developing dad

Thoughts, Vibes and Prayers

I had an epiphany this past year. Since then I’ve prayed for anyone who has asked me to. To anyone who asked for my prayers before my epiphany, I’m sorry.

I’ve come to the passionate belief that there is only this. This belief, for me, keeps me honest, accountable and caring. It means all my love, care, rewards, punishment, joys, pains and everything else you can imagine must fit inside the life I’m living now. It’s a deep, core belief of mine. One that I was inconsiderately, rudely and even aggressively defensive about since about the age of 13.

It’s hard to explain, but to the non-doctrinal among us expressions of belief often feel like aggressive acts. It feels like people are judging us, as they surely are, as I am them more often than I care to admit, and we get into a stance where we feel like we have to defend our simple belief that all of this is more than enough. More than enough reason for love and compassion and acts of kindness. My beliefs as well as my upbringing are the impetus for my good deeds and good works. My shortcomings, failings and acts of insensitivity are human. They are not evidence of a bad person. These unkind moments are evidence of an imperfect person or more succinctly they are evidence of a person. My acknowledgment of them, my apologies for them and my attempts to make up for them and correct them are grace. I’m about halfway through this journey if it goes to plan and I have a lot to be proud of, a lot to continue to work on and a lot to apologize for.

On that note I’d like to offer my apologies to anyone who was having a moment of stress, encountering tragedy or simply looking for my love and support and asked me to ‘send your love and prayers.’ I took this request as an attack on my beliefs, if you can imagine something so self-centered, egotistical and thoughtless. I promise you, my responses, my sincere expressions of support tinged with refusal of ‘you’re in my thoughts’ or ‘I’m sending you good vibes’ were sincerely intended to be supportive. They were. But I can’t lie, there was a piece of that love and support that I was withholding. For that I’m truly and deeply sorry.

It was a failing of mine to think these requests, this reaching out for support, was anything other than that. I can pray. In fact whenever I was asked to pray I did. In my way and with a sincere heart.

So going forward if you ask me to keep you in my thoughts, I will. If you ask me to send good vibes, that is what I will do. And if you ask me to pray for you, you’ll be in my prayers.

Love You, Pop

‘That’s cool.’ I said.
We were standing in my Nana and Papa’s driveway in Vero Beach, Fla. where they had retired after being classic ‘snowbirds’ from New Jersey, where they were classic urban/suburban migrants from Brooklyn. By this time they had settled away from the cold and snow for good.

It was dark and warm in November. I was no more than 10, an age that was much younger thirty years ago than it seems to be now. The warmth was novel and being in shorts in November was an absurdity to me being native to the snowbelt of Western New York.

‘Just think about what Papa’s seen. He was born in 1908. His earliest memories are of street maintained for horses. People weren’t even flying in anyway we think of it until he was man. A full grown man. Now we’re in his driveway watching the space shuttle take off.’ I could imagine it, I could conceive of what he was saying and my mind expanded that day. It was magic. He just layed it out with perspective, surely just trying to get me to understand why in fact ‘that’s cool’.

I feel shame about this now, but at the time I can say there was no intent to hurt at all, but when I was little I was a little embarrassed because I didn’t have all the same things as the other kids. We were fine. But we are also not descendents of robber barrons or royalty, and like any young family, and any large family, we occasionally didn’t get everything we wanted. One of those things in my case, at least for a few years, was the cool lunchbox. This is a thing to a 5 or 6 year old. A real thing to one, like myself, who had a tough go socially early on in school. I cried my way into a second kindergarten and once there was a kid that took a few hits. My parents were good and we were never too hurt, frankly, with the words, but I took a few sticks and stones in my day, mostly in the form of fists, and for me fitting in and avoiding having anything to make me draw attention as a VERY young lad was important.

When word got to him that I was disappointed by not having the same cool things everyone else had he solved it for me. Each night after getting all of us fed and to bed, all 5 at the time, 6 shortly thereafter, my mother would go about making lunches for the school kids. While my dad would surely help get this or that or go to the store to get bread or a bag of apples, the thing he did that I remember to this day is he would break out his tools, he being a designer by trade and a person that draws by nature, and draw pictures on my lunch bags. My brown lunchbags became pieces of art that I probably felt self conscious about at first. But quickly they became objects of desire for the other kids who would occasionally even ask to see them. This may have been a thing he did for years. He may only have done it once, who knows. But to this day I can remember a brown paper bag with a sea of waves and a tiny island, an island just big enough for a palm tree and the elephant that sat beneath it, head thrown back in laughter, trunk in the air. It was magnificent.

With the cacauphony of domestic life with six kids he took the time to insist I watch ‘Breaking Away’ with him when I’d reached an age. He somehow had the time to take me, just me, to go see my first concert, and he made it Pete Seeger. That was me. I’m the one that would be right for that show, of all the kids and he knew it. He’s received letters I’ve sent him about being confused about what I’m supposed to be doing in life, letters that I fear now showed more pain then intended. Or maybe not. He responded to them honestly, sending me letters back in which he let me know what he thought, let me know he knew I was a good person and an able and curious and smart and interesting person at a time when I needed to hear it. He sat down and read books becuase I said I thought he’d like them and took the time to understand that I was telling him about who I was and he respected my perspective, even before I did. He supported me and loved me and encouraged me at every turn. My guess would be that there’s 5 other folks out there that have a similar but unique story to tell about him.

My fathers the blueprint. These memories are little pieces of light he shined on me during times in my life that are increasingly relevant to what I’m doing now, with my own son’s surely approaching the age where I’ll do and say things that have long term impacts on how they are and who they are. For me I’m the proud son of a father that took on every responsibility he could, shared his love and curiosity simply and openly and was never ever too busy to be a dad to the kids who adored him. He was a good and decent man in all of his dealings and never once were we ever shown the example of a man making the expedient or convenient decision as opposed to the right and thoughtful decision. No matter how hard it might have been.

My father is a good and decent man.

It’s a humble phrase isn’t it. It’s unassming, direct, concise and unadorned. It speaks volumes without expressing any untoward pride. It’s very simpleness expresses a certain humility. Unfortunately, in regard to my father its a lie. A lie of omission. He’s far more then this very sufficient description. A description I had the great good fortune of assuming was common. A description that I’ve come to find out is an aspirational one for so many men. For my dad being simply good and decent was his floor. He was typically far greater then merely good and decent. I’m just thankful that I’ve gained enough perspective and managed to finally grow up enough to realize just how much that has meant to me.

I love you, Pop.

Our New World

I remember with great fondness, even a touch of longing, the Saturdays we had before we had kids. They started late in the morning. From this vantage point, as parents of a toddler and a four year old who is a part time toddler, the time we started on weekends was decidedly not late morning. In fact now it would be decidedly midday.

We didn’t need to plan like we do now. The coffee maker was not prepped the night before. In fact it was such a carefree and wondrous time that we might not even have carved out space in our brains to know whether or not we even had coffee to brew. What care we. We lived in a city, the city, New York, and there was always every version of coffee just outside the door. When your only burden is two large coffees to shake the cobwebs off of last night you really don’t care about the four flights of stairs. Why would you.

We’d cook large breakfasts. Maybe we’d fill the large bowl, the deep one that didn’t fit in with the set, with cherries. They show up early in spring. Always a surprise. We’d leave the bowl on the counter until the day made its lazy way to the living room and they’d come with us, half eaten with pits sinking step by step to the bottom of the bowl with each cherry taken. Sometimes they made it to the evening out on the coffee table. They’d be left there as we left for coffee and strolled, never knowing we wouldn’t be back until late in the evening, after the last song Dirty Mac and the Bumper Crop Boys would play at the bar we’d never been to, that we strolled into to drink and conversate. It was no day to be strict with language, we would ‘converse’ at work, but over pints of Frambois/Guinness with our new favorite band we’d never hear from again, we definitely were conversatin’.

Saturdays took different turns to magical outcomes. They were all of a piece, these years when we could capture magic. Boring Saturdays that would border on the mundane often wandered and found something approaching bliss. Sometimes we found ourselves afloat in it. Other times we knew we both wanted something specific. We’d have our coffees, our breakfasts, perhaps an exercise and we knew we had to go get it. Head where we knew it lived. One of us would say, ‘You know what I’d really like to do?’ and without fail the other would guess correctly, ‘Go to New World?’

We lived in the impossibly eclectic and diverse borough of Queens, in the vibrant Astoria neighborhood. Our food options were frankly limitless. But for us the place was always New World. A two and a half hour drive up into the Catskills to a pretty, rural, though easily accessible stretch of road between the picturesque towns of Woodstock and Saugerties. In our case ‘easily accessible’ was relative. I had a car for the summer months that was rented for me by my employer. Other times, and this is certainly crazy, we would find the cheapest local rental place and rent the car for the day. Yep. These are the decisions you can make before kids. Pretty fabulous, right.

We loved New World. The food was fabulous. Slow food, done right and creatively. It was a safe place for us to try new things as there was nothing they offered that wasn’t delicious. It was high end food in a shorts and t-shirt establishment. Gourmet kitchen in an old mountain farmhouse. It’s just great.

The other part of those days that lives now in my mind was the glorious absurdity and extravagant indulgence, the wide eyed romanticism of us taking the day to travel for a decadent meal and time together. We’d have every course offered, bread and white bean dip, blackened string beans with remoulade and then we’d get appetizers. Drinks and meals and desserts and coffees, even an espresso. All in cargo’s and your favorite T-shirt, put on fresh so as not to be crass.

When we had a pain that felt truly life altering we drove there to wallow and tear up and hold hands and celebrate what we still had. When we wondered if we should change this wonderful life by having kids, those days of absurdity served a purpose. We’d debate, taking turns taking either side. It was on one of those rides that we agreed that the argument that took the day was that having, at least trying for a family was an opportunity to experience an essential and fundamental aspect of being human and with the little time we had left we owed it to ourselves to try. It was on these rides that we nervously considered being mom and dad while escaping New York for a piece of magic and Seitan Steak and a Mother’s Milk. It was on these rides that we solidified what was our reality.

When it came time to plan a wedding I was unfortunately not up to the task. I was foolish as many men without the responsibility of family by their mid 30’s can be. I resisted and made difficult for my bride some of the things that should have not even been issues, instead causing her additional challenges asking for compromise when I was truthfully insisting we do certain things my way. By far the thing I regret the most was nixing the photographer. Because despite all of the challenges I may have caused for us in the lead up, the day was amazing. The greatest day of our lives to that point. The easiest part of the planning was where to get married. New World.

We haven’t been in years. Not since before the kids. Our new world, the one of diapers and cuddles and bedtimes and family life is magical and amazing and is one I shudder to think we considered not discovering. But from time to time I can’t help remembering the magic we could make all on our own. The magic we could make for ourselves and for each other.

Home, Home!

They all start the same.

Teddy is the alarm clock. He is two and a half years old. This age comes with many challenges for the little guy and can lead to many challenging moments for us. It’s all okay though as evolution has whittled away at this problem for some time by now and as a result he is in possession of natures cutest adaptation. He is unbearably adorable. All cheeks and just enough language to get his point across eventually after several missed guesses, while giving your heart if not your countenance a smile as you try to interpret his barely understandable babble/speak. Even if the way he pronounces a word like ‘truck’ is mortifying at first, it’s also sweet beyond words. So his morning cries (more often then we tend to admit coming from the space between us in our bed) are tolerated.

The first instant is the only challenge. How can you possibly be waking up this early, you think. But he is anything if not persistent. His insistence makes you open your eyes. The fog lays low for a bit, we are almost 5 years into this schedule however and we long since have stopped cursing the morning light. Before you know it the blurred vision takes focus and he is there, all cheeks and sorrow that we are not yet awake and feeding his belly and his need for attention. Momma never asks for relief from this duty. She knows I’d help, at least most of the time, but she loves the morning light with her coffee and her soon to be giddy and happy boy.

It’s her story to write, the story of the morning the two of them share, but I love what I walk into when I go downstairs anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour later. He is curled up under her arm, laughing and silly, every bit the showman. His belly and life are full at the moment as he’s been afforded the chance to be mommy’s only for a few minutes each day. They both love it.

Before coming down the stairs I open the door to Charlies room. I turn off the white noise and allow our low key morning fun to drift up to him, allowing him to wake gently. On the good days, on most days, we’ll hear something like, ‘Mommy. Come get me.’ at full on four year old volume 10 or fifteen minutes later. Mommy comes eventually, or if he has to wait a minute he might come down on his own. Either way the morning is in full swing by now, taking a turn from the rhythm of a ‘home day’ into the reality of a ‘school day’. They don’t know that yet. We do. Its also a work day and we need to dress and make lunches and dress the guys and prep for the day. So the TV goes on. the boys sit silently on the couch, cereal and sippy in their laps while George or Sponge Bob more recently, entertain us as well as them. We are fully engaged viewers of TV for children and we know when somethings good or not. It’s mostly not, but these two we like.

Our slow and soothing rhythm steadily increases in velocity. What we would allow to occur organically earlier in the morning now has two parents prompting and prodding if not begging for them to move move move. It’s a bummer for everyone involved. Mommy and I frantic to make deadlines, some real and unavoidable, some self-imposed, all interfering. By the time we sit in our cars we know that the bubble was burst, but we never can actually notice it while it’s happening. The weekend is over and we all have to get on with what it is we get on with.

‘Is today a home day, Daddy?’ Charlie will ask. He and Teddy both wait for the answer.

‘Nope. Sorry, buddy. But it is a school day! You get to see all your friends!’ And it’s true. He loves his school friends. We all do. But eventually has asks how long until another home day. We answer together, I start.

‘School, school, school, school, school…’ and I look to him in the rear view mirror.

His eyes get wide and he’s so happy to speak up for his part. ‘HOME, HOME’

Food Allergy PTSD

Parents of kids with food allergies tend to have a form of PTSD. It’s a commonality that ties us together. We get it. We know when we’ve run into another parent who understands us. Most parents empathize, but only we can truly understand.

At least that’s how we feel.

Food allergy PTSD leads to a lifetime of sensing threats around corners, threats both real and imagined. We have intimate knowledge. We have the knowledge you can only get when you are holding your baby and running for help while he is dying in your arms. The one job we are tasked with above all others, to keep this child alive until he can do so on his own, is slipping away and every second counts and you know, KNOW that were this a hundred years ago you’d be burying your baby. Having survived it you are changed. Broken. You are facing a changed landscape and a changed job. It’s unfair but it’s pointless to dwell on it.

I remember thinking terrible things about the parents of young kids at Target or Wegman’s or any of the other places one finds themselves mixing with young families before having kids of one’s own. I remember thinking, ‘Wow. How can they talk to their kid like that? It’s just mean. I’ll never be like those people.’ I remember thinking of friends that had a kid, ‘I’m tired. I’m always tired. Who are these people that think they’ve cornered the market on tired.’ These were reasonable thoughts to have. I had no freakin clue what the hell I was talking about. Having no clue was my perspective. Still is in many areas of life, to be honest. The fact that it was completely uninformed and laughably ignorant doesn’t invalidate that perspective.

The only thing that could revoke the validity of my perspective was having kids. Since then I have caught myself scaring my three year old into compliance during a short trip to Target. I like to think that my terrifying, clenched-jaw frustration was less upsetting to the ecosystem of the store than the screeching of others. Of the parent of three trying to get the grocery shopping done without a full meltdown, but to anyone that saw me around a corner, grasping the scared little boy’s biceps and staring him in the eye with the insane focus of a cartoon villain I’m certain mine would be the one more deserving of a call to CPS. Dad scary can be truly scary. I remember this from my dad, who I knew all along was the most gentle and loving and thoughtful father the world has ever seen. But toddlers require different. My mother once caught me at 5 or so playing with matches inside a camper and when she told me ‘Just wait til your father gets home.’ I knew enough to be terrified. Since it is required to scare kids early on to make the point, we change. We have to. And when we do we feel shame around other parents who might be having a good day while I’m staring at my little boy and doing my best impersonation of DeNiro in Cape Fear.

When it comes to other people and our kids food allergies it’s insane to think they can have our intimate knowledge even after they’ve heard our harrowing tale. Only we have that. That’s why we are each other’s best support. We can speak shorthand. We can elaborate on our stories, on our near misses with one another and know that we are understood. Regardless of how compassionate, empathic, caring and sensitive we are, for most of us, we’d be lying if we said that we didn’t change when it happened to us.
For many of us there’s residual shell shock and we find ourselves frantically unloading on kindly people that will listen and simply increasing our volume because why shouldn’t everyone share my perspective and this fight. At least all parents. My god, your hummus and carrots are a literal loaded gun free to be played with in any room where my little boy is. Don’t you get that? Is hummus really that important to you? ARGH!! You’re awful!!

Intimate knowledge can be like that. It can seem so true to you, so elemental that you forget there was a time before you had acquired that knowledge. Acquiring it leaves you changed. When I became a dad I was surprised by a few things. Certainly the amount of time there is in 24 hours. I thought I had that concept down, but I was way off. I was surprised by how aware of my own mortality I became. That’s how the responsibility hit me I suppose, that and the love. Also, I was surprised by the instant sense of connection and empathy I felt for parents everywhere. We can get as modern as we want but the primal nature of holding your newborn baby, however he or she got to your arms, is universal. Nothing was the same ever again. Almost immediately I was sliding away from my former perspective and a new life was stretching out before me. As it unraveled it revealed understandings of my life and its meaning. Now that I was here, on this side with the other folks that had had this beautiful and magic epiphany, I knew it was where I wanted to be. I proceeded on this path and began to find less and less in common with the people who hadn’t had kids. I was fully a parent.

Then I was born into a smaller family of parents. The rare club that was more exclusive and less desirable. I became a food allergy PTSD dad. I became a husband that had to relearn how to relate to his family and the world with this terrible new knowledge. Our son had an anaphylactic reaction to a single bite of a sandwich with a small amount of dressing on it that contained a small amount of sesame and it nearly killed him. It would have had a seed fallen to the floor from our bagels or our Chinese food that we had eaten regularly that first year and he had gotten to it while we were in the other room. Its traumatic information to live with. As hard a time as I had relating to parents before having kids, and as hard as it became to relate to people without kids after having them, it is now equally hard to relate to parents that don’t worry about their kid’s immediate environment every minute of every day. I just don’t get them. I can’t. What’s worse now, I somehow feel like they should all be able to relate to me. The childless, the parents of kids without life threatening food allergies, everyone needs to be in this thing with me. Right?

It’s easy and understandable to lose perspective. Sometimes it’s even advisable. And since it’s our kid’s lives I’m all for erring on the side of crazy if there’s any question of safety. But from time to time we have to poke our heads out of the bubble and remember that it’s a great big scary world out there for a lot of people. For a lot of reasons.

In my son’s classroom, where they will see me and confront me and Charlie every day, I may need to ramp up the nutty. Perhaps it will cause that extra attention when it’s called for, which it may never be, to save my son’s life. But if I want my message to be heard by the people that don’t have reason to understand my plight intimately, it’s my job to learn what invisible realities they are facing and try to share in those struggles. To not be so blinded by the dangers of the world as to forget that others have children suffering even worse, more assured tragedies. That while there are loaded guns ready to end my child, there are others whose children have bullets headed there way. That there are many parents in the exact same situation as me that couldn’t stop the grip of the unknown entity that ruined their lives forever. That it is a great gift I’ve been given to be able to know for sure what I need to do to assure my child safe passage and that I shouldn’t ever take for granted how lucky I am. That if I want empathy and understanding I have to remember that the world is full of parents facing innumerable struggles, challenges and threats and it’s my responsibility to support others and seek out ways to help, just as I ask them to do for me. Compassion is not a finite resource, it is infinite and needs to be fed constantly in order for it to grow.

Sometimes the PTSD and the eminent dangers make me rude. Make me insufferable even. Sometimes I’ll need others to forgive me for that. Sometimes I have to forgive myself for that. Sometimes I have to learn from it.

The Lodge Part Two; Faking It

I have a good deal of respect for the fraud I was at that time. My bravado and false courage was believable. I was 22, driving a 15 seat van from deep in the Catskills down to Union Square where I would pick up families that included at least one member who was diagnosed with an intellectual and/or developmental disability. Pick up was at 5pm on Fridays in the middle of Manhattan. I was the host and the boss. The looks I got. I ignored them, but they were evident. I would drive families that had never met before through the dark and snow to a camp in the mountains that was so remote that the road turned to dirt about a quarter mile out. No houses or light emanating from anything but the vehicle. It had all been arranged by a finely tuned, though still almost totally pen and paper bureaucracy that I had a good deal of responsibility for. They were startled and perhaps a tad frightened by me.

‘You’re Joe MEDLER?’ They’d ask. ‘This Joe Medler?’ They would hold the letter, sometimes pulled from the envelope with my handwriting on it, looking very official, with the logo for AHRC of NYC across the top and a list of board officers and members cascading down the left hand side and point to my name under my signature.

‘Yep. You’re in the right place. Is this Daquan, then? Hey man. Are you excited to head up to the mountains? We’ve got so much fun stuff planned for you.’ I’d say, moving right past the doubts of these now very worried people and instead engaging the kids. I had at least the accidental wisdom of engaging thoughtfully with kids without patronizing them. Usually at least.

Thank god I didn’t recognize the doubt they must have been feeling. I mistook it for something I wanted to help change. It motivated me to be brave and bold and try honestly to change the world. Had I any of the wisdom I’ve gained since becoming a parent, wisdom that often is cloaked in fear and worry, I’d have known they were judging my youth and inexperience. I’d say they were right to have made such a judgment in general, but to this day, and I suspect for the rest of my life, this is the place and the job I was most perfectly suited to. Which isn’t to say this piece of the job was my strongest suit, but this place was the place that fit most perfectly with my emerging sense of right, wrong, fun, learning, priorities. It perfectly reflected my sensibilities. Harriman Lodge. Its my home, the one in my heart and it will always be to some degree.

I arrived at the place from across the state a summer or two ago. I don’t remember the timeline that well anymore. I was driven by my dad as it was the tail end of childhood and the leaping off point for my whole life. My confidence may have had little foundation, but it had good bones. I was a person taught to do what I believe even when it’s hard, especially when others aren’t. I had not yet applied these teachings, but somehow just being here, jumping in with two feet to a new and strange world and becoming a native felt like a stance. Taking the concerns of a person with disabilities as seriously as they took them, feeling like you were literally providing and caring for people that must have had innumerable amounts of ‘no’ and inadvertent and quite intentional discrimination heaped on them over a lifetime that often included severed family relations, neglect and institutional abuse felt world changing. It felt like I was making their lives better and as a result I was finally important. I was important for taking the care of and showing respect for people that needed help to have their voices heard. I was alongside the most wildly diverse assemblage I’ve ever been a part of, young people from all over the globe looking for a unique way to grow up while having fun and being the change they wanted to see in the world. It turned out that the people that were in our charge had a far greater impact on our lives those summers then we EVER could have had on theirs.

That first year was the moment I’ll always think of as my time of discovering the world and inventing myself. Leaping on opportunity and working 7 days a week, up to 20 hours a day, and no less then 16. Even when you were asleep in the cabin you always had one ear open in case a person that needed help was seeking it. You and 5 other counselors in a cabin of 18 guys. Then the leader of the cabin walks off the job, unable to deal with it. Then the Marine, couldn’t hack it. Finally it was me, Mike and Tony. The suburban, the urban and the Russian. And we did it. We had help, but we gave ourselves completely to our guys for more than half of the ten week summer. Ragged and bedraggled. Excitable and exhausted. It was and remains the greatest accomplishment of my professional life. I was 21, a knuckle headed post-teen finding purpose with the rest of us.

We’d all go on to have challenges and struggles. We’d resist the responsibilities of adulthood, shrink at times we should have roared and not use the springboard we were given to jump ahead in life. We’d all come back and do it again and again. I stayed 8 years, often through the long and lonely winters where I’d carry comfortably huge responsibilities only to crumble during down times that allowed me to wallow in ways I needed to in order to grow up. It was the formative experience of my life. One ONLY matched by becoming a parent.

For the first few years I identified as ‘Staff’. God that was awesome. We were weirdos and tough guys and earth mom’s in training and world explorers. Intellectuals bent on bending the world and lifelong service providers. We were on the one hand always ready to be silly and on the other hand so new at adulthood that we applied aesthetic judgment to the way we held our cigarettes. We were terribly vulnerable and horribly self-conscious and lacking the self awareness necessary to avoid embarrassment. I can look at the pictures for hours. When a new one shows up on Facebook I pray all of us will jump on and relive those times and speak of reunions. I can’t tell you how much I hope one comes to fruition. I love those people like my family. They were the people present at my coming of age story and I was present at theirs. I am of these people and I couldn’t be more proud of that.

Something strange happened over my time there. Fully integrated with the staff at 21 I started the slow move away from the group. It took a few years and a promotion or two, but before you knew it I was starting to realize that I was a lifer. I only stayed eight years, but in that time I became part of the permanent structure of the place. Before long I stopped having the bonds with the staff. The staff I’d always thought of as the ‘permanent structure’ that stayed in place as groups of ‘guests’ would come and go throughout the summer, two weeks at a time. I would be emotional when they’d leave and I’d reminisce with my fellow staff, the others left behind. You have no idea how much you bond with someone in this type of setting. How many emotions and experiences you can share in just a few days. But eventually as I got more involved in the year round operations my staff family became ‘big mama’ (Director), Big Joe (Caretaker extraordinaire of the facility) and Jessa-Lee (Year round rep for the AHRC NYC organization for the first couple years). To this day they feel like family to me. Jessa-Lee, though I haven’t seen her in ages, is still one of my very best friends. These people knew me as a pup and not only allowed me to grow up, they facilitated it. Put up with my shenanigans, the false starts and the inconsistencies and knew I was able and entrusted me. Partly because I was the only one who would do some of it, but lots of times because they had faith in me. So I had faith in me.

After that, my family became the guests themselves. My former self, my ‘staff’ self looked out to a horizon that went as long as the evening light. Perhaps into September. It was a short view. By the end I knew that I was with the guys. I was there every year, like they were. It was the staff that changed. Some returners every year, but eventually they all left. We stayed. At least until we didn’t.

There are times now when I look back and know I couldn’t do now all I did then. On the most basic level, it’s a young person’s game. The commitment, the hours, the emotionally raw feelings that come with the whole endeavor, it would be too much now. But I still wish I could do it. I still draw on it, like all of us who were lucky enough to have been there do. It provides a soulful foundation for me. Remembering the whole thing. It’s where I’d fall to if all else failed, if every imaginable tragedy were to befall me, I could always go back there and live out my days working for a roof and food. Sounds crazy I know, but it’s a real thought. It’s even a fall back plan in my mind for me and Karen. We hope to live out our days in our lovely home and have a fully realized vision for what our future will look like. But when discussing fall back plans in the event they should become necessary, the idea of camp has come up on several occasions.

I guess you have to fake it when you start. I did, at least. There wasn’t anything to draw on so you make it up. All of it. Then at some point you realize, I’ve been making it up for so long that in the process something has been made. The whole of the experience has to amount to something. It just has to. For me it amounted to me. I faked it, I made it and that made me.

I’m Not Sure What It Is. Could be viral.

I went viral. In the midst of looking up what would technically make a thing ‘viral’ in the social media sense, I was contacted by a world renowned advocate who mentioned in her message that there were several reasons why my story had gone viral. That was all I needed. She had tens of thousands of followers and was doing truly important work to make the world safer for children, so I wasn’t going to fight with her.

I highly recommend going viral. Granted, coming down is a bear, but having flown so high is a thrill. Its all of five days later now and I can give several reasons why what happened had very little to do with me. I can also tell you I haven’t stopped updating the page to see how many shares it’s received. While I can’t see the actual times the page has been viewed, knowing that it’s been shared 32,000 times since it went up 5 days ago is hugely validating. about 20,000 of those in the first 24 hours. A little over 20K actually. This and $2.00 still can’t buy me a cup of coffee at Starbucks, but its value to my sense of self is unmeasurable.

That said by the third day when the story was shared only a few thousand times, well over 100 per hour, it started to feel bad. I’ve never had a story shared more than 500 times ever. That’s in the entire lifespan of anyother story. Still, what was happening. The quantifiable love and validation was leaving. All of a sudden I felt foolish.

What the hell was I doing. The story was an incredibly personal one. It was of the scariest day of my life. A day when we thought that our little boy was going to die due to an allergic reaction. It was powerful because it’s hard to not be powerful when sharing the most personal of fearful stories. But somehow I’d gotten caught up in the thrill of having so many people think this story was so valuable that they were sharing it. They were saying mostly very flattering things about me. They were tagging friends it made them think of or who had wanted to better understand what it was like to have a child with a life threatening allergy. They were sharing it with leaders in the world of people advocating for the rights and best interests of this group of people to be protected in a way that exceeded the present woeful status quo. Those leaders actually shared it within their circles of influence. Some even reached out to me personally to thank me for sharing my families story and this was the real value.

I never articulate why I write. To some degree that’s because there is no one answer. On one level I’ve been compelled to write since I was a kid. In a loud and confusing world where I’d found a good role to play, a good disguise, it was a place to be honest, scared, angry and confused. On another level I write to discover. To discover my own thoughts and opinions and feelings. To discover new interests and areas of concern and flaws and strengths. Lately it’s been to share my inner self with the outer world to avoid the pitfalls and regrets that come with hiding one’s light. As an example for my kids. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that I ocassionally write because I love my kids and anything can happen and I want them to have a first had account of who I was and how I thought and felt in case I pass too early. Or even if I don’t and they are just curious. I want them to have some access to who I am and how much I love them. Going ‘viral’ and the responses I’ve received have added to my reasons.

I’m proud to have written something that has helped people express their experience more clearly to the people who love them. I’m delighted to have written something that many people told me brought them to tears. I’m happy to have made people feel. Perhaps I’m most happy that I wrote something that spoke to people who didn’t have the same knowledge as I did, that my piece informed them while also making an emotional impact.

I love the writing. I love doing it and I’d love to do it as a means to make a living. That is a definite goal. But as long as I am able to make an impact, be helpful, inform and express myself, I can’t see the lack of it being a source of income ever stopping me from following my curiosity and expressing myself honestly in this way. Viral was fun, if a bit overstated. Hearing that my words helped was and is overwhelmingly gratifying and all the reason I’ll ever need.

7 Ways Having a Dog Totally Prepares You for Parenthood

You skeptics. Seriously. You think that nobody without kids can understand how hard it is. That’s just crazy. Sure, having kids, caring for them and raising them is a challenge. We all empathize. But you don’t have to get so superior about it. I’ve even heard some people dismiss the attestations of pet-owners, dogs cared for since puppy-hood even, as not fully preparing one for the experience of having kids. Well, I say phooey to you. As skeptics I know what you need is evidence. Allow me to enumerate my argument.

Love – Until you’ve had a puppy, a precious baby dog, look up at you with those beautiful eyes expressing trust in you to care for her in ways that melt you, you can’t know love. Plain and simple. The full weight of love is only felt with a puppy and can’t be replicated by anything else. And as anyone who has seen a Nicholas Sparks movie adaptation knows, love is painful, guys. Seriously.
Sleep – I totally think this sleep thing that so many parents talk about is SO OVERDONE. It’s a naked and frankly embarrassing cry for attention. As a friend I try to be sure not to indulge it. It doesn’t take a lot of looking to find out that science has shown that babies sleep like 15-18 hours a day. You want to talk about sleepless nights? Yeah. Has your kid ever chased down a porcupine and had quills stuck in it’s gums? No? Well, there we have it. You don’t know sleeplessness my friend.
Worry – You parents act like the world isn’t totally designed to help you. You wring your hands over your child in daycare all day. You know what you can do? You can call. You can ask a qualified professional how your child is doing. How your child who’s been playing with friends and snacking on healthy food and being tended to at every turn, how they are as they nap peacefully. Not me. All I can do, ALL I CAN DO is worry.
Cost – Okay. I’ll grant you college. But the likelihood of that out of control scam known as higher education being fixed by the time it’s an issue for you is pretty good, so let’s not overstate it here. Meanwhile, I have an animal that can need everything from mental health therapies (don’t laugh, you have no idea how big a deal this is) and complex surgeries to prevent any number of ailments that are likely to compile and none of that is covered by any ‘family’ insurance plan. I mean seriously, if this dog isn’t family than I don’t know what family is.
Strain on Your Relationship – Do you have any idea how hard a dog is to incorporate into your life. I mean really. It’s like the hardest thing you can do. A baby, that’s a strengthening of your bond, born of your shared DNA it can’t help but bring you closer. Dogs are so SO needy. It’s like you hardly even have time to spend with your significant other. In those early days, and we’re talking easily 6 months here, I don’t think we had our ‘alone’ time as a couple more than 4 or 5 times a week. What the hell is that? Baby’s don’t do that, puppies do. Am I right!
Potty Training – I’m to understand this is unpleasant for you. Now imagine your baby naked and unable to wipe. At least unable to wipe without doing so with your carpet. I rest my case on this one.
Guilt – One word. Kennel.

I think I’ve made my point here. Don’t be so sure I’m not ready to be responsible for a human life. To raise it and care for it. To love it and set it up for success and fend off the wolves at the gate. I’ve had a puppy, so I ain’t scared!

Karma Crapped in the Tub: How My Wife Became a Poop Doula

Like riding a bike, I always presumed that pooping was one of those things that once you learned how to do it you pretty much had it down for the rest of your life. Turns out that journey is not so simple. Our four year old has apparently hit some bumps in the road. There are small, almost imperceptible changes occurring within me over time that might suggest there is the potential that this could be an issue for me as well, albeit in the distant future.

Anyway, there I was, sitting all smug up on the toilet catching up with my selected family and friends on my phone. This was my me time. I didn’t have to use the toilet, but it’s a place a parent can sit on occasion, as long as one’s spouse is there to occupy the kids, where they are given a moments reprieve. I think of it as a panic room of sorts in the hour after dinner, before bedtime. A place to go to forget about life for upwards of 3 minutes. A spa. It was here that I came across and amusing post by my younger sister. I’m paraphrasing here, but it said something like, ‘I’ll NEVER get used to cleaning poop out of the tub!’. I responded the only way I knew how. ‘Oh my god. That’s so gross!’

After a minute or two, and after a few, more kindhearted friends and family expressed empathy and understanding in the comments, it occurred to me that I might be tempting fate. In an attempt at something of a reverse jinx I went back in to the comment thread and expressed something closer to thoughtfulness. Something like, ‘Oh that so sucks. I’m so sorry. We’ve been lucky so far.’ But I was totally faking it. That sh*t doesn’t happen if your careful and stay attenti…

‘Joe! Oh no.. Joe!’ My wife shouted from upstairs.

I was on the couch enjoying my own end of night screen time alongside the big boy, the four year old, the one in the clear from the possibility of such an accident when my life took a dark turn.

‘T had an accident. In the tub!’

Oh crap.

I’m guessing that having made it this far through without this happening there are some parents that have made it all the way without dealing with this dark day. With the extracting by hand a turd that floats in parts and sinks in others like dynamited fish in a filthy pond. I remained calm on the outside because you need your children to know that although life is forever changed and we’ll never be able to truly look each other in the eye again, that they are okay and that one must be strong in the face of fear. I am a role model.

Karma was not through with us.

Believing that we’d learned all we needed to learn in order to avoid this issue in the future, we let down our guard. Somehow a few days passed without our big boy making a poop family in the potty. That’s what he calls it when it happens in phases. It’s amazing what you find cute when your kids say it. When we pointed it out to him and asked him to try he was resistent in a way that only a four year old could be. He had become afraid to poop. We coaxed. We bribed. It worked a couple of times, but it hurt and came with tears. Then he just stopped. Refused. He would have intermittent bouts of pain due to his being backed up. We couldn’t convince him with logic. We tried everything. What happens next is amongst the dumbest things I’ve ever done. I can’t believe it occurred even as I sit here and write it. It’s so dumb I’m embarrassed to say it. I decided that a good warm bath would do the trick. It did.

Our 4 year old is huge, like the size of a 7 year old. This is not an anecdote. He is the average size of a seven year old. I’ll just say that it’s possible for a backed up 4 year old, who is the size of a 7 year old to poop like a 41 year old who had a steak burrito and coffee for lunch. Through tears and the splashing of fecal infested dirty bath water we learned the power of karma and at that moment I knew it was done. Karma had made sure that I learned my lesson.

We are a modern family and my duties as a man are far more involved then men of previous generations. I am a competent and caring nurturer. Still, there are certain tasks that only a mother can perform. One of those tasks is exercised now when we note it’s been a couple of days. Our elaborate system of rewards for willing poops (chocolate, funnily enough) is pretty good. But if we let it slide the fear returns. When it does my wife becomes the guide for our boy that he needs at that moment. They will retreat to the bathroom where she will allay his fears, stick with him through his vicious rebukes and tearful apologies, always reassuring him that this is how it has worked since the dawn of time. That despite his fears, he will live through this and be so happy with the results that he’ll choose willingly to do it again! Eventually he believes her and they are one, holding hands as she provides him with the spiritual and emotional support allow his body to do what it’s made to do.

Without intending to and being motivated only by deep deep love, my wife is now a poop doula.

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