them, it has come with nostalgic feelings that are hard to process. But my parents are so in tune with who we are and what we need that they took the time to address it in the most loving and delicate of ways.

We received our Christmas box at our door a few weeks before the holiday and having little ones, immediately banished it from sight, not to be opened until Christmas eve. When we did so we were thrilled to see the wonderful toys and gifts for the kids we knew would be in there. My mother knows little boys and the big trucks and wrapped boxes are all a big part of the mornings excitement and they nailed it. But underneath that were some gifts for us. My mother put together a beautiful album of photo’s lovingly taken of the house in all it’s glory and then in all its spacious emptiness and shots from outside and from the windows. Everything I’ll need in my dotage to be transported back in time to the place that will always be my specific home. It was enough on it’s own. But my mom also included a disc. And this is where she truly gets it. She went into a room in our old homestead and recorded herself singing all of her favorite Christmas carols. Can you even imagine? In such a self-conscious world to be reminded by this humble and beautiful servant of what matters. My mothers voice is my most native language and this is a treasure that I will take and place alongside so many others that I’ve been lucky enough to receive from my folks.

Further down in the box was what my mother always sends. At least it appeared to be. It was a holiday piece, covered in holly decoration intended for a mantle for now and perhaps for a subtle centerpiece on a table once the kids can be trusted with such things. But it was more that that. Under the holly was a short cut of a tree. It had been created by my father, a talented artist who worked his whole career as an industrial designer. He had taken pieces of fallen wood from our home and fabricated this beautiful Christmas piece with his own hands. It will be loved and featured for the rest of my life. Because it is perfect. But also, and mostly, because it was made truly lovingly and thoughtfully and with a purpose to provide and show love to me and to my family.

At the bottom of the box was the final piece of the gift. It was a multi page narrative of the history of our house. It was a beautiful narrative from a designer, highlighting his choices in designing the house. He was not an architect, but he knew what he wanted so he learned how to design a house and did so. In a weekend. I know this and am bragging, but he is humble and would never mention it. He noted the wide walkways and large rooms meant to house his giant and growing family some 35 years ago. He recalled the glorious moments and the wonderful warmth of the family life that it so perfectly supported. His concrete and intelligent mind drifted to his heart and he shared personal and subtle examples of the life this house had hosted. It was so beautiful and could barely get through reading it to Karen that first night. I will take this piece out to read at least once a year. It will be a part of my life forever. And there’s nothing they could have gotten me that will mean more than they did.

The lessons I’ve learned and my wonderful good fortune is sometimes lost on me. But thankfully I have reminders that mine is a wonderful life indeed.

It’s ‘Award Winning’ Blogger, Thank You Very Much

Wow. I can’t believe I’m here. I’m.. it’s… just, wow!

Okay. Everyone says to write something down cause you’ll forget about someone and I so wish I wasn’t so superstitious. I mean you can’t explain it. As I stand here it’s like time is stopped completely and is hurtling forward so fast I can’t gather my thoughts. Dammit. I’m rambling.

First off I’d like to thank the bunker. Without you none of this would even be possible. Secondly, I can’t tell you how much of an honor it is to just be nominated. Truly. To my fellow nominees, all of you, thank you. Your excellence has pushed me past where I ever thought my brain, or ass for that matter, could go! I’d like to thank the moms. All of em. Mine. Yours. My kids. Lord knows that men don’t read. It’s a harsh generalization, and insofar as generalizations can be, totally accurate. Thanks for reading and allowing me to be vulnerable in front of the world. And for you dads out there that have shown support, I count you amongst those moms. I’d like to thank my Intro to Web Logging Professor, Punk Rock Poppa, AKA Briton, for nominating me. Your words inspire and your youth confounds and occasionally infuriates, but your wisdom abides. Thanks to Developing Mom, with out whom I’d never have found this outlet. Thanks most to Al Gore for creating this platform that has allowed one small man’s voice to ring out through the world and to be heard by literally dozen’s if not scores of mildly amused fellow scribes. Hat’s off to you sir.

I have been given the Inspirational blogger award. I was nominated by Briton Underwood, the Punk Rock Poppa. I start often with a joke, and the above paragraphs tone is an unfunny man’s attempt at humor. But sincerely, I really am touched that he thought to nominate me. I’m actually truly honored. Further, I’m grateful that he found a blog piece of mine amusing and took the time to investigate more and make me a part of his little corner of the web. A corner rich in community and soaring with talent and truly funny people. Thank you, all!

Without further adieu, I move on to the interview portion of this program…

1. Why did you start blogging?

Because I’d been writing my whole life and harbored a deep seeded fear and desire that my work should be read. I have countless boxes of notebooks filled with my tiny scrawlings documenting my emotional journey through life. Dozens of attempts at fiction writing, novels and short stories started and abandoned. Journals and journals of genuinely thoughtful observations buried in pitiable accounts of petty rage and self loathing. Writings how I understand myself, the world and how the two exist in relation to one another. Having kids made me realize I wanted to open a lot of that up to public view. Blogging was the easiest way to do that.

2. What is the book you have read that has touched you the most?

I haven’t read much since the kids. My brain is half of what it used to be and their just isn’t enough space. But I was a copious reader before then. The titles that have most resonated are A Prayer for Owen Meaney, The Poisonwood Bible, Rule of the Bone and Rushmore. I know the last ones a movie, but it’s the type of movie that plays like a book and is very much tonally what I’d love to be able to do.

3. If you could eat dinner with a famous person who is still living, whom would you choose?

The truth of this one is probably Tony Kornheiser and the entirety of the crew of folks that populate his radio show. I know it’s silly, but I truly love being a fan of this show. Thank god for Podcasting. The list would be much longer and filled with many more fascinating minds if the question were who’s wall would I like to be a fly on. Frankly, a lot of my fellow bloggers seem to lead lives and have families that I’d like to see functioning without having the effect of me being in the group. I suppose that sense of being inside but not present is also a part of why I enjoy films and books so much. Hm… interesting…

4. Where is the one place you have visited that gives you complete calmness?

Two places. One, lying flat on my back and watching the planes come in every two minutes miles overhead in the meadow in Prospect Park. Two, A trail we hiked on a whim off the side of the road between the village of Lake Placid and Whiteface Mt. in the Adirondacks that brought us to a spectacular untouched, crystal clear mountain lake. It’s breathtaking…

5. Are you a bucket list person? If so, name one thing on it?

I’m not. But I’d love to write a novel. Also, I’d like to be able to make a living by writing. So far I’ve made nothing and it’s cost me quite a bit, but a boy can dream.

6. What is the goal of your blog?

A goal sounds like a thing that should drive you, but I’m really more of a process person. I guess if I were to impose a goal onto the blog it would be to provide an account of this time of life for myself and for those who may be curious, my son’s and family mostly, that helps inform the photo’s they have in the future and the ones that were never taken or have gone missing.

7. What is a well day spent to you?

It is a question that just reads terribly. It should say, ‘What is a day well spent in your opinion?’ All of them are well spent. The good the bad. The full of optimism and the ones where tears of rage and frustration gush forth and spew uncontrollably. We’re all going to die. Each of these days, even the most painful are well spent. That or catching a baseball game in the sun.Or reading. A day of reading would be great right about now.

8. How do you start your day?

Groggily. I’m over the hill with little kids. It’s all a bit bleary for a good few minutes. I’m usually awoken by the older boy yelling from his bed, ‘MOMMY!’ repeatedly. As she is usually downstairs with lil man I head in and deal with his frustration over the fact that I’m not mommy. Then we head downstairs and drink coffee by the bucket. I am not a healthy man.

9. What is your favorite holiday?

Thanksgiving. No doubt. Not a thing is even close. Four days off just to eat and drink and visit. It’s just great. Also, any holiday that forces one to stop and note their gratitude is pretty cool.

10. Are you where you want to be professionally and if not, what will you do about it?

No. Probably just keep plugging away, slow and steady. I’d like to find ways to supplement my income. We’ll see. The work I did, and loved, and committed my life to prior to having kids, is not really possible anymore, so I’m curious myself to see what will happen.

11. What is your favorite quote?

“J. Walter Weatherman? He’s dead. You killed him when you left the window open with the air conditioning on.” George Bluth

“I got news for you, Bub. Alcohols the reason you’re here, too.” Lucille Bluth

“Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be.” Abraham Lincoln

“If you want to increase your rate of success, double your rate of failure.” Thomas Watson

This concludes my interview. And before I move on to nominating five more bloggers, I’d like to say once again how thrilled I was to get this award. Sincerely.

Now, without further adieu I’d like to nominate Sippy Cups and Booze, thanks for speakin up for the fellas! Next Life No Kids cracks me up daily. Be sure to follow on FB as well! On to Mommies Drink, thank you for your insight! Nominating Juicebox Confessions is a bit absurd, akin to me trying to punch up jokes for Louis C.K., but she is the writer I hope to be someday, so ignore this if you like, just wanted to give the shout out… Finally, I nominate It’s a Mad Dad World… I dig his outlook..

Finally, thanks to Charlie and Teddy who’ve made me a dad.. They are my richest source of learning and a delightful reason to get up every painful morning. WAY too early1

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