Somebody's Dad

Five Years

2012-02-05T17:20:00.001+01:00

My son turned five yesterday. I can’t believe how much has happened during his first five years, I almost can't remember a time without him, and yet I can’t believe how fast time has passed. This little note is for him.

Paul, I’m proud you’re my son, every single day, and I truly miss you anytime we’re not in the same room together. Sometimes I think your mom thinks I’m silly when I say, “I miss boy” when you’re just asleep in the other room. There are so many amazing things your mom and I have enjoyed seeing you learn and do as we’ve watched you grow. The world you’re growing up in is small and awesome, and you’re truly an international child. Although you were born in the US, we moved to Germany when you were only one year old. Before your fifth birthday you’ve already crossed the Atlantic Ocean 12 times! You started kindergarden in a German school when you were just three years old and was speaking German better than your mother and I ever could. You’re thriving in school today in the US and are learning Spanish.

You have a wild and unfocused imagination--your world is airplanes, stars, spaceships, sailing ships, pirates and animals. This isn’t just good, it’s a gift, and I hope I never discourage or limit your adventure through life. There’s almost nothing you fear and I rarely have to push you to try anything. You’re everybody’s friend, you’re always willing to share everything you have with others, and have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen in a child. You have a very quick wit and an awesome sense of humor that already spans well beyond the usual potty humor of a young boy. And you already have a strong sense of right and wrong and are willing to gently point out wrong when you see it. You remind your mom and I when we forget to “say the Amen” at dinner or bedtime. You’re an example to everyone, young and old, and there just aren’t words to say how proud I am of you.

The world you’re growing up in is amazing. While some things are the same, many things are dramatically different. There are aspects of the world you’re growing up in that would have been unrecognizable when I was your age. Some day you’ll read this and hopefully laugh at how different some of these things are. I turned five in 1969. Some of these you’ll appreciate, some you’ll understand later and some you’ll wonder what the big deal was. When I turned five:

- Only life itself was in high definition, not movies or TV shows. In fact, most TVs were still black and white with small screens. Color televisions were just starting to sell widely.

- There was no cable TV.

- There were no XBoxes or other video games.

- There were no iPads, iPods or iPhones. There weren’t even any cell phones. There was one phone and only one phone number for the whole house.

- There were no home computers.

But look at what was happening when I was five. You’ll probably have to look some of these up some day:

- Sesame Street debuted on PBS.

- “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” was a popular movie (following its December 1968 release).

- Neil Armstrong became the first man to set foot on Earth’s Moon.

- The Woodstock Music Festival was held in New York.

- The Dow Jones Industrial Average closed for the year at 800. (On your birthday this year it sat at 12,862.)

- The US Air Force closed Project Blue Book. (Your great uncle worked on this project.)

- The first ATM was installed in the US.

- UNIX is developed at Bell Labs.

- The microprocessor in invented.

- ARPANET, the predecessor to the Internet was created.

- Bell-bottom jeans and tie-dye shirts became popular. (They’ll come back again, don’t worry.)

- Pontiac introduced the Firebird Trans Am “muscle car”. I’ll show you one some day, along with other cool cars from those days.

Happy birthday, son. The world is waiting for you and all the talent and gifts you bring to it. I love you Paul!

It’s great to be a dad!

A Tribute to Drive-Ins

2012-01-21T14:32:00.001+01:00

Last year I posted about taking my son to his first drive-in. As I’m sure you could tell, drive-in theaters are special to my wife and I; they’ve been a part of our lives from the start and we’re happy to have the chance to introduce our young son to the experience. Many, and perhaps most, of you reading this don’t even live near a drive-in and may never have experienced a movie in one. They’re not only a unique movie viewing experience, but generally speaking, they’re a unique social event. This post is for those of you who’ve never experienced one, and for those who have drive-ins as distant memories.

I’ve never been to a drive-in that doesn’t default to double features. At a place where there are multiple screens, like here in Las Vegas, it’s not uncommon to have a screen dedicated to a single feature for a variety of reasons, but the double feature is kind of the norm. You pay one price, something less than a single viewing in most metropolitan theaters today, and get to see two feature films. Some drive-ins charge by the person, but many charge by the car. That’s right, you pay a set price for bringing the car into the theater regardless of whether you’re alone, or the car is loaded with your friends like a VW loaded full of circus clowns! No matter what, it’s a good deal.

For lack of a better description the ground is wavy in front of the screen, with the waves forming rows. These are set up to let you park your car with the front end slightly elevated so there’s less of a chance the cars in front of you will block your view of the screen. In days past, and certainly during my youth, the parking rows were also peppered with evenly spaced little posts. At the end of each was a speaker box on a wire. You parked next to the post and hung the speaker on your car’s window. The boxes were always made of some sort of metal, seemed to weigh enough that your window was at risk of structural failure, and contained a pretty poor excuse for a speaker with a rheostat to control the volume. That’s right, a single speaker: mono. But somehow it was always good enough. The only real risk the speaker caused was when you absent-mindedly got out of the car in haste to get a snack or hit the bathroom, forgot the speaker was hanging from the window, and closed the door hard. The speaker would bang on the glass and if you did this hard enough, you’d replace the window the next day. What seems to happen much more often is someone decides to drive away during, or quickly after the movie ends and forgets the speaker is still attached. New window! I haven’t seen these speakers in decades though. Now, at the few remaining drive-ins scattered around the country, the theaters have licenses to broadcast on select FM frequencies. You park, tune your car’s stereo to the appropriate frequency for your screen, and enjoy the movie with the best audio your stereo can provide. This makes the movie experience even better and eliminates an age-old problem with drive-ins: missing significant parts of the movie’s audio when you go to the snack bar or bathroom. Now, no matter what you’re doing, you can hear the movie very well, especially when the weather is good and windows are down.

Then there are what I call drive-in rituals, three of which I’ll mention here: headlights and horns, the playground, and parking backwards. First, there’s the headlights. They don’t warrant a lot of explanation other than to say at least once during the movie someone ends up turning their car’s headlights on without realizing it--usually inadvertently while distracted--washing out some portion of the movie screen. If they don’t realize it quickly, other patrons begin blowing their cars’ horns until the offender realizes what’s going on and turns their headlights off. Second, there’s the playground. Playgrounds seem to have always been a fixture at drive-ins, often located beneath the movie screen. Kids who might grow bored with the movie, or just cant sit still through both features, could play within site of their parents. Seeing kids play in front of and beneath the screen used to be common. The drive-in near us now has five screens arranged in a modified star shape around a single building housing the projection booths, snack bar and bathrooms. Rather than having five playgrounds, there’s one located next to the building. It’s less than desirable and wasn’t being used when we were there, presumably since it’s more difficult to watch their kids and the movie at the same time. The playground is still there though, as a part of what makes a drive-in theater. Finally there’s parking backwards to watch the movie. Whether you’re there on a date or even with your kids, folks with the right kind of car often park backwards with back seats down and hatch back or rear gate open. You can sit or lay to watch the movies. We use to take our pickup truck to the drive-in, park backwards and sit on blankets or lawn chairs with a cooler next to us. As you make your way to the bathroom or snack bar, it’s common to see young couples parked this way, lost in each other’s company more than the movie.

I’d like to wrap this up by sharing the lyrics of a song by one of my favorite musicians. On his 1991 album “Western Underground”, Chris LeDoux paid tribute to this dying piece of physical and cultural architecture with his song “The Last Drive-In”. Enjoy the lyrics and I hope you’ll find the song and give it a listen too.

It’s great to be a dad!

-- 0 --

The Last Drive-In

A caravan of yellow eyes came crawling across the plains

Rolling along in single file like a slow moving train.

It rumbled down out of the mist into the early morning light,

Said they stay till the job was finished if it took them till midnight.

Well there were cats and scrapers all caterpillars packed up by mile high crane,

And it looked like monsters from the old b movies the drive-ins use to play.

And we'd sang goodbye Saturday under the stars,

Wake up little Suzy in my daddy's car.

So many memories got lost and found

When a piece of history hit the ground,

The day they tore the last drive-in down.

Memories thick as the smoke clouds they made, man and machine became one.

Boards snapped like toothpicks on their blades but to us it sounded like guns.

Cowboys, soldiers, gangsters and thieves, James Bond and his golden girls.

Well you could sit in your car and never turn the key and go half way around the world.

And it stood like a landmark for forty years we never thought we'd live to see

It fall it to the ground and then just disappear like so many childhood dreams

And we'd sang goodbye...

A lot of the drivers had tears in their eyes but I don't think it was just the dust,

See I still believe there's a little piece of that old drive-in left in all of us.

Nobody moved through what seemed like hours, and slow motion it came tumbling down,

We just stood there with a taste of metal in our mouths and a silence all around,

The day they tore the last drive-in down.

And we'd sang goodbye...

First Air Show

2011-11-24T13:14:00.001+01:00

My son doesn’t like loud noises unless he’s making them, but his loudest noise is nothing compared to the noise made by the raw power of a military jet flying low-level. Jets he likes. Jets and any other kind of aircraft or spacecraft. He has the awesome unbound imagination of a child approaching five years old. Just look at his bedroom for proof.

A few weekends ago my wife and I took Paul to his first air show: Aviation Nation, the huge annual air show hosted by Nellis AFB in Nevada. It’s also the final performance of the USAF Thunderbirds for the year and they fly a fantastic show and tribute to the public at their home field. As a result the the weekend is filled with wonderful static displays of historic and current military aircraft, interesting and exotic civilian aircraft, and an almost continuous stream military and civilian flying demonstrations.

The day was wonderful, the weather was perfect, and my son’s eyes were wide as he took it all in. We’d been watching a number of flying demonstrations to include a military heritage flight where several generations of military aircraft fly in formation. Then, as the day was drawing to a close, the US Air Force Thunderbirds took to the air.

As the show unfolded, I was anticipating the “sneak attack.” While the audience focuses on a beautiful formation high and in front of the show, without warning one of the solo jets comes from behind and races past at low-level and near the speed of sound. Suddenly you see a jet where there wasn’t one just a second ago: an aircraft moving incredibly fast and somehow in silence. Then it happens: an explosion of sound so loud you feel it through your body the same time it registers in your ears. Your hands race to cover your ears and perhaps muffle the shocked scream trying to escape your mouth. Your entire body shakes as you literally feel the sound move through you.

My son had ear plugs in and I was watching him as this happened. He jumped, visibly shook and rapidly moved to touch me as he covered his ears. Then as quick as it came, the jet was gone and we stood in stunned and relative silence. He looked up at me with uncertainty all over his face, wondering if everything was okay. I grinned at him and then it happened: with big eyes, a wild grin appeared on his face and he yelled, “Dad, that was AWESOME!” Then he gave me a huge, excited hug.

The Thunderbirds finished their show, the day’s flying ended in a wonderful, patriotic way, and the show began to wind down. On the way out we bought Paul a die-cast model of a Thunderbird--he asked nicely and repeatedly. It’s been with him or near him since. Once again my son has allowed me to relive a piece of my own childhood, and see the world fresh once more through his four year old eyes.

It’s great to be a dad!

First Drive-In

2011-11-07T02:58:00.001+01:00

I’m pretty sure the first movie I ever saw was 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was 1968 and my parents took me along when they went to see it at the drive-in. I was only four, but I remember it like it was yesterday. They had a station wagon and set the back seat up for me like a little nest: several pillows and lots of blankets, and I was in my pajamas from the start. That way if I fell asleep I was good to go. There was more popcorn than a little guy could eat and the biggest screen in the world. And the apes at the beginning scared me when they got angry. I didn’t understand the movie but it captured me, probably dropping one of the anchors into me that ultimately made me a science fiction fan.

My son is the same age now as I was then, and last night we took him to his first drive-in. We saw this year’s release of Puss ‘n Boots. Admittedly it’s not as heady as Kubrick’s flick, but that’s OK. The station wagon of my youth became a Saturn Vue for Paul, but the nest of pillows and blankets was there right along with the large bucket of popcorn. And better than when I was a kid, the metal brick of a speaker hanging on the glass window was replaced by an FM broadcast we could listen to over the car’s stereo.

My wife and I are both drive-in fans, having frequented them when we were dating dating in Colorado, then into the early years of our marriage. Until moving here to Las Vegas, the last time we lived anywhere with a drive-in was just outside of Sacramento, California. (Hooray for the western states, for preserving these amazing icons of our American culture!) When we found out there was a drive-in here, we knew we had to go, and had to expose our son to the experience. So off we went last night, and we had a blast!

Paul gobbled popcorn and juice, and late in the movie we made one trip to the bathroom at which point he discovered the playground and had to take a few trips down the slide. Then back to the car for more movie, intermission, and...sleep. He fell asleep shortly after the second feature (Real Steel) began and we bundled him up in his backseat nest where he slept for the rest of the show.

I don’t know if he’ll remember this the same way I remember my first drive-in experience. The movie was certainly a part of it, but what I think made it stick the most was how new and cool the whole experience seemed. I’m thankful Steph and I had the chance to share this part of our own childhood, and one of the things we remain very fond of as adults, with our son. Who knows, maybe if we’re lucky, years from now we’ll hear him tell us he’s taking his date to the drive-in, and Steph and I will smile just a little bit bigger than usual.

It’s great to be a dad!

Review: Phineas & Ferb Live!

2011-10-09T17:30:00.000+02:00

A while back, after a visit with my son to Disney World, I wrote that Disney hadn’t lost it’s magic. Nothing has happened since to change my stance, but last weekend it was solidly reinforced. We took Paul to see “Phineas and Ferb: the Best Live Tour Ever”. He had no idea what he was in for. We simply told him we had a surprise for him, and off we went.

If you’re not familiar with Phineas and Ferb, take the time to check it out. Two brothers, both smart in a gifted way, making the most of their 104 days of Summer vacation by applying their intelligence to any number of adventures. The show doesn’t pander to kids, nor does it talk down to them. In fact, the writers seem to strive to smartly entertain kids just above their level, and to do it in a way that it encourages them to strive and grow in what they know and do. The TV show is witty and somehow talks to kids of all ages. As a parent I appreciate the writers have also taken care to include things that make the program interesting and funny for adults. The program encourages kids to think and imagine, be creative, play with others, and often times, to do all this outside. Also, what most likely goes unnoticed but I’m sure influences young viewers, is the brothers are actually step-brothers. You wouldn’t necessarily know this up front, but it sets a neat tone for the show. Related, Phineas and Ferb’s circle of friends is diverse: male and female, multi-national, multi-racial, and spans a wide variety of interests and personality types. The show clearly emphasizes things in common and diminishes the things we (adults) sadly allow to get in the way of relationships.

Back to the live show. We went to see actors playing cartoon characters. I wasn’t sure how Disney (or anyone) would pull this off, but as long as it worked for my son then as far as I’m concerned, it works. It worked. The program began with the cartoon characters on screen, then had them transition to actors in costume by having each character go down a slide. The cartoon character begins sliding and an actor in costume enters the stage on a real slide. As an adult, I thought the characters were a bit odd looking, but there was no room for confusion about who each character was. The program told a story, consistent with the Summer vacation theme of the TV show, and revolved around storytelling through dialog and music. A week later, we’re all still singing the songs and quoting various parts of the production.

This past week at school my son told his classmates we took him to see “the real Phineas and Ferb.” He wasn’t distracted by actors in costume and he’s still beaming about the show. Disney, you’ve done it again. The Magic Kingdom remains magical; very well done! If the tour comes near you, take your kids and go. They’ll enjoy it and so will you.

Details on the live tour are available at: http://disney.go.com/disneylive/phineas-and-ferb-on-tour/

It’s great to be a dad!

Why?

2011-09-29T15:20:00.000+02:00

We’re there. We arrived there sometime during this last year and we can’t seem to leave. Where is “there” you ask? We’ve found ourselves in the “why” zone. We’re not surprised; we knew it was coming.

This will bring back memories for those of you with kids who passed through this stage. For those with kids on the way, or with kids younger than ours, this might help you prepare for...why. It goes a little something like this:

Me: Son, stop standing on the couch.

Paul: Why?

Me: You’ll fall off.

Paul: Why?

Me: Because you’re not being careful.

Paul: Why?

Me: I don’t know why, but we don’t stand on the couch anyway. You don’t see your mom and I standing on the couch.

Paul: Why?

Me: Because it’s not proper to stand on the couch.

Paul: Why?

Me: Look son, gravity and I are the law; we must be obeyed. Get down.

Paul: Why?

As you can imagine it goes on without end, or until my wife or I break the conversation. We do our best to avoid the dreaded “because I said so,” but have invoked that on rare occasion. Let’s face it, we all hated it as kids, it was probably overused by all of our parents, but when it comes right down to it, it’s a good enough answer at times. Parents have authority over their kids and sometimes that’s all the child needs to know. That said, I’m still not a fan of “because I said so” as the primary reason for everything. I think one of the most important things I can do for my son is offer explanations for things, hopefully in a manner that resonates with him at his age. I think that reinforces the reasons behind what I say, and builds confidence and trust in my son. Later, when I tell him something and time or circumstance doesn’t permit an explanation, he’ll accept the short answer knowing that his mom and I don’t give him guidance that isn’t thought out.

But back to the current game of “why”. As the game has unfolded this year, I’ve learned to tell (most of the time) when my son is asking a genuine question and when he’s playing. Yes, it’s actually a game for him at times. This became clear when, one day as I was turning to him to make it clear I was tired of answering why about everything I was telling him to do, I saw it: the grin. So I continued a little longer and sure enough, every time I answered him, he grinned and asked again, “but why?” My frustration evaporated. Why? Because there aren’t too many things cooler than seeing your young son’s sense of humor develop. It brought a grin to my face then, and even now.

It’s great to be a dad!

School's On!

2011-08-23T14:23:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was my son’s first day of school since we moved back to the U.S. I suspect this was more significant for us than it was for him since he was in a German kindergarten last year and he’s been asking regularly about when school starts again. What made this a big deal for us is that we’ve put him in a private school.

Please don’t misunderstand. My wife and I are both the products of public schools and neither of us have a problem with Paul attending one, unless it’s clear the curriculum and/or teaching isn’t up to a standard we expect to be met. Obviously that becomes a constant decision as Paul moves from grade to grade and school to school. In Germany he attended a private kindergarten with what I can only call a mini-liberal arts curriculum. They had reading, writing, math, sciences, language and fitness as a part of the schedule. He did well and we wanted him to continue with something similar. As a result we found ourselves looking at private education options.

The added benefits are continued exposure to the rigor and discipline of the education process he’ll see as he advances in his education, a relatively small class size, a nation-wide accredited curriculum, and one other bonus I don’t mind at all: the students wear school uniforms. While I don’t see wearing school uniforms as a black-and-white issue, it undoubtedly visually adds to the students’ perception of a level paying field, removes the distraction of differences (especially for young children), and sets an overall tone or mood within the student body. Besides, the uniforms aren’t stuffy, nor do they attempt to make these young kids appear older than they are. They’re just kids in school uniforms designed for kids. I’m okay with this.

So our little man began his adventure within the formal education process in America today, hopefully setting the stage well for a lifetime of learning. And no doubt, just as with everything else about his life so far, I’ll find myself reliving (and relearning) the things of my own youthful years. If I can keep him in schools built on solid and proven curriculums, and keep him interested and excited about school, then I’ll feel that I’ve done my job as his father. This is going to be exciting, hopefully for the both of us!

It’s great to be a dad!

4 and 47

2011-07-24T17:07:00.000+02:00

My son is four. I’m 47. That’s quite a spread. With all the “wisdom” 47 years brings to a man, my four year old son humbled me the other day and it hit me like a board between the eyes.

Paul is awesome. He’s been as good as we could have ever hoped for. He listens to Steph and I just about all the time. But like any four year old, he’s aware of his own wants and desires, sees when they come into conflict with what we want him to do, and at times tries to protest or appeal to us to let him do something other than what we want. When this happens, we rarely hear a simple “no” or “I don’t want to.” Instead, the young man constructs an argument to explain to us why he ought to do what he wants. Although the content of the argument is simple, at times they’re pretty elaborate.

Guess what...I know what he’s going to say. Shocked, right? Okay, not really. Like all parents, I get impatient after telling him multiple times what my position is on something (“No son, you can’t have a piece of candy until you eat your lunch.”), only to hear him try to argue me into changing my mind. I end up firmly but gently reinforcing my position and not letting him continue with his well-intentioned point.

The other day, I interrupted him and affirmed my position on not eating candy for lunch. He stopped and with a frustrated and slightly sad face told me, “Dad, let me tell you the whole thing first.” Oops. I’m a heel. There was something going on in our back-and-forth just as important as the surface discussion about why he wasn’t going to eat junk food for lunch. My son is learning how to form and argument in his mind, then express his position. He argues with all the horsepower of a four year old and can’t win unless I relent. The problem was I failed to remember he’s only four and I’m not arguing with a peer. I need to let him say his piece, form and then make his argument, then lovingly stand my ground after he’s done.

In that instant and in the hurry of being a busy parent, my son had to remind me of something I believe is key to good parenting: I’m responsible for preparing him to be a successful adult. This includes encouraging the functioning of his young mind, even if it takes longer to tell him “no” than I want to take. Ditto for other similar things! This reminds me of something a pastor of mine said that applies to so much of life: the old sacrifice for the young. My son is amazing, and he’s four. I need to encourage him on his level in a way that encourages him to develop so he’s best prepared to be five, 10, 15, and one day, an adult.

It’s great to be a dad!

Toys and Charity

2011-07-04T16:04:00.000+02:00

My son’s bedroom in our new house is much smaller than his old room. For perspective, his old room was the size of most master bedrooms; the new room is what anyone would consider a normal size for a kid’s room--no problem there. But the boy has a ton of toys. This is as much my doing as anyone else’s, but it’s going to force a change. Fortunately, there’s a plan. A good one.

Long before we had Paul, one of my sisters told me she was doing something with her kids as they got new toys. As I recall it was for Christmas. As her boys got new toys (as gifts), she told them they had to pick out old toys to give to kids who didn’t have toys of their own. I loved the idea then, and even more so now. Paul is old enough to understand. He’s already very aware of the importance of sharing; this seems to be a next logical step. Our recent move is fueling this, but if my plan works, we’ll apply this new practice throughout the year, certainly at key toy times such as Christmas and his birthday, but even as a form of Spring cleaning.

Steph and I will track down a local orphanage, shelter, or appropriate charity that puts used toys in good condition to good use. I’m excited to see how this goes and hope Paul embraces this, and becomes an active participant in something charitable, especially at a young age. Of course, we’ll be loving and gentle with this so he doesn’t think this compulsory or some sort of punishment. If we succeed, he’ll participate and see this form of giving as something good and fun.

It’s great to be a dad!

18 Awesome Years!

2011-06-26T21:06:00.000+02:00

This is going to get personal, but it’s a part of who I am as a husband and dad. Don’t worry: it’s good!

Eighteen years ago today Stephanie and I stepped into marriage. It was a traditional ceremony in our church in Colorado Springs, with an amazing view of Pike’s Peak as we walked from the church, ceremony complete, and headed to an evening reception with our family and friends.

The next morning we jetted off to Bermuda for our honeymoon, and began our life together. Not our lives, but our single, merged life. That was our intent. Since then, we’ve moved 10 times, and lived on two continents and an island. You’ve helped make every place we’ve been fun, and also endured deployments, surgeries, injuries, blizzards and a hurricane. All of this has been wonderful seasoning added to the best thing that could have ever happened to a simple guy like me--marrying you. What Ronald Reagan said about his wife Nancy is equally true for me and you: I could be in a room full of people but when you step out, I’m alone.

Now, 18 years later, we have an amazing son, and we remain best friends and lovers. I love you, Stephanie. Thank you for saying “yes” so many years ago and standing by my side, and following me around the world. You’re half of who I am (and the best half for sure!), my sounding board, and often times my conscience. Thank you for being my wife and the mother of my son; without you I wouldn’t be a husband and father. I can’t imagine what the last 18 years would have looked like without you and can’t wait to see what the next 18 years have in store for us! I love you with all my heart, always!

It’s great to be a dad!

Traveling with Kids

2011-06-25T23:36:00.000+02:00

If you read my last post, you know we just returned from a convention, and Paul went with us as he has every year for the past three years. The trip has always required air travel and specifically travel from Europe to the U.S. I’ve bragged on my son a bit on Twitter (you can follow my parenting feed on Twitter @Somebodys_Dad) since the trip over and back this time were his 10th and 11th trans-Atlantic crossings by air. When we move back to the U.S. later this month, he will have crossed the Atlantic Ocean 12 times during his four years of life. All this ocean crossing began when we moved from the U.S. to Germany three years ago.

The travel this time was overall uneventful for us. No doubt a good bit of the reason for this is Steph, Paul and I are veterans at this point. What did catch my attention on the return trip to Germany was an incredible number of folks I can only call “rookie” travelers (and one incredibly incompetent steward--more on that fellow in a minute). Of the rookies, there was a family directly in front of us who verged on incompetent.

Three years ago we made the move to Germany; our son was only a year and a half old. In some ways that made it easy. He wasn’t really mobile. Other things made it difficult. He traveled in a car seat. There was nothing easy about two adults lugging our small son and the seat through the airport, getting the seat onto the plane with the push of all the other cattle down the narrow isles, etc. But the complexity and pain was reduced through some prudent planning. We did our homework and found creative and informed ways to make the journey easier. We learned from other people’s mistakes and successes.

We were also polite even though we knew we were stressing. This was our first long airline trip with our son (one and a half years old at the time) and even though we were armed with knowledge, it was the first time we were putting it into practice--knowledge certainly doesn’t replace experience. Steph and I made a conscious decision not to get mad at each other; we were on the same team and would share in the joy of what worked, and frustration in what didn’t. Also, we knew our son would sense our moods, driving us to be cautious about our collective demeanor.

At this point I have to admit I’m finishing this post as I sit in the airport with Steph and Paul. We’re waiting for our flight from Stuttgart through Atlanta to Las Vegas; we’re moving. I’ll post more on that later. But I hope this flight goes as smoothly with our son as the previous eleven did. Otherwise, a less than gentle reader might suggest I’ve jinxed myself...

Back to our last flight back to Stuttgart. A couple with two kids, began occupying (by brute force) the row of three seats in front of us. They were clearly unorganized, had not thought about allowing time to move through the airport at the speed of a child, or given real thought to how they planned on moving their own carry-on bags, two kids, and a car seat through the airport once they cleared security: in a world where no luggage carts dare roll. By the way, you read what I wrote earlier correctly we’re watching a couple with two kids--four people. Granted one was an infant, but the parents brought a car seat onboard for the little one rather than working the ticketing with an “infant in arms.” The car seat obviously takes a seat, but somehow it escaped the parents. Add a seat for mom and dad and the other child (probably about four years old) and it was clear there weren’t enough seats for butts. Already visibly angry and frustrated when they entered the aircraft, now at their seats angry fidgeting ensued as the car seat was strapped into an airline seat, dad put the older child into another seat, and...the lightbulb came on. You could literally see it in the dad’s face: he booked three seats for four people. Quiet but audible cussing ensued. He barked at two different flight attendants for reasons that weren’t clear, then made an angry comment that the flight crew wouldn’t help them with “all of this stuff.” Of course, I have to believe the flight crew assumed this angry adult was doing what he meant to do. After all, he booked the flight and brought “all of this stuff” with him.

His wife finally showed up; apparently previously lost somewhere forward of us on the jet. This was awkward. The dad loved her enough to spawn to kids with her, but clearly she was a part of his problem, and an enemy, rather than a companion. She suggested they check the car seat; he thought this was dumb and couldn’t be done. Then he decided they should check the car seat and it was pure brilliance. He angrily got the attention of the flight attendant; one of the same ones he earlier accused of not helping him. Did I mention he never asked for help? “I need to check this,” came out of his mouth, with a tone that made it clear it was the attendant’s fault that it somehow ended up on the plane. At this point the flight attendant, while professional, had enough of this guy and told him, “I don’t check luggage. Please take it to the front of the plane and see if they’ll let you gate check it.” I know from my own travels that flight attendants always seem to offer to take bags that won’t fit to the front to have it checked. I suspect this airline employee decided to live up to what he was openly accused of: not being helpful. The dad literally pulled the child out of the car seat, tossed the same child into the next seat, accompanied by crying since he caused one of the not-completely-unfastened straps to give a friction burn, followed by the child literally bouncing on the seat. The dad disappeared with the car seat, leaving the two kids unattended. Mom was once again nowhere in sight.

Both parents returned and began to settle into their seats, with the smallest child on mom’s lap. An attendant came by again and having noticed the now absent car seat asked if either parent had re-ticketed themselves to show they were traveling with an infant in arms. Of course not and you bet this added to the couple’s bad attitudes. The attendant helped with this though.

In an effort to add some calm for the couple I finally spoke up and told them we were sympathetic to the difficulties of traveling with a little one, pointing out we were in a very similar position three years ago when we moved to Germany with our son in a car seat. Guess what--he was angry with us too and snapped back, “well we’re moving and have to carry all this stuff.” My wife pointed out a particularly useful contraption () that made moving through the airport with a car seat easy, allowing you to keep the child in it and roll it like a stroller. On the plane, the device folds behind the stroller and stayed attached even when you strap it into the airline seat. Perhaps this would be helpful for them to make a future flight easier. They weren’t interested in any help from other parents. That’s fine. I guess he missed that we mentioned we had been moving too. I decided sympathy wouldn’t help and politely told him to enjoy his trip.

Okay, this story’s gone on long enough to make the point. One final point though: we decided to book a seat for our son (rather than do the infant-in-arms thing) for two reasons: our own comfort, and since it was a long flight, we didn’t have to worry about falling asleep with him in our arms and unintentionally dropping him on the floor. Somewhere about six hours into the flight with both parents sleeping, mom dropped the baby on the floor. The sound of the child hitting the floor woke me up. If it didn’t, the baby’s screaming would have. Dad appeared angry at mom for interrupting his sleep and didn’t seem to be concerned at all as to whether his infant child was hurt or not. Nice. With the dropping of the child as the capstone event, the rest of the flight was thankfully uneventful.

So what’s the point? Doing your homework matters. It doesn’t always mean everything goes smoothly, but it definitely eliminates some of the complications that otherwise accompany something as difficult as moving through airports with little-ones. Even if it doesn’t, knowing about the difficulties you’ll face will be reduce the stress, and that makes for calmer and happier child...and parents.

Addendum: I’m posting this after our journey is complete. The trip went as well as all the previous trips with Paul. I hope our experience helps someone else who might be traveling with a child on an aircraft for the first time, and that the trip is an adventure and not a burden.

It’s great to be a dad!

My Convention Kid

2011-06-03T14:45:00.000+02:00

As we were flying to Baltimore this year to attend the Baltimore Science Fiction Society’s annual convention (BaltiCon), it occurred to my wife and I that Paul has attended BaltiCon with us for the last three years--three of the four years he’s been alive. As a geek, this makes me happy: this particular convention is perfect for fueling his imagination. He walks, talks and even naps with science fiction on the brain.

Even though he’s only four, Paul remembers the signs and sounds of the convention from past years. The detail he remembers are stunning: about the rooms, the layout of the hotel, the people he’s met (and only sees once a year), and even particulars about certain vendors. Those of you who attend science fiction or fantasy conventions know kids of all ages show up. The geek parents (like me), are predictable, often sporting blue jeans and t-shirts with a host of geeky images and phrases that resonate with fellow attendees. During a few special occasions like the Steampunk Ball, or particular book readings or themed panels, the costumes come out. There are a few attendees though who costume through the whole event, and to say they’re in costume is to give more credit than is due. Some of these folks look like they’ve simply added color and accessories to their college togas, but they’re harmless and Paul is exposed to sights and sounds he doesn’t usually see and hear otherwise. Don’t get me wrong, he gets a full dose of geek every day at home, but not like this. Being surrounded by a few thousand people for a long weekend, all with a passion for science fiction and fantasy fuels his young imagination and lets him talk about and act upon things that excite his mind.

I love attending a convention this size with my son. At BaltiCon, small equals intimate. The invited guests (authors, folks from film, radio and especially podcasters) are very accessible, approachable, and for the most part humble. Some are very well known print and podcast personalities. This year the guest of honor was Ben Bova and other attending dignitaries included a significant host of A-list podcast and print authors. Fans regularly mix it up with the featured personalities on a regular basis. Panels and readings are intimate and it’s common to find yourself sitting and chatting with guest talent over a meal or at the bar. For my son, this is special. Since we’re not lost in the mob, he gets focused attention from the both of us as well as from other attendees--including the big guns! The experience isn’t overwhelming for him, the convention is contained in a single hotel, and there’s ample time for us to “explore” the science fiction sites with him. I hope his fondness for science fiction and fantasy grows. It was certainly a part of my own formative years, only I never had the chance to attend a convention like this, or to meet some of the folks who wrote the fantastic stories that helped shape my imagination.

It’s great to be a dad!

Stability During The Move

2011-05-18T12:41:00.000+02:00

The last week has been pretty chaotic in the house due to our pending move from Germany back to the U.S. In spite of the turmoil, I’ve enjoyed watching how my son’s reaction to the process that moves an entire household from one place to another. The last time we did this, Paul was only a year and a half old. It was all adventure and no real stress for him. Now he’s four and taking it all in--an interactive participant in everything we do.

About a month ago we shipped our dog to my wife’s parents. That took a little explaining. Steph’s mom has been here for the last few weeks as we’ve prepared the house and had the packing crew here. Over the past five days we worked to set aside the things we need to keep with us for our final month here, and shipped away everything we own. As I type this today, we have an empty house except for a small amount of clothing, books, temporary furniture, our tech, and a TV.

Paul’s done very well with the whole thing this time, watching with interest, curiosity, and with some trepidation as he’s seen everything disappear from the house--the majority of which went during the last two days.

Then this morning he was anxious about going to school. There were tears. No doubt it was due to seeing so much change happening at home--where he draws his strength and stability. With all that unhinged, I’m surprised he hasn’t been more nervous. We reassure him and as I’ve written about before, continue to encourage him about the adventure we’re on. Yesterday we told him the men who came into the house to pack us out were wrapping everything carefully so they can bring all his things back to his new house and new bedroom in Nevada. I can tell he understands, but his eyes tell me he’s unsure and nervous. I almost wonder in the back of his mind if he’s worried Stephanie and I will disappear next.

I wrestled with making him go to school or letting him stay home. I decided he needed to go to school. The struggle in my mind was over how to best reinforce stability for him in the midst of incredible change. There’s no right answer to blanket every situation like this for my son, or for other children in the same circumstances, but my decision this morning was based on school itself being a constant for him. While everything else seems to be changing, school hasn’t. School is still part of the routine, and in its place. His teachers and friends are there waiting for him and eager to learn and play. Stability.

This morning was a tough little moment for me as a dad. This parenting thing is definitely art. It’s awesome, exciting, incredibly fun, and exceedingly difficult. Then again, of course it is--it’s pure love.

It’s great to be a dad!

It's Wake-up Time!

2011-03-06T07:17:00.001+01:00

Paul has a digital clock in his room. He can’t really tell time but knows his numbers, and knows he’s not supposed to wake us up before the first number is seven; any smaller first number and he can play quietly in his room; any number bigger than seven and it’s okay to come out.

During the week his past week, I was already gone for work and sometime around 6:40 a.m. Paul calls out to Steph, “it’s wake-up time!” She glanced at the clock in our room, told him it wasn’t and to go back to sleep or play quietly. A few rounds of “yes it is, no it isn’t” ensued before Steph finally told him, “if I come in there and the first number isn’t seven, I’m going to be angry with you.” Paul all but challenged her to come and see. She got up and headed in.

Paul is four and I suppose some of you are already thinking Steph will walk in and discover he had somehow changed the clock. While it’s possible, this isn’t what was going on. She walked into his room, looked at the clock and saw it was displaying the right time, still a bit before seven. She pointed at the clock and told Paul, “son, look at your clock. It’s not seven yet.” Paul’s response? With absolute sincerity, he pointed at the same clock and said, “Yes it is Mom, but look. The six is pretending to be a seven.”

This same week on two other occasions, both after the “six pretending to be a seven” incident, he was up early and told us it was time to get up because the sun was already awake. Over the years I’ve become a morning person, so this doesn’t bother me; I’m usually up and going before Paul, regardless of the day of the week. (As I write this, I wonder how and when I hit the point in my life when “sleeping in” means sleeping until six in the morning...) Anyway, I’m usually up. But Steph’s definitely not a morning person, so during the week anything earlier than seven is getting up early for her. The days I don’t work are the days she can truly sleep in and I get to start the day with some quality dad-and-lad time.

The day will come soon when Paul will change the clock and think he’s done something sneaky. I also know we’re not too far from allowing him to come out of his room even before we’re up, as long as he plays quietly. Until then, I’m proud to see his young imagination racing along. The six is pretending to be a seven now, and being creative enough one day to change the clock--that’s my amazing, awesome son! As I said, and as I tell him every night I have the privilege of putting him to bed, I’m proud he’s my son and I’m proud to be his father.

It’s great to be a dad!

Moving Through Life

2011-02-27T08:23:00.001+01:00

I’ve mentioned it before, but my whole life has been migrant. I was born on a military base, grew up in an active duty military family, went to college and joined the military. All I’ve ever known is moving every 2-4 years, with very rare exception. Through the years, I’ve always had folks I’ve met “locally” tell me they can’t imagine how hard it is to constantly move from place to place and never put down roots. I know what they’re asking, but honestly, I can only imagine what their lives are like, never moving and having to live in the same place without moving. Sometimes I know I desire the chance to see what it’s like to stay in one place for a long time, while some of my stationary friends desire the experience of my adventures, always seeing new places. In the end though, I can only imagine what the difference is like. I can’t really appreciate staying still it other than academically. As an adult, this lifestyle comes with its own excitement and frustration, but it’s always boiled down to a part of the routine of my life. Having grown up this way, I’m sensitive to ensuring my son is best able to deal with the stresses moving puts on him as a little guy.

We should move this Summer, sometime in the next six months. Steph and I are already talking about it with Paul. We moved the first time with him when he was one and a half and he has no memory of it. This time, he’ll be four and a half. He has a small circle of friends here. He knows what it means to get on a plane and travel, but we’ve always returned to Germany--the only place he thinks of as home. We’re already anticipating him asking to see his friends or to visit places here in Germany once we make our “permanent” move.

Steph and I have started doing the same thing with Paul that my parents used to do with me: taking about the pending move as an adventure. He hears us talk with each other and with him about the amazing chance to get to see another new place, more cool stuff and to meet new friends. We don’t talk about who and what we’re leaving behind, especially from his limited perspective. When I was small, moves seemed so final, but life became an adventure and we still get to experience quite a bit of it through airplanes and automobiles.

After spending my entire life in military service, I’ve learned the world is small and getting smaller every year. We have friends we continue to cross paths with because we’re assigned together again, or simply because we visit one another. Paul will continue to see many of them too, and unlike my young life, there’s a good chance we’re only an assignment or two from retiring and truly settling down. Paul will still have the greater part of his youth spent living in one place, with all the associated pros and cons. As for us, we won’t mind taking him back to see the places and meet the people we’ve enjoyed over the years. The adventure will continue!

It’s great to be a dad!

Get The Wax Out Of Your Ears

2011-02-19T06:47:00.000+01:00

Like all healthy kids, my son has made the transition from infant to toddler, and now to four year old child. No more toddling. Now it’s all about racing, running, crashing. Everything is fast, furious and exciting, only punctuated by a wipe-out, or a nap when he literally runs out of energy and makes a rapid transition from active to sleeping. It usually takes about a minute once he gives in.

Along with those changes comes wax in the ears. As the oldest child in my family, I remember hearing my parents routinely tell my sisters to “get the wax out of their ears.” More and more often I hear myself saying similar things to my son, especially when I have to stop him from whatever he’s doing and make him look at me as I say, “listen to me.” It seems about half the time I tell him this, it’s to stop him from doing something I know will lead to injury. I may not be the smartest guy around, but the wisdom of 47 years definitely trumps the zeal of four.

My son, again like all kids, gets the wax out, acknowledges what I said, and the all too often lets what I told him go in one ear and out the other--something else I remember hearing my parents say to my sisters and I. As all parents know, this comes with some measure of frustration as you strive to strike the balance between the strictest of enforcement and prudent liberty that follows the warning.

One of those acute moments of frustration happened the other evening. My son was all spun up and bed time was approaching. (By the way, I’m convinced “spun up” is a statement of middle-aged denial. It’s how we gently admit that we don’t have the strength or energy we used to have, especially when it’s obvious as we watch our kids.) I marshaled him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The blur of motion and energy continued as he climbed onto the small stool in front of the sink. Then came the series of warnings: stand still or you’re going to fall off the stool and hurt yourself. Are you listening to me? Stand still. He responded with an “okay”, then continued to dance around. Mere seconds later one foot comes off the stool and Paul hits the side of the sink with his cheek as he unintentionally took an eight inch step down. Ouch. For Paul there was a stunned moment, then tears fueled by pain. And for me, frustration. I was torn between two simultaneous desires. I wanted to hold and comfort him, and ensure he was okay (which I did). I was also angry and wanted to scold him for doing the very thing I just told him not to do, for the reason he was now crying--injury and pain. (Which I also did after I was sure he wasn’t injured badly.) In those moments, I reminded myself that my job was to lovingly comfort and teach my son, and to reinforce what he chose to dismiss. Even though I was frustrated, it wasn’t lost on me that to a great extent this specific instance of the problem was self-correcting. I warned him he could get hurt and told him how to prevent it. He listened and applied that guidance with all the wisdom of a four year old and chose to dismiss what I said. His close encounter just seconds later with the sink and the resulting sore cheek made it clear what the consequence of not listening were. And although I was angry, I had the awesome role of holding and lovingly correcting my awesome son.

I would never wish pain on anyone, especially a child, but this life comes with pain. I think we need it for a variety of reasons. At times it provides contrast to pleasure and ends up enriching the good things we enjoy. At other times it reinforces the cost of unwise action. Even then though, I hope when pain comes, at worst it’s only a shadow and caution for the wounded of the worst things that could happen. One of my favorite authors, C.S. Lewis, wrote that “pain is God’s megaphone.” I think he was right. And at times like this one in the bathroom, although undesired, it clearly serves as dad’s megaphone. I never had to raise my voice; my son understood (at least for a little while) my caution to him was out of love.

The rules are the rules, parents must be obeyed, but some things just have to be learned through experience. Authority matters, but learning comes through words and deeds. The real world exists in the middle and in the fine tradition of parenting, we strive to set rules in a loving environment that are reasonable and enforceable. Paul needs to learn when we tell him something, we mean what we say. But we also need to let him grow through experience, often associated with the risks of scraped knees, bumps and bruises. Apparently this is especially true with boys. This frustration, and at times the associated fear...it’s real, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world!

It’s great to be a dad!

Under the Rodeo Moon

2011-01-30T10:00:00.000+01:00

The new year is under way and looks like it’ll be a busy year of parenting, husbanding and working. Of course, my time with my wife and son serves as my anchor point and refreshment to keep me going through the routine of the business of life (working a full-time job).

As you may know I’m a career military officer, following in the footsteps of my father and grandfather. The direct line breaks there, but the thread still runs back quite a distance. My father was a career Air Force officer. My grandfather on my mother’s side was a career officer as well, having joined the Army as an aviator, was one of the advocates for a separate Air Force, and ultimately retired as an Air Force officer. Both of my uncles wore the uniform. Several other close and distant relatives did and still do. I was born into an Air Force family, on an Air Force base and have only known a migrant life. My father was on active duty when I left for college and when I graduated, I put on the uniform.

This summer my family and I will move again. The upcoming move makes my 20th “permanent” move. The first six were during my childhood; the rest have been since I left home to strike out on my own. There have been a handful of other moves as well, but not the kind folks in my world would class as permanent. Sprinkle in deployments and other temporary duty and I’m even surprised at the volume! My wife and I were married along the way and counting the upcoming move, she’ll have made half of these moves with me. Paul was born during my last assignment (on an Air Force base) and will experience his second move this Summer.

The point of that bit of history isn’t to brag, to impress, or to seek sympathy. I’m not trying to champion or warn people away from the military lifestyle. Instead, I want to point out one of the positive consequences of this kind of mobile family life. My family, immediate and extended, has become the anchor point. While this is certainly true of folks who don’t move as often as we do, I think the emphasis on family is slightly different when they’re the one constant element in an otherwise changing world. While our extended families are scattered across America, they still sit at the center of our lives. As for Steph, Paul and I, we three are definitely the one immediate and consistent element in an otherwise fluid world; we are the constant while everything else changes. This was true for Steph and I before Paul was born, and his addition to the family almost four years ago added to the strength of the core.

As a result, my life and our lives together have been a great adventure. We have lived in some amazing places and spent an incredible number of hours driving from one to the other. Instead of a burden, we’ve been able to see so many things most folks never get to. In many cases as we move through the world, we have seen (and lived in) places that others only hear about. Even better, we have had the privilege of enjoying so many incredible places that you’d never hear about--the small towns, amazing little diners, conversation with another family at a rest stop, and all of the urban and rural scenery in between. We’ve slept in fine hotels, in the most basic of motels, and even camped on the side of the road.

Chris LeDoux was a fellow child of the Air Force and rodeo cowboy, and is one of my absolute favorite musicians. When he penned the lyrics to “Our First Year” and “Rodeo Moon” he captured our very real adventure better than I ever could. Here are the lyrics to Rodeo Moon:

I took her daddy’s old two-horse trailer

I patched a place in the floor that was bad

And then we loaded up her barrel pony

And a riggin’ bag is all that I had

We left with our suitcases filled with desire

Four hundred dollars and two good spare tires

Sometimes we’d sleep in a motel

When we’re ridin’ that hot hand of luck

And sometimes we’d stay at a friend’s house

Oh but most times we just slept in the truck

At nighttime you’d find us out in the fast lane

Stayin’ one step ahead of the snow and the rain

Now our windshield’s a painting that hangs in our room

It changes each mile like a radio tune

With God up above, we’ll make it on love

Under the rodeo moon.

When Chris LeDoux and Toby Keith penned these words, they literally could have been watching Stephanie and I. The details are ours, right down to the trailer we patched, the spare tires, the barrel pony, and the limited cash in our earlier years. (Thank you for these songs, Chris. I miss you.)

As Stephanie, Paul and I continue down the road for the remaining years I have in the military, I hope my son grows to appreciate the blessing of our amazing world in the same way.

It’s great to be a dad!

The sketch of Steph, Paul and I drawn by Howard Tayler. Visit Schlock Mercenary (www.schlockmercenary.com) to see his work.

You can find “Our First Year” on the album “Cowboy” and “Rodeo Moon” on “Horsepower.” Please visit Chris' official website (www.chrisledoux.com) for information on these and other great albums.

Easy and Hard

2010-12-22T07:34:00.000+01:00

You try to make something easier, only to discover you’ve made something else harder. As we say in the military, a plan never survives contact with the enemy. Another related saying goes something like this: if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plan. Neither of those fully represent the point I’ll try to make, but they come close. Stephanie and I went through a variety of phases relative to having children over the years of our marriage. Honestly, we began with very little interest in seeing our family grow. As years passed, and probably as we matured as a couple, our views on parenting softened a bit. This trend continued as more time passed, fueled not only by our own relationship, but also by several practical things. Primarily it revolved around my advancement in my career and the associated increases in pay. As we grew more financially comfortable, our comfort level with becoming parents increased. It was reinforced by a second influence: several of our friends who had kids and lived the life of parents openly and honestly in front of us. Eventually we found ourselves actively planning to have a child, as middle-aged folks.

The migrant lifestyle. One thing we discussed early in our marriage that weighed positively in our plan to wait to have kids was mobility relative to my job. The plan was that we would have a child at a time that would allow me to retire from the military around the time he entered grade school. So far, so good--Paul was born shortly before I hit my 21st year of military service, so technically I’m already retirement eligible. Not that I wouldn’t continue to work, but Steph and I agree that we’d prefer to raise Paul without having to move every two to three years. Don’t misunderstand though, especially any other military dads reading this. I absolutely love my career. In fact I was born into and grew up in a military family that’s spanned more than three generations. Our desire isn’t one based on a dislike of a the military life or its migrant lifestyle. For Steph and I it’s more about reducing instability, and moving every two to three years is something we can control. I’d be less than honest if I didn’t also factor in the impact of temporary duty and deployments in addition to the regular moves. Opposing this, however, is that I have enjoyed very real benefits that were the direct result of a childhood of chronic moving. I’m sure for every disadvantage, there’s an equivalent advantage associated with seeing and living in places all over the country and world. If I retire from the military sooner rather than later, my son won’t share those same benefits. In the end though, Steph and I are favoring the advantages associated with being less migrant.

Local community. This would also allow us to settle into a community and establish the associated long-term relationships, especially with the teachers who we’ll entrust to help us educate our son. Don’t get me wrong; military children tend to do very well academically for a number of reasons. I suspect in part, this because education is important to military professionals, but even more, because truly global experiences matter and those kids carry that cultural and academically diverse set of experiences right into the classroom. Socially, it’s not that we don’t have long-term and significant relationships with many of our military friends--we definitely do--but they’re as mobile as we are and most of us won’t settle in the same place once we’re done with our military careers. Honestly, I hope I can form the same level of intimate and immediate trust with my neighbors once I retire as I have with many of even my most recent acquaintances in the military. Think about this--every time I move, I instantly have a group of people around me that I would hand my car and house keys to, trust to receive the shipment of all my earthly possessions, and can trust with my wife and son without hesitation. Amazing since often times I’ve never met many of these people before arriving at my duty station. I don’t ever want to diminish just how unique and wonderful that kind of community is.

And so here we are, according to “the plan,” within a few years my wife and I should step away from the military life and settle down somewhere a little more permanent. Two very real things drive me toward what has become an imminent and heavy decision: I’m not getting younger, and I hate spending time away from my son. The risk of having to spend months or even years away from my son is almost unthinkable.

One thing I’ve learned you can’t anticipate as a first-time dad: the emotional bond that exists between a father and his son. For my entire adult life I’ve been a career servant of the State. Now I’m a dad; I’m actually somebody’s dad! I would give my life for my country and more specifically its citizens and our way of life. I would also give my life for my wife and son for reasons that another husband and dad would understand, but I think it can be summed up by saying family isn’t the same as country. And so there’s the tension. The conflict for my time isn’t binary though. As mentioned before, I have to work to pay the bills, and to be honest, even if I were independently wealthy, I’d still have to work at something. All dads can probably identify with the struggle, but I think this struggle is different for a dad depending on where he is in his own life: depending on how old he is.

When I was younger, certainly when I was truly a young man, I remember living the adventure of the military life: working hard, lots of trips, deployments, etc. I didn’t have kids but many of my colleagues did. We trained and traveled a lot. When we were away from home the discussions eventually came around to the things that mattered to us back home; for those of us who had them that meant our wives and kids. (No offense ladies, but for the first five years of my career, I served in a unit that didn’t have females in combat positions.) But we were young, and young men are bullet proof and fuller of the stuff that makes us men--energy, testosterone, zeal, idealism, etc. The body and the brain were young. (Now, in contrast I feel I have a 20-something year old brain but it’s living in a 46 year old body.) Those of us who were married loved our wives; those who had kids loved their kids, and we didn’t like being away. They were our stability and pivot points, but we were young and professional. We went off to do our jobs. The travel and work was exciting, at times dangerous, and while it was difficult to be away from home, somehow the adventures also had an equal pull. For many of us, when we were home we thought about the excitement of being away, and while we were away, our attention turned back to home.

Now something has changed and I think it’s the result of growing older. I’m not a fan of those guys who always need to tell the bigger story, always trying to one-up their buddy’s adventure or pain, and I’m not doing that here. But based on my experiences and watching my friends over the years, there’s something different about being a first-time father later, rather than earlier in life. I can’t prove it, but I think it’s easier for a young man to to balance the family when it comes to the tension between being home and being away from home. I’m not saying marriage and parenting is easy for a young husband or father, but I think it’s somehow easier when contrasted with his middle-aged colleagues. Even if I’m wrong and I’m the only one this is true for, I couldn’t have foreseen or understood the difficulty of spending time away from my son. It’s hard when we men have to spend time away from our wives--if this isn’t the case for you, we probably need to have another conversation--but our wives are adults. As hard as that is, I think it’s harder to spend time away from our kids--it certainly is for me. Our kids aren’t adults and don’t understand the reasons for the separation.

I suppose writing this is therapeutic. In some sense, I’m certainly writing for myself, to help gel these thoughts and issues in my own mind. Doing it in a blog though also lets me put a little piece of fatherhood on my sleeve for everyone else to see. I thought the plan was good and would minimize certain difficulties: money, mobility, etc. What I couldn’t anticipate is just how difficult it is to look at my small, young son through eyes that are more than 40 years his senior. I’m convinced it’s a much different and more difficult view than it would have been through those same eyes when they were half as old. Am I done with my time in the military? No. Am I closer to the end than the beginning? Definitely, and my son has become the primary influence in the decision about when to bring this adventure to a close and begin the next, less migrant one.

Hopefully my words encourage other middle-aged dads and can inform the young men who follow and find themselves wrestling with some of these same thoughts and decisions. Finally, maybe a few wives and even kids can be encouraged to know your men wrestle with these kinds of things. We are men, with all the associated confusing, irritating and cool baggage it brings for those around us. For many of us, the crusty exterior is there for all the right reasons: to some extent, it’s the way we’re wired; but also we may need it to fuel the things we need to do at work. Fortunately or not, those two realms within our lives aren’t binary and can’t just be switched on and off. Regardless of the appearance on the outside though, these things still rage within us as husbands and fathers.

It’s great to be a dad!

Book Review: The Compleat Gentleman

2010-12-05T06:36:00.002+01:00

The Compleat Gentleman: The Modern Man’s Guide to Chivalry (Revised and Updated) by Brad Miner (Richard Vigilante Books, 2009)

In this wonderful book, Brad Miner rolls an incredible volume of history and research into a single reference about chivalry, then applies it to modern times and modern manhood. The book generally has an academic tone to it, but not in a way that’s distracting. In fact, for what is essentially a combination of history and what today would be called “self-help,” the book is definitely readable and held my attention throughout.

Miner works us through the picture of the compleat gentleman by discussing the medieval knight (often used to typify gentlemanly behavior), then examining three persons as models or types: the warrior, the lover and the monk. He also distills the essence of the gentleman into a single Latin concept: sprezzatura, which he thoroughly examines throughout the book due to its rich, deep and complex meaning. On the surface though, it simply means nonchalance; Miner says that to today it would mean “cool.” Toward the end of the book, he summarizes his work by saying, “if ‘honor’ is properly the one word that epitomizes the character of a gentleman, then ‘sprezzatura’ is the last work about the gentleman’s ‘conduct of life.’” He goes on to say, “There are two ways to look at a fellow’s sprezzatura. On the one hand, it means discretion, or, more grandly, prudence; on the other hand it means restraint, which may even be concealment.”

As you read, Miner will weave these concepts together with others, including the role of historic stoicism, and leave you walking away challenged and encouraged that no matter who you are or where you think of yourself relative to gentlemanly conduct, you’ll can make more of yourself.

At the end of the book, Miner quotes Rudyard Kipling’s poem “IF” (available through The Kipling Society at http://www.kipling.org.uk) as his closing and as “the best short summary of the compleat gentleman’s profession.” If you’re not familiar with Kipling or this poem:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;

If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And – which is more – you'll be a Man my son!

Finally, a note for those who might mind, the author clearly writes from a Catholic perspective and defines himself as a classic liberal. Even so, he’s never in your face with either and the points about being a gentleman don’t conditionally rest on either. No matter what your religious or political persuasion, the book is informative and useful.

The Compleat Gentleman is definitely worth the time to read. If you have an interest in the history of gentleman and chivalry, the book is a great anchor point for additional research, with plenty of references and a healthy selected bibliography. I recommend this book to any man whether he’s a father or not, think it would make a great gift at the appropriate time for any young man, and will definitely be on my son’s reading list.

It’s great to be a dad!

A Day of Firsts

2010-11-30T06:09:00.000+01:00

Steph and I love that here in Germany, kids start kindergarten when they’re three: with an actual curriculum and structure to the time. Monday, the 15th of November was a day of firsts in our household: one big and one just noteworthy and funny. The big event was that Paul started kindergarten and he loves it. We were eager to have him start at a local (German) private school and we finally came up on the list. The school is awesome. It’s small and balances the number of international students with German students. Besides the obvious social skill development he’ll get, one of the things we want for him is immersion in the local language and culture as much as possible. Last week, running up to our American holiday Thanksgiving, the school asked Paul if he wanted to draw a picture of something he’s thankful for. He said he wanted to draw a motorcycle. I’m not sure why he picked a motorcycle, but I’m okay with it--neither Steph nor I are anti-motorcycle folks and it seems these are one of a number of things that tend to capture the imagination of young boys (at least our boy), along with space ships, airplanes and robots. From his very first day of school, Paul can’t wait to get there and when we pick him up, he’s all talk about what he and his friends did that day. He loves going and we’re happy he’s having such a great experience with the beginning of a lifetime of learning.

The other first? Well, I recently converted Paul’s toddler bed to what he calls his “big boy bed.” It’s still a toddler bed, but I took the low rail off the front so that his entry and exit isn’t constrained. Neither is he when he tosses in bed at night. We went a week or two without incident, then early Monday morning (the day Paul started school), we heard the thud: the distinct sound of his small frame hitting the floor. It went like this: thud...about five seconds...crying. He was fine other than the tumble surprised him and woke him up. Steph and I were already on our way to his room during the short interlude between the thud and the crying. The funny thing about it was when we stepped into his room, he was laying on his bed. We asked him what happened, not completely sure since he wasn’t on the floor. He told us he hit his head. At that point I wasn’t sure if he fell out of bed or not. We asked him where he hit it and he said, “on the floooooor.” It warmed and broke my heart at the same time. Falling out of bed is one of those rights of passage. Apparently when he hit the floor, he used some superpower to leap back into bed in the two or three seconds before we were in his room--the boy is fast! It made me think, though, that he thought he did something wrong. A little love and snuggling later, he was back asleep. I left for work a short time later and he slept just fine until Steph woke him for that big, first day of school!

It’s great to be a dad!

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-26T06:39:00.000+01:00

Thanksgiving is an awesome holiday. I definitely appreciate its origins, tracking back to the early American settlers and their thankfulness to God for what he provided. I also appreciate the holiday has broadened to something much more than remembering their thanks, or being thankful for the same things they were.

This Thanksgiving, these are the things I’m most thankful for:

My wife and son. They’re happy and healthy, and keep me the same. There aren’t words to capture the privilege and honor it is for me to be a husband and father to these two, the most special people in the world.
My parents: all of them. First for my mom & dad (who aren’t together any longer), and their spouses. I love and respect them all! Second for my wife’s parents who, for as long as I’ve known them as an adult, have treated me like their own son. (It’s a long story, but my parents and Steph’s parents have known each other since Steph and I were larvae. This marriage just might have been arranged...)
My sisters: all four of them. Two of them are married and their husbands are like brothers to me. One is single (HA! I don’t have to share you, Sissy!), and one is no longer with us. (I love and miss you, Galyn.)
My grandparents, who will never know just how much they helped make me the man I am.
Jess and Will. Jess, you’re like a daughter to us, and always will be. You married a great guy and we’re so happy to see your family growing!
My ability to work and provide for my family, and to make enough to be able share what we have with others--financially and materially.
My country and the privilege of serving her. I get as frustrated as anyone else over some of the things we do as a nation, but I’ve traveled the world and remain unashamedly thankful and proud to be an American. Related, I’m humbled and honored to serve among and alongside my military colleagues. I am lucky enough to have spent nearly two and a half decades serving with and standing among some true and amazing heroes.
My job, that pays me to live in places for years at at time, with my family that other families save for a lifetime just to visit for a few weeks. And many others only dream of such travel and never make it.
For the last couple years, living as a friend, peacefully in a country that my country used to be at war with. Germany is fantastic beyond words. The land and climate are amazing and the people are some of the best I’ve met anywhere in the world. My German friends are dear to me and I’m humbled to be counted a friend by some of them.
Imagination: mine, my wife’s, and my sons. I love seeing my son’s mind racing so fast and in so many directions--unconstrained to the best of our ability. My parents allowed, and even fueled, my imagination and I’m doing my best to pass that kind of freedom on to my son.
My friends, some tied to my career and others who aren’t, who are always with us thanks to modern technology. You all are a huge part of what keeps me and my family going strong and doing the things we do.

It’s great to be a dad!

Imagination

2010-10-19T04:41:00.000+02:00

One of the things I love most about being a dad so far is watching my son’s imagination develop. I try to encourage it. The results at times have sprung out of the blue when some crazy, cool new demonstration of imagination just appears. The other night Steph and I were eating pizza for dinner and decided to sit in the living room instead of at the table to catch a show we rarely get to see. Suddenly Paul starts humming music from the Star Wars movie “Return of the Jedi.” The tune was from the scene when the Imperial Dreadnought “Executor,” crippled by a rebel Y-Wing, crashes into the unfinished second Death Star. We looked up and his slice of pizza had become the Dreadnought and his plate was the Death Star. But this wasn’t our imagination interpreting what he was doing; we asked him and he told us, “it’s crashing into the Death Star!” Thankfully the camera was handy.

Steph and I clearly started and continue to encourage his fondness of Star Wars (and all things SciFi), but this was the first time we saw him apply is imagination in this way.

Traditional Blocks

A year or so ago we also bought Paul a basic set of building blocks. You know the ones: a simple variety of colors and basic shapes: cubes, rectangles, wedges, cylinders, and planks. Usually small buildings or garages emerge so he can drive his toy cars and trucks around them. Then one day he built a tower--one that we didn’t have to pretend looked like one. Paul even took a couple toy men and put them on and around it. They were mediaeval knights standing guard to defend the tower from attack. It was a good, strong tower, built on the stone cliffs of...the coffee table. Of course, no tower is complete without a dragon, and as you can see Paul was happy to play the role.

The tower withstood relentless attacks for what must have been an appropriately long time in Paul’s mind, and then its walls fell. I suspect the cool thing for any boy who gets to be the dragon is that he gets to destroy the tower when his imagination drives him on to another adventure. Certainly that’s better and much more fun than the alternative--Steph or I getting tired of having it in the middle of everything and putting it away for him.

LEGOs

Paul has a growing collection of LEGOs; a childhood staple for kids since prehistoric times. His consist of an assortment of basic building blocks, and some of the Star Wars kits (of course). While the Star Wars kits don’t usually lend themselves to a lot of creative building at this point, he’s always playing out scenes from the movies as well as new scenes from his own imagination. Every now and then, the custom parts do lend themselves to something entirely not Star Wars related. The basic building blocks, however, offer his young mind a clean slate. Like kids everywhere, if he can imagine it, he can try to build it. The first time he did this with any real accuracy and success was when he built himself a tiny camera, complete with viewfinder and a button to push to take the picture.

Paul is also a fan of Dr. Who. If you’re familiar with the show, you know there are episodes we don’t let him watch, but he’s seen many of them and regularly asks to see more. What sticks with him from these shows are the Doctor’s Tardis, and the Daleks, and the LEGOs help fuel the imagination here just like a dinner plate and pizza did for Star Wars. From LEGOs, Paul has built a pretty amazing Tardis or two!

Everything in the house is potentially useful and we try to encourage him to see things differently than what their obvious purpose is. As I was drafting this, Paul came in and told me, “I did it! All the robots have matching heads!” I followed him into the hallway to find out what he was talking about. Who could have known that an empty case of beer bottles set by the door to go back to the getränkemarkt were actually a bunch of robots. He had taken the time to swing all the stoppers back up to the top of the bottles, turn them upside down and set them on top of the bottles. They’re robots, and why not?

What’s next?

Of course, we’ll keep expanding the LEGO collection by increasing the size of the basic pieces. This Christmas we’re going to introduce him to another imagination fueling toy: a basic set of Lincoln Logs. Who knows where these will take him, and take us through his active imagination. I can’t wait for the ride!

It’s great to be a dad!

Book Review: Fathers and Sons

2010-09-26T08:58:00.000+02:00

Fathers and Sons: 11 Great Writers Talk about Their Dads, Their Boys, and What It Means to Be a Man (Esquire Books (Hearst))

This is a short and wonderful book of essays about fathers and sons, edited by David Katz. As a father and son, the collection brought me through moments of laughter and sorrow, excited identification with the contributors, and occasional dread. Not every essay resonated with me, but I think it’s a testimony to the good work Mr. Katz did in representing a breadth of views and experiences on the topic. The final essay is a daughter’s view of her dad; I’m glad it was included. I recommend this book to the fathers out there, or if you have a father or son in you life. In other words, it’s worth the time to read regardless of who you are. It’s certainly a good read for anyone who has interest in parenting, fatherhood and the associated first-person perspectives of the father-son relationship.

Swing by your favorite bookstore, local or on-line and grab a copy. Toss it in your briefcase or put it beside your bed for a few minutes of reading each night. I think it’s a worthwhile addition to your bookshelves.

It’s great to be a dad!

RESTREPO: Movie Review

2010-09-07T16:01:00.000+02:00

There are a number of movies I intend to watch with my son as he grows older, to reinforce a variety of life’s lessons. Some are general while others specifically focus on being a man. I recently saw National Geographic’s documentary film RESTREPO. It’s now on my list of films to watch with my son, and it’s a film I highly recommend to you, especially if you’re not in the military.

The film follows a platoon from U.S. Army’s 173rd Airborne Brigade while deployed to an outpost in Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley, Kunar Province, Afghanistan from 2007 to 2008. The name of the outpost and title of the film come from the platoon’s fallen medic PFC Juan Restrepo.

(Outpost (“OP”) Restrepo. Korengal Valley, Kunar Province, Afghanistan. 2008. A film still from the documentary RESTREPO by Tim Hetherington and Sebastian Junger. Image © Outpost Films)

The film is not political, nor does it take a stand on the U.S. military or military service in general. The purpose appears to be to give a raw human view of this kind of combat deployment, including the associated highs and lows. The experience is visually stunning, intimate and very human as you see a one-year combat deployment digested into 90 minutes. It’s very well done.

From the film’s website, its directors Tim Hetherington and Sebastian Junger state: “The war in Afghanistan has become highly politicized, but soldiers rarely take part in that discussion. Our intention was to capture the experience of combat, boredom and fear through the eyes of the soldiers themselves. Their lives were our lives: we did not sit down with their families, we did not interview Afghans, we did not explore geopolitical debates. Soldiers are living and fighting and dying at remote outposts in Afghanistan in conditions that few Americans back home can imagine. Their experiences are important to understand, regardless of one's political beliefs. Beliefs are a way to avoid looking at reality. This is reality.”

(RESTREPO filmmakers Sebastian Junger (l.) and Tim Hetherington (r.) at Outpost Restrepo. Korengal Valley, Afghanistan, Kunar Province. 2007. Photograph © Tim Hetherington)

What about your kids? You know your kids better than anyone, but my recommendation is not to take children under 17 to see this. While the movie isn’t necessarily gory, it is a war movie. It’s not a depiction; it’s a documentary, and it’s violent. The violence, however, occurs in an appropriate context (it’s not violence captured on film simply for the purpose of sensational violence) and the film is very respectful of the soldiers and families involved. What will make the movie difficult for kids, especially young ones, is viewing the movie without an appropriate understanding of the broader real-world context of the war in Afghanistan, or the decisions that led us to the war--again, not really a part of what the movie attempts to address.

For older or more mature kids, it may be a great teaching tool to help them know and understand any number of broader things: courage, duty, service to country and friends, loyalty, bravery, decision-making, the practical impact of political decisions, as well as other attributes that we parents hope to see instilled in our kids as they mature into adults. Overall, I recommend parents see the movie first, then decide if it’s the kind of film your kids should see.

For more information and to see the trailer, visit the film’s website (http://restrepothemovie.com) and National Geographic’s “The Making of Restrepo” (http://movies.nationalgeographic.com/movies/restrepo/junger-hetherington)

I highly recommend you see this movie no matter what your political views, your views of the military, or the war in Afghanistan. It’s an amazing snapshot of what one facet of modern ground warfare looks like: dramatically different than that of previous wars up to and including the war to liberate Iraq. More importantly, it’s also an amazing chronicle of the bonds that form between men, in this case men who became friends as they trained together and later fought side by side.

It’s great to be a dad!

A Prayer For My Son

2010-08-10T12:49:00.000+02:00

I’m a career military man. Although that fact isn’t supreme, it’s definitely one of the few things that serves to define me. As I’ve spent my entire adult life in the military as a professional, I’ve appropriately spent the better part of that adult life studying my profession. This study includes the lives and work of other military men, their leadership qualities and how they exercised that leadership during their careers. As a result, my education has caused me to cross the historic path of General Douglas MacArthur. Recently I found myself looking at his work again, and was reminded that my first contact with some of General MacArthur’s work was in my childhood.

At some point, I presume during his military career, General Douglas MacArthur penned a prayer for his son, Arthur. His family made this prayer public when he died in 1964, the same year I was born. I don’t know when my father bought a copy of it, but for as long as I can remember a small, plain, framed version hung on my bedroom wall. When the time came for me to head out on my own, it went with me. Here is the prayer General MacArthur penned for his son:

Build me a son, O Lord,
who will be strong enough to know when he is weak,
brave enough to face himself when he is afraid,

Build me a son,
whose wishes will not take the place of deeds...
Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort,
but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenges.

Let him learn to stand in the storm;
let him learn compassion for those who fall.

Build me a son,
whose heart is clear, whose goals will be high
a son who will master himself before he seeks to master others;
who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.

And after all these things are his, add, I pray,
enough of a sense of humor
so that he may always be serious
yet never take himself too seriously...

Then, I, his father will dare to whisper,
"I have not lived in vain."

This powerful statement was also attributed to General MacArthur:

“By profession I am a soldier and take pride in that fact,” MacArthur said. “But I am prouder – infinitely prouder – to be a father. A soldier destroys in order to build, the father only builds, never destroys. The one has the potentiality of death; the other embodies creation and life. And while the hordes of death are mighty, the battalions of life are mightier still. It is my hope that my son, when I am gone, will remember me not from the battlefield but in the home, repeating with him our simple daily prayer, Our Father Who Art in Heaven…” (See Cheryl Davis’ Art Blog at http://bymyart.wordpress.com/2008/07/12/macarthur-on-being-a-soldier-and-a-father/)

My Prayer For Paul

Not to simply mimic him out of some odd professional courtesy, I also pray for my son. I think Douglas MacArthur (the man and father) set a good and respectable example. When I’m home I pray daily with Paul, at a minimum at least once when Stephanie and I put him to bed. My prayer is formed by my faith and my experience of fatherhood, from the time we knew Stephanie had conceived, through the pregnancy, Paul’s birth, and then the years that have followed. It reflects my admittedly reformed and orthodox faith and flows from the heart. Here is what I pray nightly with Paul, and for him even when I’m not home:

Lord God,

Thank You for the gift of my son,

and for the privilege of being his parents.

I pray You guard and guide Paul tonight.

Teach him to know You and love You

through us and the church,

and to know how much You love him.

I also pray he always knows how much we love him,

not just through our words, but also our deeds.

Give Stephanie and I the wisdom to raise him well

and in a manner pleasing to You.

If it’s Your will,

preserve us through the night

so we can wake tomorrow to see each other again,

either here or by Your side.

The prayer is generally constant but isn’t formulaic. These aren’t the specific words, memorized and recited precisely, although I generally cover this same ground every night. Perhaps in a later posting, for those who are interested, I’ll walk through the prayer to explain how and why I’ve settled on the words in it.

As for that small, framed copy of General MacArthur’s prayer for his son, it now hangs on my son’s bedroom wall, just as it did on mine when I was a child.

I know some of you who read this may not be Christians, or even religious or spiritual. I understand, but this is a glimpse into what makes me tick, as a man, a husband, and as a father. And for what it’s worth, at risk of unintentionally offending someone out there, it’s my prayer that all of us who are or will be dads one day, that we’re genuinely good and faithful dads. Not because we say or think we are, but because when it’s all said and done, others around us, including our kids say we were. Even with all our flaws. This fatherhood gig is huge, complicated, thrilling, scary at times, and frankly just plain amazing.

It’s great to be a dad!

(The photo of General MacArthur is in the pubic domain. See http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/images/ac00001/ac02413.jpg)

Reflections (Part 2)

2010-07-25T01:08:00.000+02:00

Last week I told you the story of the birth of my son. Just typing that story out last week and reliving it in my mind brought joyful tears to my eyes again. Although that wasn’t why I wrote it, I was flattered to hear from many of you who told me what I wrote resonated with you and apparently the stock went up on several brands of tissues. As promised, here’s the rest of the story of my reflection on my wonderful wife and the birth of my son. The emphasis changes a little here, from my amazing wife to the beginning of my own development as a first-time father.

Paul’s Pitstop Along the Canal

I mentioned my wife labored for 51 hours before Paul was finally delivered by C-section. As you recall, he was breach, then on the day we were to originally have the C-section, he flipped over and was properly oriented for a normal delivery. And then there was the marathon. After Paul was born and we were all resting quietly in the Labor and Delivery Ward (L&D from now on), our doctor came to us to explain what caused the lack of progress. It seems that Paul had turned his head to the side at about the time he started progressing down the birth canal. As a result, the shape of his head didn’t line up with companion shape of the birth canal and he simply stopped. No amount of labor was going to change it, especially since Steph’s body was properly trying to move him along, creating enough pressure that Paul’s head just wasn’t going to turn back. In times past this could have (would have?) resulted in the death of both mother and child, but thanks to God, modern medicine, the wonderful skills of the medical professionals that took care of us, I enjoy the company of my beautiful wife and son today.

I learned a bunch of cool stuff as Steph rested and recovered, and began bonding with my infant son. Steph “held” him for nine months and now it was finally my turn. I was nervous but eager to learn. He had his first bath and I learned how to change his diaper and swaddle him. The Super Bowl was on with the volume down and Steph fed Paul his first meal outside the womb watching the game. (I can’t make this up!) At about halftime, Steph fell asleep and Paul and I sat with my new son in my arms, watched the game, and bonded. And every now an then, I found myself weeping just for a moment. It wasn’t for any specific reason. I think it was that intangible and very real bonding--father’s and son’s hearts were touching. It was, and remains, one of the best experiences of my life, sitting in the quiet and warmth of that room next to my sleeping wife who had just done something truly heroic, and holding my hours-old son.

An Angry Dad

The next morning everyone was doing fine and the process began to do some final testing in order to discharge mother and son. We were excited, tired and happy to think about taking our son home for the first time. But there was this little thing called jaundice we had to deal with first. He didn’t look jaundiced, so this came as a surprise when, as we were being discharged from L&D, we were taken upstairs by someone from another department. It was the first we’d heard that this was the plan rather than going to our car and heading home. And now I was angry in addition to being tired.

The change from pleasure with the L&D crew to thorough disgust for the “professionals” in the new ward was dramatic, none of whom could competently or authoritatively explain to me why we were even there other than to say, “your son has jaundice; his bilirubin levels are on the edge of high, and this will prevent a problem from developing.” It made sense, but we couldn’t get a doctor to see us until I threatened to take my family and leave the hospital. An orderly actually told me I couldn’t do that. I didn’t mention to him that I could have snapped him like a twig and instead maintained my composure and told him he needed to rethink what he had just said. We weren’t under arrest and no one could even confirm we were the right people who were supposed to be there. I told him if a medical doctor didn’t come explain to us why we were in this new ward within two hours, in an adult manner, we would be leaving. We had signed formal discharge papers in L&D and had not been formally readmitted to any part of the hospital. As far as I was concerned, this was all a mistake reinforced by lack of any interaction with a physician or appropriate staff. I wanted to see test results and have them explained to me like an adult. I also wanted to know clearly and concisely what the “treatment” would do to remedy the alleged problem and how long it would take. For those of you who are familiar, you know the treatment for an infant with elevated bilirubin levels isn’t cosmic and really doesn’t require a lot of explanation--it involves baking the boy under some incubator lights (technically called phototherapy, accomplished with lights or a photo-optic blanket) in a controlled manner. Having a medical background I was actually familiar with the treatment, but didn’t like that no one with any authority or medical competence seemed to want to explain it to my wife and I. I was literally packing our bags up again, when a doctor showed up. I politely and professionally let him have it. With the doctor’s apologies appearing genuine, along with his sufficient explanations for why we were there and for how long, we ended up staying through the next night to let Paul bake and went home the next day.

Don’t Look Into The Light: Shaping a Father’s Heart

The real story is actually about the time that passed with Paul under those lights, especially through that night, and the thoughts and feelings that continued to emerge as a brand new, first-time father. My wife was exhausted and I was beyond tired. The hospital didn’t have a photo-optic blanket, so Paul was laying helpless in an open-sided incubator with ridiculously designed little goggles on to keep the lights from causing damage to his eyes. For those of you who are parents, you know about infants--they have no motor control and so I worried about him knocking the goggles off and ending up with eye damage. Designed as they were, they seemed to come off his head when he simply thought about moving. And so I intended to sit up all night hoping to let Steph sleep as much as possible. She was actually doing well and thankfully was able to sit up with Paul for part of the night, giving me about three hours of sleep. But it wasn’t very good sleep and I was entirely consumed with this little son of mine and that my wife now had to stay awake even longer. All Paul had known was nine months of comfort in the womb, then suddenly he’s on the bright, noisy and cold outside but in the protective arms of Steph and I, and before that dust could settle he has something awkward on his face and no real contact with either of us other than the sound of our voices and fairly regular adjustments to the goggles.

I still don’t know how a heart can be full of joy and thoroughly broken at the same time, but mine was. What’s really beyond my ability to explain is although I couldn’t have loved my new son any more than I already did, every moment that passed as I sat awake with him my love grew. My heart was full, but somehow it kept getting fuller. A better picture of this is that my love for my son was growing deeper and stronger with every minute that passed. I know this would have happened even without the frustrating side trip to the incubator, but this little bit of additional frustration and adversity simply highlighted it for me.

Homeward Bound

The next day, and two very tired parents later, we took our son home. Everything was exciting and scary. Was the car seat in right? Was he warm enough back there? Would his little head flop over too far and hinder his breathing? Would we know since the car seat faces to the rear for safety? I can’t stare at him the whole time; what if we get into an accident? Somehow we made it home. Since then, like all parents, we’ve received perfect support and great advice from a variety of folks within our circle of friends and family. I think we’ve managed to do OK as parents so far. It’s wonderful to have the experience of others to lean on, and to learn that you really can do this parenting thing--a subset of this marriage thing--without an instruction manual. By the way, that last statement doesn’t mean you can’t raise a child without both parents. Life is messy and things happen--at a minimum the “Ds” haunt many of us: deployments (or long business trips), divorce, death. There’s other stuff too, but to keep this truthful, after my own experiences these last three and a half years, it seems to me solo parenting isn’t the default or preferred situation. It takes two of us to make those little, wonderful kids, and it seems two should bring them up. When that can’t happen, I hope that same circle of family and friends is there to stand along side the parent flying solo.

Honoring our Women

My wife Stephanie is amazing and she’s also a hero to me, on that same very short list I have with just a few other people on it, including my dad and both grandfathers. Ladies, every one of you stands on a pedestal in my world, for many reasons. In the absence of other reasons though, you still hold that special place for that most wonderful and miraculous thing you can do--bare children.

Men, if we don’t honor our women--all women, but especially our wives--then we’re not really men. The word “honor” gets used a lot in certain circles, but I’m not sure many of us really understand what it means practically. Not that I agree with every premise behind his statements, consider this amazing conversation between Robert MacGregor and his son in a scene from the 1995 movie Rob Roy:

Son: Father, will the MacGregors ever be kings again?

Rob Roy: All men with honor are kings, but not all kings have honor.

Son: What is honor?

Rob Roy: Honor is what no man can give you, and no man can take away. Honor is a man’s gift to himself.

Son: Do women have it?

Rob Roy: Women have the heart of honor, and we cherish and protect it in them. And you must never mistreat a woman, nor malign a man, or stand by and see another do so.

Son: How do you know if you have it?

Rob Roy: Never worry in the getting of it. It grows in you and speaks to you. All you need do is listen.

Men, all our circumstances are different whether we’re single, married, or fathers. But we can’t afford to mess this up. We live in the world and others see us: other men, sons, women, and daughters. Never be an ass; just be an honorable man.

Single men, it’s OK to be the man that women want you to be and that younger men can genuinely look up to. Be a real man of strength and honor--mentally and physically. Don’t let yourself fuel the caricature that men are full of rudeness and too much testosterone. Don’t go to the other extreme either though and be that ugly model of overdone pasta with no idea who you are or what you stand for, and who doesn’t know where to find his spine or what testosterone is. If you’re a husband, you have a wife to love and cherish. If you’re a father, you have sons and daughters to raise. For those of you with sons, join me in my hope that we raise our sons well. We are men. If you’d prefer not to be, like last week, feel free to send me your Man Card; I’ll quietly and discretely dispose of it for you and we’ll never speak of this again.

It’s great to be a dad!

Reflections

2010-07-18T12:51:00.000+02:00

I recently picked a book up while browsing at a local bookstore. Fathers and Sons: 11 Great Writers Talk About Their Dads, Their Boys, and What It Means To Be A Man is a collection of essays written by fathers, sons, and one daughter. Only part way through the first essay in the first section of the book, entitled “The Beginning”, I found myself fighting indoor allergies, sweaty eyeballs, um, alright--tears. Awkward to say the least, as I was sitting in a bookstore sipping coffee. It was an unexpected reaction to an essay written by someone I don’t even know. I can't say it brought back memories because what went through my head hadn’t been forgotten, but the essay did result in fragmented memories coming back together that hadn't been that way since the birth of my son almost three and a half years ago.

I haven't appropriately honored my wife for bringing my son into this wonderful world in this forum; it's overdue and the time has come. I also haven't talked about those first hours in the hospital after Paul was born and the initial thoughts that went through my head a brand new dad--not so much the lofty philosophical thoughts (because frankly, there weren't any), but rather my initial caveman reaction to going from being a father who's son is still on the inside to being a father with a son in my arms. So i'll write these thoughts and reflections down because I need to for myself, but hopefully those of you who read this will carry something away as well. Dads, especially you first-time dads, assuming my experience isn't unique, maybe you'll find you're not alone; there are other men standing around you--standing with you in the fraternity that is fatherhood. Moms, if you have a husband who doesn't like or want to talk about his fist contact with fatherhood, maybe this will give you some glimpse into your man's inner workings.

Labor

Our pregnancy was pretty much a standard one. Steph dealt with gestational diabetes and pregnancy-related hypertension, but that's not uncommon and it wasn't ever a real issue. Good advise from the doctors, discipline on Steph’s part, and things went smoothly. Late in the game though, Paul did a summersault and ended up breach. No big deal again. As the day approached our doctor talked us through the procedure to turn him around just prior to delivery. If it worked, a normal delivery would follow; if it didn't he'd still arrive courtesy of a C-section. The day arrived and we checked into the hospital, armed with all our knowledge and no experience, ready to bring our child into the world. Check in, get "comfortable," a sonogram to confirm the position of the child, rotate as required, and deliver--ready, set, go! We came in with the C-section scheduled and mentally prepared for the surgery. One quick sonogram later we learned that our child decided to have mercy on Steph; as she slept the night prior, he reoriented himself and was pointy end down. The doctor told us we had an option: go ahead with the C-section as scheduled, or start down the path of a normal delivery. Either was fine, but due to Paul's position, the natural path would take a little more time than usual to allow him to move the rest of the way down the birth canal and into contact with the cervix. Having nothing else to do and a preference not to have surgery, we opted for a normal labor. A little extra time, plus another 14 or so hours (what we were told was the average length of labor for a first child in the U.S.) and we' have a baby on the outside. We were nervous but ready.

About that whole 14 hour thing...the next 51 hours were the fastest and longest hours of my life. You read it right, I said fifty-one hours. Hours. Nothing really went wrong, but everything took a long time or even longer. Let me back up; nothing went wrong in this modern world, but Steph and Paul may not have survived the birth in times past. Paul simply wasn't moving down the birth canal like he should. He came down a little, then stopped and decided to take a break, think about coming out later, who knows. Steph started having some major league contractions somewhere along the way, but not near the end. Paul just wasn’t ready. She was a superstar and powered through it like it was business as usual and she had done it many times before. I don't and can't understand how this is possible other that to believe what I've heard others say: you ladies are made to do this. And for the record, it's not only mysterious to us men; I think it's miraculous. I was there and watched my wife do something she had never done before--give birth to my son, after doing something else she had never done before--carry another human inside her body for nine months while that little guy grew from a microscopic size to almost seven pounds. I get the science behind it all but when I hear scientists talk about it all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher talking. When you look only at the biological and chemical science of pregnancy and birth, you miss the absolute majesty of it all. There just aren't adequate words in human language to capture what happens. And our wives some how contain this in their bodies naturally!

My wife literally wore the doctor and her staff out. Around the 49th hour our doctor came in, did some of that poking around doctor stuff and said, "OK, if that baby isn't on the outside in an hour, we're going to go ahead and do the C-section". We hadn't asked about this or even really discussed it between us since opting for labor, but when she said it Steph and I were absolutely agreeable and ready. Exactly one hour later, our doctor retuned, did some more doctorly poking around, said some scholarly things about things with Latin names, and everything shifted to the surgery.

We Have A Son!

Another hour passed and Paul arrived. I was in scrubs and sitting at Steph’s head. The room was cool, and Steph was all bundled up (from where I sat), wrapped in sheets and blue towels, interestingly, looking a lot like Paul would just a few hours later after the nurses swaddled him.

The c-section was relatively fast after so many hours of labor. Steph was a champion. We exchanged small but important words, mostly exchanges of “I love you” and “how are you doing?” She seemed very calm and I was nervous. At one point she told me she felt like she couldn’t breath very well. I glanced up at the monitor and anesthesiologist; things looked fine and he comforted her immediately by assuring her it was a common feeling due to the anesthesia, but that she was breathing fine and her oxygen levels were good. Steph seemed OK and I had to trust him. Very shortly after, our doctor said, “OK dad, I’m ready to deliver the baby, do you want to stand up and see?” I winked at Steph and stood just in time to see my son enter the world. His back was to me as the doctor gently and smoothly lifted him up with her hands under his arms. Just a few seconds later and I heard his voice for the first time as he began to cry. My heart leapt for joy and broke at the same time. Nothing was wrong; everything was right and good. And I had just witnessed the most amazing thing in my entire life: the birth of my firstborn son; and my amazing wife who instantly became a hero in my eyes.

I’ve seen some amazing things through the 47 years of my life. I’ve traveled to all but one continent on this earth, been to some of the wealthiest and poorest nations, worked as an EMT and firefighter, and served in combat along side my brothers and sisters in arms. I have never seen anything that rivals what my wife did. I didn’t do it; she did. She bore my son, kept him safe, nourished him by God’s grace, then made herself completely vulnerable by placing herself at the mercy of everyone except herself as she lay helpless on her back on a table--entrusting herself entirely into the hands of people she really didn’t know. And our son was born.

Like Alec Wilkinson wrote in the third essay in Fathers and Sons, I began to cry. Just like him, I didn’t anticipate it. In fact, I didn’t even think about my possible reaction to my son’s birth in advance. Here’s what Alec said, “I did not expect to cry when my son was born--it seemed a silly and conventional and trivial thing to do, weep for joy, like a figure in an advertisement--but I did, quite suddenly and without warning, as if it were a reflex.” I was blown away and I shed tears: not bawling, not even sobbing, but I quietly and lovingly wept in absolute awe of my wife. Although it wasn’t the case before Paul was born, at that moment it became inconceivable to me that anyone can view human life as anything but miraculous: whether you’re a creationist, evolutionist, a noneoftheaboveist or a nothingatallist. You get my point: life is a miracle and my wife and son are the proof. Ladies, you rock. Moms, you’re something even more special. You have facilitated miracles.

Men who are dads, if you don’t respect this about your wives, you should probably just turn in your man cards now, if you can find it. If you think I’m right and can’t tell your wives what you think, or the other men in your lives, I fraternally encourage you to grow a pair or send your card to me and I’ll discretely dispose of it for you. (We’ll never speak of this again.) If you’re one of those other men and would presume to mock a fellow man who happens to be a dad and tells you something like this, turn your card in too, and use some form of express mail. Finally, if you’re a single man or husband with no kids, I humbly ask you to just accept and respect what I’m telling you. If and when your turn comes; let me know if you think I missed the mark on this. By the way, unless you were born in a lab courtesy of a test tube, if you have the privilege of still having your dad around, consider finding the right time to ask him (or any other dad you respect) for his thoughts. Be prepared to learn something (or to confiscate his man card). I know you’ll do the right thing.

The first few nights after Paul was born were ordinary in one context, but extraordinary in another. The extraordinary aspects I’m referring to are my own reactions to some very common things that happen with many an average newborn. Nothing about the events of those next few short days and hours surprised me, but my reactions stunned me. If you’re interested, please be patient and I’ll write more about this story soon.

It’s great to be a dad!

Real Living: Love and Friendship

2010-07-03T03:55:00.008+02:00

Friendship and love are interesting. In a way, they’re pretty straight forward but at the same time, they’re complicated beyond measure. On occasion they overlap, and I think that’s when we go from living to truly living.

We all have friends. These are the people you trust and invest time, attention, and to a varying degree a part of yourself into. Across the spectrum of friends there are good ones and best ones; not really a problem though since people have depth and are complicated. There are folks we invest more into than others for a variety of reasons--shared interests, available time, distance, etc. Then there are those special circumstances where it’s not clear if someone is your friend or not, but elements of the relationship look and feel like friendship--even a very strong friendship. Let me give you an example. I’m in the military and move with some regularity. Every two or three years I uproot my entire immediate family and off we go to a new place. One of the amazing things about this lifestyle though is that we share it with many others in the same circumstances, and when we get somewhere new, we have immediate friends. They may not be good friends at the start, or even ever, but there are elements of the relationship that would shock the best of friends outside this context. I can arrive at a new location and literally trust my neighbor with the keys to my house, my car, to sign for my household goods (all the stuff we own and fill a house with), and frankly my wife and son. Amazing! I think someone once referred to these as the common bonds that will tie folks together. And so goes friendship. Because I’ve moved my entire life I have only a few friends I’ve retained from my youth (up through high school). Oddly, I have even fewer that I’ve stayed in contact with from college. But I have quite a few from my adult life, all spent in the military, several of whom are truly like brothers and sisters to me. Some may be closer. But what’s most interesting is my wife--I’ve known her since grade school and we ended up married. We are best friends, and we’re lovers.

So then there are those we love. Philosophers bicker about what it is (and isn’t), but for us regular folks, it’s like “good art”, you know love when you see it. It doesn’t really matter what the “experts” say. We all love lots of things and the word has a variety of meanings. In this case though, I’m talking about when we’re fortunate enough to find someone who is the love of our lives. I’ve seen this in others now and then; sadly it seems rare. I feel fortunate that I’ve found it too. As I said, I married my absolute best friend, the mother of my son, and she’s also the love of my life.

So what’s the point? Well there’s living, and then there’s living. Don’t get me wrong--I’m not diminishing any relationship that anyone has, with or without a husband or wife. For me, I was living a great life before I married my wife. She was the right person for me, and over the seventeen years of our marriage, I’ve realized that while life was good, while I was living before, once we were together, life took on a whole new significance, meaning and purpose. And it was amplified when we had our son. I am alive--really alive. I’m middle aged, my body has been broken (literally), and even serves as host to at least one “tropical” critter (parasite) that decided I’d make a good home when I was in Africa (and I’ll probably never be rid of until I move on). But that’s not life. My body can fail. Living is having friends and genuine friendships. Living, is when you have the privilege of seeing one of those friendships develop in to love. It might be marriage, it might be the genuine love between brothers or sisters, and frankly it could even be between folks who aren’t related in either of these ways. I’m not actually sure what makes it happen, but it does. Life is a wonderful thing; real life--genuine living--is when we have the privilege of wonderful friendships, at least one of which becomes the love shared through marriage, through the deep bonds of brothers or sisters, or the absolute closest of friends. Because of the dear friends I have, and the special love of my wife, I am a better man than I could have ever been otherwise.

My Dad

2010-06-21T05:33:00.000+02:00

My dad is one of my heroes. This Father’s Day I want to honor him by explaining to a limited extend what he’s contributed to my being the man and father I am today.

Here’s his story:

Dad was born in Salt Lake City, Utah in 1937, the son of a salesman for what was the American Chicle Company. One of his earliest memories was from when he was a little guy (probably only two or three years old). The family lived on the third floor at the time and dad would often play in or near the window when he couldn’t be outside. The window washers had come by but failed to put the screen back tightly. When dad climbed up to play, he fell out the window. His grandmother (called “Nan”) jumped out the same window after him and as Dad recalls, somehow she seemed to get to the ground before him or at nearly the same time in order to try to protect him from the fall. Fortunately he fell into a clump of bushes below the window and wasn’t harmed.

In 1941 when he was about four, the family moved to Dallas, Texas where my grandfather was promoted from salesman to District Manager. At that time, as the US entered World War 2, my grandfather volunteered for and was inducted into the Navy and attended Officers Candidate School. Around that same time, my dad’s grandmother back in Salt Lake City was going blind. As a result, the Navy sent my grandmother, dad and uncle back to Salt Lake to be with her. The Navy paid for the travel and sent them on a troop train; that was my dad’s first exposure to the military, riding the train with the troops who were making their way to the war. Shortly after arrival, it was clear Nan was completely blind. At that time, my grandfather was the head of household and the sole provider for the family. as a result, the Navy exempted him from service and the family (including Nan) moved back to Dallas.

When dad was first in grade school, his older brother Neil was supposed to walk him home. Neil just walked home alone and left dad at the school. Dad found his way home alone, even though he doesn’t remember how he found the house. Neil took a beating.

As a boy and young man, dad always had chores to do. One particular chore that still sticks vividly in his mind was mowing the grass. My dad and uncle were both young, dad wasn’t tall enough to reach the lawn mower’s handle, but my uncle was. As a result, my uncle Neil was allowed to push the mower. There was also a rope tied to the mower that my dad used to walk in front of the mower, pulling it along like a plow horse. When the grass didn’t need mowing, there were always other chores to do: painting the house, mending a fence, etc. It was clear to my dad (as unenjoyable as it was when he was a child) that he was expected to put the family first and that everyone in the family was expected to contribute for the greater good.

His first real job was as a paper boy in Dallas when he was 9 years old. As was normal for the day, he would go door-to-door to collect directly from the customers once a month. From that money, he would pay for the newspapers, with his profit coming from any additional money or tips collected. From what profit he made, my grandmother allowed him to keep $5 a month; the rest went into the house fund to cover other family needs.

The family moved from Dallas to Cleveland, Ohio in 1951 where my grandfather was promoted again, now to Division Manager. This was early in the Korean War and dad has vivid memories of lots of radio chatter about our military and the war. Cleveland became home for the rest of his youth and it was there that he completed 8th through 12th grades.

When he was 13 years old he took an all-summer job washing dishes at the Centerville YMCA Camp in Ohio. His first summer there he was still short enough that he had to stand on two Coke-a-Cola crates to be tall enough to wash the dishes. His work ethic impressed his manager there and as a result, he was able to work other jobs too, including in the craft shop and eventually as a life guard, all under the oversight of the same manager. His experiences at camp were good ones, it earned him some money, and it got him out of a full summer of chores at home. He continued working for the next five summers, through graduation from High School.

As was typical of the time, since he didn’t have a car he hitchhiked to get to and from camp, even to return home in the middle of the summer when he had a few days off. His last summer there, the summer after he graduated from HS, his brother Neil had joined the AF and dad wanted to have his brother’s Buick. Grandpa wouldn’t give it to him and instead said he could have it if he bought it. Dad paid $100 and bought his first car. What was noteworthy about that final year Dad had accelerated through HS and completed school in February. As a result, he worked for my grandfather from February until the summer. That summer before college started, probably to avoid more chores around the house for no pay, he went back to the YMCA camp.

He graduated from John Marshall High School, having lettered in track all four years, and applied to attend Miami University of Ohio. Miami was co-ed university and known for its business school. It was a feeder school for Harvard’s Business School, and as such was the only state school in Ohio that required prospective students to take entrance exams. Dad was accepted and also decided to enroll in ROTC.

As a freshman, he pledged for ΣAE and was accepted into the fraternity. That year though, he and his group couldn’t be inducted because the fraternity was in trouble and on probation with the National Chapter. Dad and about 30 other classmates decided to wait the probationary period out and join when they could. (Other students apparently didn’t wait and went on to other fraternities.)

At that same time, his brother was studying to get into medical school and due to his circumstances, needed to pursue a masters degree first to prove himself. As a result, most of the available money in the family went to pay for his college bills rather than my dad’s. My grandfather paid for dad’s first year, but that was it. Dad wanted to continue college and ended up working four jobs to pay his room, board and tuition: as a waiter in one of the women’s dorms, as a burger cook and waiter at the fraternity house, and as a salesman at a local clothing store. He finally worked his way through to graduation in June 1959, received a business degree and a commission in the US Air Force. His dad congratulated him for working his way through college and asked him what he wanted. Dad said he wanted a car, preferably a convertible. Grandpa asked him if he’s like one of those new Impala convertibles, dad said yes. Grandpa picked the car up and dad thanked him for such a nice gift. Grandpa then told him it might not be such a good deal and to look in the glovebox. In the glove box, dad found the payment book for the car. It wasn’t intended, but dad had just bought his second car, thinking it was a graduation gift.

As I mentioned, dad was in ROTC all four years of college. He wanted to join the AF to be a pilot, figuring he could serve his country for several years, then shift into the commercial aviation world as an airline pilot. He took the exam to see if he qualified to compete for a pilot training slot and earned his private pilot’s license, at the time a requirement to gain a pilot training slot with the AF. He scored well and with a private pilot’s license in hand was selected to attend pilot training after commissioning.

In December 1959 he reported to Lackland AFB for what was called officer preflight training. After successfully completing preflight, he continued to Malden AB (Malden, MO) for primary flight training where he flew the T-28 and was in the last class to fly this reciprocating engine aircraft for primary (pictured above), then at Laredo AFB, TX where he flew the T-33 to complete pilot training in a jet aircraft (pictured below). After graduation and with survival and passing through the Technical Training Unit, he began flying C-133’s as an airlift pilot. Throughout his career he flew C-130s, C-141s and C-5s as well as other assorted aircraft.

During the early part of his career, he was also selected along with 125 pilots from across the AF to screen for the astronaut program. He passed the grueling 9 day physical, but ultimately wasn’t selected to complete the training since he didn’t have an engineering degree. His name was kept on the books as eligible, but he was never called upon to enter the program.

He served in combat in Viet Nam, commanded at the squadron, group, wing and twice at the air division level, and also served as the Technical Training Center Commander at Keesler AFB, where he retired in 1991. One of the Air Divisions he commanded, the 76th Military Airlift Division at Andrews AFB, MD, included three subordinate wings, one of which was the 89th Military Airlift Wing responsible for presidential and congressional airlift, including the US’s most famous jet: Air Force 1.

His original plan to move to the airlines after a few short years flying for the military was overcome by his love for military aviation and those few short years became a 32 year career. Along the way, while working a full-time career in the Air Force, he also earned an MBA on his own time. He retired from active duty as a major general and transitioned to civilian life.

Shortly after retirement, he was hired to tech MBA studies at William Carey College in Hattiesburg, MS. Around that same time he also ran for Congress against the incumbent for the 5th Congressional District in Mississippi. The incumbent won but the visibility and desire to continue in public service was noted. As a result the State of Mississippi asked him to become the first executive director of the newly formed Mississippi Gaming Commission in September 1993--the year the State Senate voted to legalize and regulate casino-style gaming in the state. He accepted and ran the State’s gaming compliance arm for almost six years until sometime in 1998.

Shortly afterwards, he was offered the position of President and CEO of a financially struggling Signature Works (the largest company in the world employing visually impaired workers). He served with them for two years, moved the company back into the black, then handed a healthy company to new leadership. Never content to sit still, he then started a company with two other men to store cars for military members stationed overseas or deployed. That same year he also started his own company, PDH Associates, to assist individuals and companies who desire to enter into the gaming industry. Since then he’s taken a number of corporate governance positions within the gaming industry, including a position on the Board of Directors for the Riviera in 2001, and as the President and CEO of Pearl River Resorts, working directly for the Meko (Chief) of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians. He still lives in Mississippi today and actively continues with his own company, as well as with Pearl River Resorts and the Riviera.

Dad, I want you and others to know what you taught me: the things I can say you’re responsible for teaching me and that have made me the man, and the father that I am.

Serving others and your country is more important than serving yourself
Work hard and provide for your family
Be a team player but don’t expect others to carry your load
Be generous with what you have and help others when you can
Education is important--get as much as you can
Discipline will get you through most everything in life
Priorities matter--commit to and finish what you start
Have a sense of humor--don’t lose it and don’t forget to laugh
Don’t forget where you came from--it matters because it makes you who you are

There are so many more things I could say, but these are the big ones. You didn’t just tell me these things, you taught me through your words and deeds across my entire life. You also commissioned me as a second lieutenant in the US Air Force, officiated all of my promotions, greeted me when I returned from my first combat deployment, and my son is named after you. Thank you for being my dad and my hero. If I’m ever even half the man that you are, I can count my life a success. Happy Father’s Day, dad. It’s truly great to be your son, and as always,

It’s great to be a dad!

Father's Day Guest Post: For Dad

2010-06-19T09:19:00.002+02:00

This post was submitted by Kristina, a military officer and colleague of mine, in honor of her dad. He recently passed away. She penned these words on September 24th, 2009 and shared them at his funeral. It seems appropriate to post her words, unedited, for Fathers Day. Read on as she honors her dad:

I just wanted to start off by saying that Dad asked me to do this a couple of weeks ago. I knew it would be hard, but how could I say no? Dad also asked me to talk about what he meant as a naval officer. Unfortunately, I didn’t really know him when he was a naval officer, so I’d like to defer to (my Dad’s friend), who’ll be following me.

I don’t think Dad would have asked me to do this ten years ago. When I was about 16/17, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Before and after that rough patch, however, is a different story. I remember he was an assistant softball coach on Melissa’s and my team; he was an enthusiastic homework tutor, a motivator, and a supreme public embarrasser; in fact, when we went food shopping, he loved to dance in the middle of the supermarket just to see me turn multiple shades of red and hear me squeal, “Da-ad! You’re embarrassing me!”

Melissa, my sister, was a Daddy’s girl. Once, when Melissa was three years old, Dad was shoveling snow outside. Melissa put on Dad’s Navy uniform jacket and cover (aka his hat), walked outside to the front stoop, and exclaimed, “Daddy! I’m just like you! I’m in the Navy, too!” Laughing, Dad swooped Melissa up, and Mom took pictures.

I know Melissa will agree that we enjoyed being world travelers together. We lived in and traveled all over Europe and the US. Dad loved to show us great sites and teach us the way things worked – the cable cars in the Swiss Alps, for example.

Dad and I would have long conversations. I could always count on Dad for deep conversations on religion, science, and the meaning of life, among other topics. We concluded that there must indeed be life on other planets, and that Moses really did part the Red Sea. In fact, our last real conversation was on death as a journey, which I’ll get into later.

Last month, I wrote a prayer for my family in my journal, and read it to Dad when he was in the hospital. He loved it. I thought I would share it:

Written Aug 20, 2009:

"My dad has Stage 4 cancer. He hasn’t had a job in over two years…

[I also spelled out a few details about my other family members]

Please, God, help my family. Don’t worry about me – I’m fine – I’m doing great actually. Please cure my dad’s cancer. I know he’s been a smoker for 34 years, and he shouldn’t have done that – but could you spare him anyway? [More about other family members]

God, I know this is an extremely tall order, and I know I’ve said this before, but if you grant me these things, I’ll never ask for anything again – I mean it this time…

I’ve never written down a prayer before."

Dad was crying after I read him this prayer on the phone. And it’s kind of funny, in the weeks after that prayer, I found myself sometimes slipping and asking God for something, and immediately afterwards I would say, “Just kidding, God! I take it back! I’m not asking for anything else like I promised I wouldn’t!”

I read parts of the Bible several times during his last weeks with us. His favorites were Psalm 23 and Corinthians. My favorite is Corinthians. I also prayed with him. He really liked that.

I also thought I would talk about my last real conversation with Dad; it was on the 15th of Sep. Dad was in good spirits, eating some of the dark Swiss chocolate I had gotten him. Dad started saying he wasn’t sure what death was going to be like. I asked him, “Are you afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid” he said. “I just don’t know what to expect…I’m curious.” He said that he felt like he would get to heaven and then ask, “Now what?” He said that all of his faiths led him to believe in an afterlife. I told him a story where a friend of mine had seen his grandfather attend his own funeral. “Oh yeah?” Dad asked – I think he liked hearing that.

I finally gave him the book on death that the hospice nurse had given me a few days before. (I had been hiding it from him.) The name of the booklet was “Gone From My Sight.”

“What a bad title for a book!” Dad joked, “Although, I guess there aren’t too many other names you could give it anyway.” We looked up the names of other similar books in the back of “Gone From My Sight” and we laughed about those too.

I also pointed out something else I had noticed about the booklet, “Well, the book says that your pulse will raise to [so many] beats per minute…or it says, it might lower…well, which one is it? Will it raise or lower?? That’s some CYA if you ask me!!” For those of you that don’t know what CYA means, it stands for Cover Your Ass. Dad heartily agreed with me and we laughed pretty loud about it.

I also showed him the part where the booklet says that a lot of sleeping takes place weeks beforehand, but actually, “very important work” is being done by that individual who is sleeping. I got real serious, furrowed my eyebrows, and sternly asked, “Dad, are you doing important work while you’re sleeping?”

“No” he replied, and we burst into laughter again.

I also pointed out in the booklet where it said that individuals sometimes see loved ones who have already passed on. I asked Dad if he had seen any loved ones. He said no. We sort of shrugged together.

This “Gone From My Sight” booklet was only a flimsy 14 pages stapled together. Dad was looking in the back, where it had a price listing. He was telling me about the prices. I think the cost was $2.00 per copy, unless you wanted to buy more than 2000 copies or something like that. Then Dad joked that “you could get a deal at $1.40 a copy” or something like that. “Oh yeah, that’s real savings” Dad chuckled. “And who’s making these books anyway??” he asked. “So when you order some, it’s like they tell Grandma in the basement…’Yo Grandma! We need more copies!!’” And we were back into hysteria again. Theresa (Dad's wife) even walked into the room because we had been laughing so much.

The book also said that sometimes individuals have a last energy surge before they pass on. Dad and Theresa both said that they thought that that would be the case with Dad, that he would have a really great day… As they were talking, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was Dad’s last surge, but I dared not say anything.

Dad told us he felt as though there was so much left he wanted to do. I asked him if he could write it all in a list (and maybe I could finish them for him), but he said he didn’t think he could write out a list. Theresa told me he had said he wanted to go to Guardian Angel training. I think that’s where he might be now.

The very last conversation I had with Dad – the day before he died, his words weren’t very clear, but I could tell what he was saying most of the time. I told him I loved him, and he told me he loved me. I asked him if he was in pain. He said no. I asked him if he was okay. He said “Yeah....really…truth.” I also prayed with him. I said an Our Father and a Hail Mary, and read Psalm 23 to him, as I had done a few times before – he liked that too. Mom had told me that Dad needed permission from Melissa and me to move on. I told him it was okay for him to sleep forever, and that if he saw a bright light to go after it. Dad also responded to me later that day – as I was leaving for the night, I kissed him on the cheek and told him I loved him. His eyes opened immediately. I told him I loved him again. He said “I love you.” Even though it wasn’t very clear, again, I knew exactly what he was saying.

He also responded with smiles when his pastor came and prayed with him, and when his siblings called him and we held the phone up to his ear.

The night Dad died, I was writing in my journal. I was jotting down as much of our last conversations as I could remember, and I had written another prayer for him. I thought I would share it:

Written Sep 21 2009:

Lord, I pray Dad has a painless and speedy transition into heaven, and that he becomes a Guardian Angel like he said he wants to become. Of course, my first choice is that Dad be cured and wake up just fine. My second choice is to put my Dad’s soul at rest and to end his suffering.

Now, Dad liked big parties, fancy dinners, and flying first class. He asked me to toast him. Dad would want us to make a big deal out of this, in a good way. So let’s make a big deal out of it. I think a lot of “I remember when’s” followed by laughter are in order. God be with you all.

The Art of Parenting

2010-06-13T15:00:00.000+02:00

It’s abundantly clear to me that raising kids is an art: not doodling, but full-on Rembrandt stuff. I think I knew this even when I was a kid, but I didn’t really have enough time on earth to have a reasonable understanding of the real context or weight of what it meant. As parents Steph and I constantly work to stay somewhere between the extremes of being overprotective of Paul and surrendering control over what goes into his young mind.

My view of Paul’s education is that Steph and I are primarily responsible. By education, I mean the entirety of his learning, not just the formal education that takes place in a school or church. Schools and the church will eventually do the bulk of the formalized heavy lifting, but as his parents we will always have prime responsibility for everything that forms our young son into a young man and eventually into a mature adult--inside and outside the classroom.

Our goal in raising Paul is to prepare him to be a healthy, contributing adult member of society. I’ve watched other parents raise their kids my entire life (starting with watching my own parents raise my sisters and I) and found that as with almost everything there’s a significantly wide road where the issues aren’t really about right or wrong. They’re in an acceptable lane defined by right and wrong where the differences are really about what’s best or appropriate for a particular child at a given time. But the extremes are lurking just off the middle of the road and we’ve seen any number of our friends and acquaintances drive with high-speed zeal right off the road, across the shoulder and into the ditch on one side or the other.

The ditch on the right is overprotection. These parents are control freaks for any number of reasons: trying to live (or relive) their lives through their kids, they’re afraid of the world, or they can’t stand to let their kids be kids and instead expect a child or young adult act with the same wisdom that the parents have. These are the ones I believe fail in the previously mentioned primary goal or purpose of parenting. They have not raised a child to be strong and educated, and fully prepared to confidently enter society knowing who he or she is. Instead, they’ve worked to prevent it as if they could keep their little one little.

Then, the ditch on the left is letting somebody, anybody else worry about it. You’ve heard these people at the grocery store or in line at Starbucks defensively asserting they don’t have time, or they’re not the trained professional: the school teacher, the pastor, the daycare worker. And they’re right, but all those other folks aren’t the parents either. I think the folks who fling themselves into this ditch are lazy or chronically over-tired parents, the ones who over time seem to constantly have a list of reasons for letting everyone else raise their kids--the schools, the church, daycare, the computer or TV, the neighbor.

Whether they intended it or not, with our generation when someone goes in the ditch, it’s mostly been overprotection and a failure to prepare their kids to live in the world. Instead they try to protect or shelter their kids from ever entering it, as if it were possible. From what we’ve seen, the result is usually an unprepared and socially impaired or naive young adult, and very frustrated parents. This is unfair to the child and to society, and when that young adult actually does make full contact with the real world, the young adult either shuts down or rebels, and the rest of us get to enjoy their dysfunction or sophomoric anger as they discover they have a lot of catching up to do. Sadly and most often, these families are well-intentioned members of the church.

Steph and I feel fortunate to have grown up with both parents around. We both enjoyed the benefits of traditional families in that our dads worked full time and our moms stayed home. And trust me, they were all busy beyond my ability to put in words.

Having Paul later in our adult lives certainly has its benefits. In this case, we’ve hopefully learned a lot from years of watching good and bad parents. The downside is that we know enough that raising our own son may be scarier than it ought to be. Will we mess up? For sure. Hopefully we’ll be wise enough to generally get it right though, thanks to the parents we’ve had the privilege to watch perform the art of parenting. And I hope we’re always transparent enough that we’re also good examples for those who come behind us. God help me--this parenting is hard work, but it sure is fun!

It’s great to be a dad!

Heroes

2010-05-28T21:45:00.003+02:00

Hero: a person, typically a man, who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

It seems there’s always a lot of chatter about heroes: what constitutes a hero, who the heroes are (or should be) historically, whether or not actors or athletes are appropriate heroes, etc. Rather than enter that debate, I want to call attention to three men who are heroes in my life: my father and both of my grandfathers. Not that there aren’t other men who I believe fall into this category, but these three men were in my life from the beginning. Over the next several months I plan on highlighting each of them. They may not reach the threshold of “hero” for anyone else, but for me they each modeled the character that fits the definition. Although they’re all men who grew up in a manner typical of their generations, they modeled greatness in their lives, certainly to me.

Here’s a brief biography for each of these great men in my life:

Paul A. Harvey: My father, born in Salt Lake City, Utah in 1937. He lived in Salt Lake City until his parents moved to Dallas, Texas. As best he can remember, his first regular job was at the age of nine, throwing a paper route in Dallas consisting of 63 customers. His parents also expected him to work at home in the yard every Saturday and Sunday unless he went to church. As such, yard work on Sundays came to an end and he attributes this practical application of his parents’ work ethic to his decision to embrace the Christian faith at an early age at Saint Matthews Cathedral, (Episcopal). He completed college and joined the U.S. Air Force for what was to be six years of service to his country, and to learn to fly. His intent was to move to civilian life and fly for the airlines after a short term of service. Thirty-two years later he retired as a major general, settling down in Mississippi after a full and successful military career. He worked for the state government for a time, and continues to work full-time today in private industry.

Paul J. Harvey: My paternal grandfather, born in Salt Lake City, Utah in 1910, he was a direct descendant of the Mormon settlers who founded the city in 1847. He married my Grandmother (also a descendant of the original settlers) when they were both 20 years old. After two years of study at the University of Utah, he was hired by the American Chicle Company. In 1941 he moved his family to Dallas, Texas and was promoted to a District Management position. Shortly thereafter, he entered the U.S. Navy's Officer Candidate School at SMU in Dallas, Texas at the outbreak of World War 2, however, he came home in 1942 as the result of the onset of his mother’s blindness. He eventually moved to Cleveland, Ohio where he spent the rest of his life. In spite of not finishing college, he remained in management positions and eventually retired in 1974 after 39 years of service with Warner-Lambert (who purchased American Chicle Company). He never slowed down and after 85 years, he passed away in 1995.

Richard F. Bromiley: My maternal grandfather, born Richard F. Hill in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1916. When his father (a medical doctor in the US Navy) passed away, his mother married a man named Walter Bromiley, who then adopted my grandfather and his younger sister. With a desire to attend college and fly airplanes, he kept his grades up and applied to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He was accepted, graduated in 1938 and served a full career in the US military, including combat service through World War 2. Days after graduation, he married my Grandmother, also from Philadelphia. He retired from the United States Air Force as a Brigadier General in March 1967 and accepted a position with United Airlines as Vice President Maintenance. In 2004 he passed away after 88 full years of life.

Hopefully I’ll do a good job honoring these men as I share the details of their lives in the months to come, and especially how each of them influenced me as a man. All three have been and continue to be role models for me, and have shaped the kind of man I am. If there’s any manly good in me, it’s their influence shining through; where I fall short, it’s in spite of them and their great influence. As my son grows he’ll continue to enjoy my dad’s influence directly, and I hope he never stops seeing the indirect influences of his great grandfathers. One of the very few measures of my own success as a father is seeing my son take everything he can from these other men and I, and raise the standard by being an even better man than the four of us.

It’s great to be a dad!

Living Well: Enjoying the Simple Pleasures

2010-05-16T15:15:00.000+02:00

There are certainly prudent and reckless behaviors we can participate in throughout our lives. As a result, there are currently groups of people on both sides of the political fence who endeavor to prevent others from enjoying many of what I believe are some of life’s simple pleasures. This often results in pressure not to participate in and even condemn a variety of activities: drinking, smoking, spending time the sun (unless you’re wrapped like a mummy and slathered with the strongest sunscreen), and even eating grilled or fried foods or using salt. In some cases laws are passed to prevent various activities. In at least one state in the U.S., the state government is considering banning all smoking even on private property in the name of good health.

As a man, this strikes directly at the heart of sitting with other men to enjoy good company and conversation, accompanied by fine cigars or pipes of tobacco, and complemented by glasses of old scotch.

As I’ve chewed on this over time, several years ago an interesting item caused a flurry in the news when the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) published a study suggesting the English are healthier than their American cousins. A press release included the following: "Middle-aged to older U.S. residents have higher rates of diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, heart attack, stroke, lung disease and cancer than their English counterparts, according to an article in the May 3 issue of JAMA." (See http://jama.ama-assn.org/cgi/content/short/295/17/2037 for a synopsis.)

I’m not suggesting JAMA is encouraging smoking or drinking. This wasn’t the focus of the JAMA article, but it seems even though people in the UK eat the "wrong" things for breakfast, enjoy their pubs, and are more inclined to view beer as well as the first and second hand smoke associated with the pub environment as a matter-of-fact part of their lifestyle, they're healthier. It appears the English don't suffer from as much stress as a part of their lifestyle. Somehow they deal with it better. In an associated handful of reports that followed on the television news about the JAMA article, reporters discussed how Americans are too fat and how second hand smoke continues to plague us as a health issue. But the English eat worse, smoke more, drink more than we do and yet we Americans have sicker hearts and lungs.

When I was still in high school, I remember someone telling me "common sense isn't so common any more." It was probably my dad. The longer I live, the truer this seems to be. Could the folks putting out the news, as well as many others who are like-minded, be missing the obvious? It literally struck me as funny that JAMA published research that says our cousins in England are healthier than Americans even though the English smoke and drink more, with these activities being more entwined in their broad culture and lifestyle. I’ve traveled through most of Europe, including parts of the Mediterranean. It’s blatantly obvious that casual drinking is much more an integrated part of the cultures there, and a noticeably greater number of people smoke. This is still true today. I live in Europe and although smoking is on the decline, it’s still obvious that more people smoke here than in the U.S. If you live in Europe and don’t smoke, you're still most likely a quality second-hand smoker. Ironically, for years the European, and specifically the Mediterranean lifestyles have been touted in the U.S. as "healthy."

Again, I’m not suggesting, nor was AMA that smoking and drinking are healthy. But I think we’re missing (or denying) a greater obvious point for the sake of another subtle one. To use an old metaphor, we might be missing the forest for the trees.

Maybe living a healthy life is more than just having a physically healthy body. Clearly, being physically fit and healthy is better than being unfit or sick. But health is more than physical. I hear arguments all the time that we’re to avoid certain activities, foods, or certain simple pleasures to add years to our lives--it’s stated like a guarantee. I believe these people mean our physical lives will be longer. Will they? No doubt that minimizing or eliminating certain things that introduce physical risk will set the conditions for a longer physical life. Potential illness aside though, if these theoretical extra years are added, will they be years we enjoy? Will I avoid lung cancer only to discover some other unrelated illness brings down my body, or live into my 90s only to find I spent so much time “doing the right thing” that I never actually enjoyed the time I spent?

I'm not talking about or advocating smoking as a rule, or excessive drinking and certainly not a lifestyle of hedonism. I’m a true champion of moderation and common sense. When it comes to certain activities such as smoking, I'm also absolutely a champion of gentlemanly conduct and respect for others. Activities like drinking, smoking, or eating certain foods regularly will certainly have some impact on the body, but we might have something to learn from our English cousins about living life, and what it means to set the entire stage of life to enjoy it from the early years into the sunset years. In the end, life can't simply be about living a long time. The quality of life beyond just the technical or scientific length of physical life, has to be a part of what were about.

Maybe it’s really about control. The reasonable man doesn't want life to end, yet we grow old and our bodies begin to fail. We end up wearing glasses and hearing aides. We walk with canes and our minds slow down. Even the most physically fit person will eventually suffer from age. Perhaps we’re struggling with this. Its understandable that we desire to cling to what is good and pleasant, but we’re not really in control--we all age. The history of man proves as much. To truly enjoy life we have to acknowledge this fact. Otherwise we'll work in vain to preserve something we can't, and in the meantime miss out on an amazing number of life's most magnificent and simple pleasures. It would be sadden me to realize in my sunset years that I spent so much time trying to prevent something out of my control that I never really enjoyed what living was about.

I hope to model this for my son. I want him to grow up seeing a few genuine things about me as a man. First, that I enjoy living a full life, one that involves lots of things woven in and balanced. I want him to remember me as strong and busy, and never lazy. I also want him to see that times of rest, relaxation and leisure are an acceptable and smart part of living a full life.

Related, I want him to see me enjoy time with fellow men, not just at work, but also socially; not in a manner that’s competitive with time I already jealously guard with Stephanie, but in a manner that adds richness and fullness to living life as a man.

On occasion, that time will involve sitting out back in a chair, quietly enjoying a good book, a glass of scotch and a pipe. At other times it’ll also involve sitting around a fireplace with other men to enjoy each other’s company and talk about any number of things, perhaps with our sons and even grandsons in attendance. Don’t turn me in, but in these moments of relaxation and leisure, we just might enjoy a few drinks and a few cigars or pipes to accompany our manly conversation. Life is a wonderful thing. Living it fully is even more wonderful.

Guys, we must be men and enjoy manly thing: the things that add fullness to our lives and allow us to be happy and healthy men. Some of these things introduce physical risk and so, we enjoy them in moderation and in the company of adults who accept that risk--not to make a political point, but to make our lives fuller. We live. After all, life is risky, and living risk-free isn’t really living. We must enjoy the company of other men and model manhood in front of our sons and daughters. It’s good to be a man.

And it’s great to be a dad!

Chili

2010-05-09T12:49:00.004+02:00

Enduring childhood memories come in a variety of forms. One of them for me revolves around my Grandma Harvey’s chili. Her chili is among my earliest food memories, warming my heart and my belly even today. In fact, as I write this, there’s a pot simmering on the stove, filling the early, Saturday morning air with the savory smell of my childhood.

I remember eating this chili at my grandparent’s house, and more often, at home as I grew up. My mom or dad would make a large pot using my grandmother’s recipe, we’d have it for dinner that night. The rest would end up divided up, leaving some in a pot in the refrigerator for a few upcoming lunches; the rest going into other single serving sized containers in the freezer to enjoy in the weeks to come.

I still have that original recipe, but have modified it to suit my own tastes. If you like chili, feel free to give this basic chili recipe a try, and modify it for yourself. Serve up a generous bowl with a side of fresh, crusty bread, then sit down and enjoy.

JP’s Basic Chili

1 lb ground beef or bison - brown in a little oil

1 large onion - chopped

1 green, 1 red and 1 yellow bell pepper - chopped

3 red chili peppers - chopped

4-5 Tbs Chili Powder (to taste)

3 bay leaves

2 cloves garlic - crushed

1 Tbs oregano

1 Tbs caraway seed

1 can tomato soup + 1 can tomato juice (same size)

2 cans of beans for chili

Salt to taste

- Saute the beef, onion; green, red and yellow bell peppers in oil for a few minutes

- Add the seasonings, chili peppers, tomato soup and tomato juice

- Simmer for 45 minutes uncovered (You may have to add a little more tomato juice.)

- Add the beans - don’t drain them, just pour it all into the pot
- Simmer until heated through and serve with a little shredded cheddar on top

So the family tradition continues as I cook the family chili and raise my son on one of the same foods I fondly remember from my own youth. As it is with me, hopefully it’s one of the smells and tastes Paul will always identify with growing up, and with me. By extension, something as simple as chili will also serve to connect him to the stories and lives of his grandparents and great grandparents.

It’s great to be a dad!

Baby Talk

2010-05-04T08:18:00.000+02:00

My son’s vocabulary is growing at full speed. Not just the words he’s mastered, but he’s also using those words in sentences he’s put together himself; essentially, original thoughts for a three year old. What an amazing pleasure to hear him use new words and especially watching him work through good articulation and proper pronunciation. When it comes to sentences it’s incredible to watch his young mind work to put words together correctly to ask questions, describe things or answer questions. I don’t think this is anything unique for my wife and I; this pleasure is shared by all parents as they see their kids grow and develop. What strikes me as unique with our son is the volume of comments we regularly receive about how well he speaks. Steph and I have heard this often enough that it’s caused us to pay closer attention to other parents with kids the same age as Paul, and how they relate to their children. We’ve decided we’ve noticed two related things that we’ve done differently than many of our peers. I don’t know that they’re better things; they’re just different.

Baby Talk

Long before we had Paul, we didn’t have to look far or hard to find parents using “baby talk.” What I mean by baby talk is adults using a different voice and/or tone when speaking to their child than they do when they talk to older kids or adults. I’m not talking about the content of the conversation. Rather, I’m talking about how the words are communicated. Maybe it’s out of some sort of laziness, but Steph and I have always talked to our son the same way we talk to each other. We’re adults and Paul always hears us talking like adults, even when we’re talking to him about the things that matter to him as a toddler.

When we read to him it’s in our own voices whether we’re reading Dr. Seuss, Grimm’s Fairytales or any other book to him. Even if we’ve done this out of laziness, the consequence is we have a toddler who tries to speak words and sentences like he hears them: like an adult would speak.

Baby Words

The other difference we’ve become aware of is that we’ve never used “baby words” with Paul. By baby words I’m talking about the words that we hear parents make up and use in place of an actual word. It seems to us parents do this for two reasons: the replacement words they’re using with their child just sound cute; and they’re often easier for the child to say. For us, it’s probably for the same reason I mentioned earlier (laziness) that we simply just call things what they are. Paul’s blanket is not a “blankie,” his pacifier was never a “woobie” or “binkie,” and when he needs to go to the bathroom, he doesn’t need to “tinkle” or “wee-wee.” When he struggles with a word we simply repeat the correct word to him, pronounced correctly. It’s been an easy path and now we’re hearing from our friends that it’s had an effect on Paul’s vocabulary and speech.

So What?

I’ve never met an adult that didn’t get past the baby words they spoke as a child, so I’m definitely not being critical of other’s and how they parent in this regard. And I'm not saying Paul is smarter than the average child his age. Like any parents, we hope our son excels in things, but we don’t know enough to know anything other than he speaks more clearly, with a stronger vocabulary, and in sentences that are more correct and complete than many of the kids his age. It’s not better and I don’t believe we’re better parents for it, but it’s noticeably different. I’m honestly not sure Steph and I have had anything to do with this, or at best we might have unknowingly encouraged what would have been the case anyway. Thankfully, others have pointed this out to us and we’ve taken notice, driving us to give some thought to why the difference is evident. In the end I believe we’re somewhere in the normal or average lane with regards to this part of how we’re raising Paul. Better? Some may think so. Some may not. For us though, it’s definitely an interesting and exciting difference and it’s given us just one more reason to be the proud parents of our son.

It’s great to be a dad!

Adventures

2010-04-24T11:31:00.000+02:00

One of the things I fondly remember about my own childhood is the freedom and opportunity I had to take adventures. Not safaris or exotic trips with my parents, but adventures in our yard as a young child, then later in parks and woods that surrounded the communities we lived in. In fact, literally my earliest enduring memories come from when I was three years old: memories tied to those adventures in the yard right outside our house.

Looking back on those memories today, and realizing that my son is the same age now as I was then, I’m in wonder over just how young we are when our immature imaginations are fully-functioning. I’m also compelled to try my best to foster and protect an environment for my son that allows the same imagination opportunities. And so, the emphasis for quite a bit of our “dad and lad” times has changed as he’s grown these first three years. Now the emphasis more and more often is for adventures, and they’re taking two forms: on the playground and in the woods.

The Playground

Not too long ago a new playground went up just a block from our house. It’s fantastic. Paul calls it “the Great Towers” because the playground is dominated by one particularly tall tower that hosts two large twisty slides. That structure is accompanied by other relatively tall towers that support rope and wood bridges, climbing ropes, webs and walls, and ramps and steps. There are also swings, see-saws and a two-level ship.

Paul is at a great age to enjoy the playground. Parts of the grounds are specifically designed for toddlers, and the variety of structures advance from there to accommodate children of increasing age. Short of being run over by larger kids, if the playground continues to hold Paul’s interest, he can continue to play on and enjoy it for the months and years ahead. New challenges and opportunities are always there for him as he grows.

For now, Paul often asks me to go to the Great Towers, where I get to watch and participate in his adventures hiding and climbing through “smokey caves,” climbing the big wall or stairs, or playing as a pirate driving the ship.

The other venue for adventure is nature itself. One of the greatest things (and there are a lot of them!) we’ve enjoyed about living in Germany is the cultural fondness for green areas. Our community and the others we’ve visited and traveled through have wonderful parks within, and are often surrounded by significant and deep woods. The parks are always grassy and generously complemented by benches, fountains and flowerbeds for everyone to enjoy. Even in the towns and cities, there are great parks full of flowers, smaller grassy areas and benches, perfect to sit and enjoy a few moments (or hours) of rest.

The Woods

And then there are the woods... The woods outside of town are very well-managed natural wooded areas; not planned or man-made green zones. Within these woods run an amazing network of well-maintained gravel and dirt trails. (I’m pretty sure you can hike or bike to just about anywhere in Germany from any other point in Germany and never leave the trail!) We’re fortunate to have trailheads into two of these wooded areas within a short walk of our house. And so, we also go on adventures in the woods.

Depending on what’s fresh in Paul’s mind the woods are just woods, but they might also be the Hundred Acre Woods (of Winny the Pooh fame), or a primeval forest. The woods are a fantastic world for a three-year old to enter: a world almost entirely lacking man-made things.

The woods are full of sights and sounds not impeded or overwhelmed by the urban world. What this means is in the woods there is nothing hindering or competing for Paul’s imagination. The only limitation is his own mind and where it can wonder. At times the trees are just trees. At other times they’re giants. I’ve seen sticks become guns, trucks and binoculars. Similar freedom of the mind causes rocks, flowers, birds and bugs to be what they are, or to transform into other things. In the woods we’ve seen Winny the Pooh and Tigger, dragons, and an assortment of monsters. Last year the pollen was rain from the trees and magic dust, and most recently a small, springtime swarm of damselflys became faeries in flight.

So it’s all about imagination, fueled by adventure. To some selfish extent it’s also about taking time to adventure with Paul because it’s fun and is great time to bond with my son. Because of my career and the associated (usually traditional) time at the office and away from home, I jealously guard time I have with Paul in a way that is similar that I’ve always sought to protect time with Stephanie over other competing demands. It seems though that our dad and lad time is unique and as important as the time the three of us spend together, or that Paul and Steph get to spend together. Paul ends up with the full benefit of what Steph and I bring to him together as husband and wife, but also the unique benefits of special time with each of us alone. For those dad and lad times, we have been and will continue to spend lots of it taking adventures.

It’s great to be a dad!

The Tupperware Drawer

2010-04-17T07:35:00.000+02:00

Tupperware: it’s like Legos for kids who aren’t old enough to play with Legos. I remember playing with my mom’s Tupperware; I watched my sisters do the same thing as they grew up, and now my son is enjoying the childhood same rite of passage. The activity is evolving as he grows. It began with the simple game of open the cabinet and pulling all the Tupperware out. That was it. Eventually it became a game of nesting shapes, and today the various containers are the building blocks for all sorts of things from castles to machines.

To be best of my recollection, when I was a little guy my mom kept our stockpile of Tupperware in a large drawer. It was a constant source of plastic shapes to build cool things with based on an idea; at other times it was the chaotic resource pool that fueled the imagination.

Today I watch my son enjoy the same right of passage, the only difference being that we keep our Tupperware on the lower shelf of a cabinet. The plastic goodies are a constant source of entertainment, and the cabinet is an added benefit. Unlike the drawer I remember, the cabinet is an adventure all by itself. With a door on both ends, it serves as a tunnel, a cave, a castle, and probably a handful of other things my son hasn’t expressed to me.

The day will come soon when Paul will graduate from Tupperware to something better--probably Legos since they were one of the few toys I grew up with that contributed the most to my active (overactive?) imagination. In fact, I think Legos were probably the most important toy for me in this regard. I still think back to some of the incredibly amazing things I remember building with what today are the most basic of Lego blocks. I’m pretty sure if I had those same Legos in hand today, I wouldn’t be able to duplicate my childhood work. What’s honestly not clear to me though is if what I built was all that amazing, or if my young, fresh imagination made the fruit of my labor somehow better than it actually was.

Tupperware, and later Legos, helped me make my ideas real. Whether I was inventing something new or trying to recreate something I had seen that captured my imagination, these most basic of toys helped ensure my young life was truly only limited by my own imagination. I look forward to the not-too-distant future when I have the chance to present my son with the next set of imagination tools as he graduates from the Tupperware shelf. The challenge for me as I’ll probably relive some of my own childhood, is to stay out of his imagination’s way and let it soar.

It’s great to be a dad!

Haircuts

2010-04-10T09:19:00.001+02:00

I have a short list of things I consider the simple pleasures in life, and most (if not all) of them are usually thought of as “guy things.” A good haircut is one of those simple pleasures. By today’s standards it may be the least obvious, but it’s on the list: my hair is very short, and most barber shops are anything but a pleasant experience, from the barbers’ ability to the shop itself. But to find a good barber at a good barbershop is well worth the time and expense. Related, two thoughts come to mind for me as a man, and as a dad.

First: a good haircut is one of the few simple pleasures of old that has endured for we men. It’s also a sort of ritual: a rite of passage in a way. Barber shops used to be bastions of manhood and a temporary refuge within his community. It was a place to escape the busy day, cross paths with a few friends, enjoy a leisurely and manly conversation, and perhaps even a fine cigar and even a drink! Afterwards, he could walk out feeling a little more prepared to meet the world head-on. The barber shops of my grandfather’s day and the micro-cultures of manhood they contained are essentially gone, but if you look hard enough a few good ones remain. A good haircut from a good barber (especially in a good barber shop) remains something special for a man. Admittedly I might hold this view because I have short hair and get my hair cut very regularly, which has driven me to strive to find good barbers wherever I go. But then again, maybe not. After all, there’s nothing special or fancy about the haircuts I get, but the kind attention a good barber pays to the craft always ends up relaxing me. I’ve been lucky to consistently find good barbers everywhere I’ve lived, and once I’ve established myself as a regular customer, the extra attention and care is pure gold: a slower and more careful haircut, and best of all a scalp massage. I often joke with my current barber that the haircut she gives me is better than beer, and afterwards I have to get a coffee to bring myself back to operating speed.

Second: I’ve always wanted my son to grow up enjoying getting his haircut and practically speaking, not to be one of those kids that fears them or throws a tantrum in the barber shop. I know the day will come when we’ll disagree about his hair--length, style, etc.--but from the start I wanted him to grow up enjoying the experience of getting a haircut, so I started preparing the battlefield early and at home.

When he was about 10 months old, not long after he started walking, I would lead him into the bathroom while I shaved. For years I’ve been using an electric razor and my plan was to expose him to the sound it made as well as what it felt to touch while it was running. He would look at the razor and see me running it over my face. It didn’t take long before he wanted to touch it. Since his own curiosity set the pace and he asked, I began gently putting the side of the razor against his head, the back of his neck and his back. The results were great: he smiled, giggled and would touch it with his hands.

I would also try to schedule haircuts so that I could take him to the barber shop with me, or so Steph could bring him by while I was getting my haircut. Even before he ever needed his first time in the chair, he was routinely exposed to the barbershop environment and could see me enjoying the experience. The barbers in the shop would always take the time to talk to him when we came in and left.

Then the day came that Paul needed a trim. Instead of doing it at home I took him to the barbershop. I called in advance to let my barber know I was bringing Paul and wanted to schedule time for two haircuts. I was optimistic that Paul would just take the experience in, but also knew that the best planning might not survive contact with reality. There was time in my schedule, and in my barber’s, for Paul to decide he didn’t want to cooperate. I stayed in the chair after my haircut, took Paul in my lap, and we began the experience of his first haircut.

It went as well as I hoped it would. Paul sat still and completely enjoyed the entire experience. Since then we’ve moved and he’s gone with me to different barber shops; his attitude hasn’t changed. In fact, when he doesn’t need a haircut but knows I’m going to get one, he asks to go with me. To this day, every barber he’s been to comments to me about how well-behaved he is in the chair. If we ever have another son, I would do it the same way. I know I might not have the same results, but have no reason to think I wouldn’t. At least for now though, I’ve met the two goals contained in my second thought above: short term I have a toddler who doesn’t throw a tantrum at the barber shop when it's time for him to get a haircut, for fear of the sights and sounds of the experience; and I’ve set the stage for my son to enjoy the barbershop experience for the rest of his life. And I enjoy the side benefit of just one more thing we get to do together during “dad and lad time.”

As an interesting side note: when I was in college, I had the privilege for a few years of going to a barber shop and getting a quality haircut from the owner--the same man who cut my grandfather’s and father’s hair. Good barbershops endure, and they’re worth seeking out.

It’s great to be a dad!

I Wanna Hold You, Daddy

2010-04-06T10:57:00.001+02:00

“I wanna hold you, Daddy.” My son says these words with some frequency, but it’s a guarantee that he’ll say this often whenever he’s sick. It warms my heart, makes me a tired dad, and often results in ensuring I catch whatever is ailing him. That’s OK though.

All this tracks back to May 2008. Paul was just over a year old and came down with his first real stomach virus. I happened to be holding him when he detonated. He was crying and groaning in a way I’d never heard before from him, was holding him out, facing me, and trying to get a good look at him to see if I could tell what was hurting him so badly. Then “it” happened--the boy erupted and hit me square in the chest. Lovely. I looked at Stephanie and calmly declared, “I think we’ll be in the bathtub for a bit.” I took Paul to the bathroom, stripped us both down and climbed into the tub to clean us off and soak a while in hopes the warm, steamy water would quiet him. Steph took care of what hit the floor and then came in to see how we were doing.

After a quiet and long bath, with new clothes on us both, we settled down and Paul slept in my arms. It was one of those 24-hour viruses and quickly passed. Thankfully I never caught it, and life for the family moved on quickly. What I didn’t know is that first real illness for Paul was a bonding moment for the two of us--father and son. Because I was holding him when he got sick, and then was the one who comforted him afterwards, I became the parent he wants to go to when he doesn’t feel well. Not that he doesn’t seek out Steph, or shy away from her, but it seems when we’re both around and Paul is sick, he prefers comfort from me. Steph tells me that when I’m not home, he asks where I am and tells her “I want daddy to hold me.”

Looking back to the time prior to having Paul, it’s clear I’ve changed. Kids change us and I’m convinced that people’s understanding of and appreciation for kids changes dramatically when they have their own. I tolerated them before having one. I had a moderate fondness for a very few of them, usually the children of close friends or relatives. Then we had a son. Paul changed my entire view of kids: my own and others. The same is true for Stephanie. And he changed the character of the relationship between Steph and I. Always strong in the past, somehow it became stronger as we found ourselves each anchored to two other people within the household. Like most people, I would never seek to be around someone else who’s sick. Past exceptions for me over the years include my wife, and my parents. I never gave it a thought when I was young and my parents were sick, and I’ll always wade right into it with my wife when she’s under the weather. And now I have a son. I’ve always said, and meant it, that I’d give my life for my wife. The same is true for my son, but somehow it’s different with him. I’m not sure why or how to put it into words exactly, but it’s probably the natural bond between a man and his son.

One of the great things about this is Paul draws different comfort from Steph and I. There are things he goes to her first for; Mom is the answer to my problem or need. Steph and I have never found cause to wonder or wish Paul would act differently. We’re not jealous of each other’s place in our son’s heart. He gets, and seems to want all the fullness of what we both have to offer him. We’re different people and he already knows we each bring something different into the family. For better or worse, when he’s sick he seeks me out. It warms my heart that my son already sees me in a variety of ways as his dad; one of them is as his comforter when he’s sick. And when he’s hurt or sick, all I want to do is hold him.

It’s great to be a dad!

Tech Toddling

2010-04-03T16:30:00.000+02:00

Too young for tech? I’m not sure I know what that means, but I hear the discussion all around me at work and on the web. I know this: I routinely lose control of my iPod Touch to my three year old. What does he do with it? If you ask him, he’ll tell you one of two things: he needs to kill bad guys, or he wants to play “hoopa-loops”. In both cases he’s referring to a couple of games I have on the Pod.

When I have the chance, I’ve joined the discussion and asked what people mean when they make statements about our little ones being “too young” for access or exposure to a variety of technology. What the discussion eventually turns to is either content or cost.

The matter of content is pretty straight forward. Allowing kids access to age-appropriate content while working to keep them away from inappropriate content is nothing new. It was true with radio prior to television (even though I get the distinct impression the problem was simpler at that time), then with the proliferation of television and the broadening of its associated content, and now today with the web. But nothing’s really changed; as parents we want to foster and fuel the development of our kids’ minds, but also want to protect them from things that’ll cause harm whether in print, through audio or video.

Darn it, this is complicated. While it’s appropriate to lump kids of certain ages together for all the right reasons, every kid is still unique. And so are parents, home environments, neighborhoods, etc. Macro “rules” for exposing kids to a variety of things only apply on a macro level. Dads, or at least for this dad, the real work for is the complexity of making these generally wise rules apply very specifically to each of our kids, to do it in concert with our spouses if there is one, and to juggle how this plays out when we have multiple kids in the household. Ah, the historic friction between older and younger siblings--does access to technology complicate it? (I can hear it now, “Dad, how come he gets an iPod and I don’t?”) Content matters and each child is clearly different whether we’re talking about our own kids, or our kids relative to their friends. And the access to the breadth of content out there through today’s computers is faster and fuller.

As for cost, it often comes down to this: will I hand an expensive piece of tech to my child knowing he may very well break it? Nothing special there: kids break things, even expensive things. I can’t afford for my son to destroy something expensive. Sorry son, you can’t play with this.

I guess I’m generally comfortable with how my son currently interacts with a variety of media through the TV or web. My wife and I control it well (so far). The question I still wrestle with though: is today’s tech simply this generation’s version of the TV babysitter, or is it more complicated than that? Does anyone remember the HBO series “Dream On”? Hilarious, but an interesting commentary about a child raised by the television. If we’re tempted to use tech, and specifically the web as a babysitter without real oversight, I wonder if we’re at risk of building the next generation of Martin Tuppers? I’m reminded every day as my wife and I raise our son that parenting is complicated, a full-time job, and it’s just plain hard. But we enjoy it; it’s also incredible fun for both of us, for Steph as a mom, and for me as a dad.

It’s great to be a dad!

No, You're Too Tired

2010-04-02T23:09:00.002+02:00

One of the difficulties of parenting a toddler when you’re a middle-aged dad: your own level of energy and endurance relative to the three-year old powerhouse. In my case, my mind is often willing, but the body is weak. There are other times though when my mind is not willing. I come home from work mentally and emotionally drained and tired even though I’m not physically tired. Paul wants to play, my body is willing, but my mind is weak. It’s at times like these, when I’m mentally tired, that I’m reminded of my own childhood, and I see my parents in myself.

I don’t know how often the following happened, but it was often enough that this particular memory is strong. I would come home from school, or on a weekend would be home for lunch or dinner, and then ask to head out to play. The dreaded answer would come: “no, you’re too tired.”

I remember thinking to myself, and at times saying, “I’m not tired!” Why would Mom or Dad say that? Sometimes I would persist and things would go in my favor--look out neighborhood, here I come! Other times I’d keep asking and things would end badly; I’d spend the rest of the day or evening at home avoiding an angry parent. It didn’t take too many years for me to figure out why I was told I was tired: parent speak. Oftehn when Mom or Dad would say, “no, you’re too tired” they actually meant, “no, I’m too tired to keep up with you.” Not that they’d go out and play with me at that point in my childhood, but they still had to expend mental energy to keep track of me. It was easier just to keep me in the house.

Thankfully this wasn’t the norm. I have fond memories of lots of time spent outside during my childhood years, and I certainly can’t blame them for being tired. Adult life is tough and tiring and parenting seems to add to that exponentially. But it never sat well with me that they didn’t just say, “no. I don’t want you to go out right now.” I’m sure I’d have still asked them why, or just complained for a while, but I have to believe it wouldn’t have been much different for them than the continued asking or complaining that came from me after a false reason I was given. To be fair to my parents, I know now as a parent that there are times my son is tired and he doesn’t know it. Or he doesn’t understand why it’s significant that he’s tired even though he wants to press on with his playing. No doubt this was true of me. I can’t contest those times, and I’m not sure I even remember them--probably because I was truly tired! But there were still many times that I was told “no” because I was tired, and I actually wasn’t.

So what’s the point? Well, for one I understand my parents better. I already find myself tempted to tell Paul “no” and catch myself thinking it’s because he’s tired. He may be, but there are definitely times that what actually motivates my reflexive answer is that I’m tired. Second, and perhaps a more important point though is I also remember as I grew older, it colored my view of the sincerity of my parents’ words in certain circumstances. Did it change my overall trust for my parents? No. Did I grow up questioning their integrity? Absolutely not. But there were moments that I know I wasn’t being answered honestly and it influenced how I learned to make requests based on whether or not I thought my parents were actually tired.

I suspect there’s no way to avoid this kind of thing--it’ll happen in some way as any parent interacts over time with their child. It may not be the specific issue I’ve discussed, but it’ll be something. Child wants to do something; parents are tired and say “no.” Honestly, in the end there’s nothing about this memory for me that has tainted my view of or my relationship with them in any way. But it challenged me then, and continues to challenge me now because I’m the tired parent. I don’t want to project my own state of mind on my son and deliberately try not to now. If I’m tired, I need to tell him that. Or tell him whatever the right answer is rather than telling him something in haste of out of convenience that I know isn’t true. He’s smart, even at three. He’ll hit the age very soon when he’ll know with certainty that no matter what my reason is, I can’t tell him it’s because he’s tired when he’s not. He’s ready to conquer the world in spite of me: his tired, old dad. And you know what? As tired as I often am, I love the fact that my son is young and is enjoying the benefits of good health and his youth!

It’s great to be a dad!

My Best Friend: Dad

2010-03-29T19:41:00.003+02:00

The other day my son took me by complete surprise with something he said. We were heading out of the house and down the stairs to run a few errands. On the way down we passed one of our neighbors coming up the stairs. He greeted Paul and asked him how he was doing. Without missing a beat, Paul responded that we were going outside, then said, “this is my best friend, Dad!” I’m not sure what prompted him to say that or how he put the thoughts together and drew that conclusion, but there it was, blurted out as a matter of fact for the world to hear. In the best of ways his un-coached words broke my heart.

I know my place as Paul’s father: my roles and responsibilities. I also know that fathers aren’t the same as friends, especially to a child; I’ve certainly seen the unfortunate consequences of children raised by parent who would rather be their kids’ older, cool friends. As an observer it’s clear that parents who shirk their responsibility to raise their kids end up with older kids who challenge or disregard proper authority, fail to learn what it means to be responsible or accountable, and in general are only civil when it suits them. The exceptions that turn out well seem to be very rare. I also know that as kids grow into young adults, then full adulthood, the relationship with their parents changes. Not all families are the same when it comes to parents and kids, but generally speaking when the relationship between parents and kids is appropriate, it seems the little ones grow to appreciate the value in what their parents did for them. This seems true when literal parents are involved, single parents, or other adults who are properly take on the parental role for a child. I challenge myself with these very words as every day goes by and I’m tempted to step away from the real need to raise my son. Sure we pal around, but when he needs guidance or discipline, the responsibility is mine. As tempting as it might be, I can’t step away; there aren’t any do-overs as far as I can tell. As a dear friend of mine once said, “the old sacrifice for the young.” So true.

I trust the day will come when Paul’s an adult and our relationship changes into something that’s not only father-son, but also is deep friendship: perhaps the father-son relationship at its fullest--the relationship that I have with my own father who raised me well when I was a little guy, with love that was both fun and disciplined. For now though, I’m definitely enjoying fact that I am my son’s best friend. Just ask him; he’ll tell you so.

It’s great to be a dad!

I Didn't Get the Memo

2010-03-28T14:44:00.001+02:00

Being a first-time dad as a middle-aged man has been interesting to say the least. It's never been bad, but definitely interesting for a variety of reasons. One of the oddest things that’s stuck with me for the three years of my son’s life as been a question that’s come my way on too many occasions. After someone finds out my age (45 this year), they ask, “so was it on purpose?” My response has been consistent: of course, there’s no such thing as accidental sex.

OK, I know what I’m actually being asked, but I don’t really like the implication, even when the question comes from someone who's close enough to my wife and I that the question isn’t offensive. It’s as if a memo went out from the Men’s Department to all the middle-aged guys informing them they shouldn’t have kids after they enter middle age, and it appears I crossed the threshold and recklessly dismissed the memo's authoritative guidance. Or perhaps I just didn’t receive it.

Being a dad at any age is special and there are certainly uniquely special things about being a dad at different times in your own life. With my wife and I, we made a deliberate decision to sacrifice our younger years (with all the associated strength and energy) to build an environment at home that would allow us to more comfortably raise a little one--primarily in two areas: our own maturity and financial stability.

So putting the oddity and perhaps the improper nature of the question aside, I love being a dad. I mean I really LOVE being a dad, more than I could have ever imagined. No regrets. I see and feel my own bodily limitations and know that these wouldn’t be issues if I were a twenty- or thirty-something, but that’s OK. I still see the world again through the eyes of my three year old son--at times causing frustration for my sweet wife who feel she has two three year olds. I might be a bit slower (or more cautious) but there isn’t anything I can’t do with my son. Maybe in 10 years he’ll be able to break my hip, but for now, I’m OK.

Here’s the real bottom line--if the time is right, it’s never too late to be a dad. Compared to the gain, you lose nothing except perhaps a slice off the ego when folks ask the strangest question, or as you anticipate being in your 60s when your child is graduating from high school. I’m OK with that though and suspect that most of you other dads out there are too. For those of you who worry about having a first (or another) child as a middle aged man, I’m your champion. Go for it! Who knows, I just might have to thumb my nose at the memo crowd and have another myself.

It’s great to be a dad!