Few phrases my kids say break me down quite like, “Dad, I’m scared.” 

Most times, they say this about trivial things: the dark, their first soccer match, or an impending exam. My response comes easy in these cases. Usually, it’s nothing more than a pat on the head, a quick boost of confidence, and encouragement to keep trucking. 

When situations become more serious – like those my family experienced recently during Hurricanes Helene and Milton in Florida – parents have a massive responsibility.  The expectations for us to protect and serve our families rachets up immediately whether it’s a tornado warning, blizzard, a derecho, or, I suppose, a global pandemic. This is what I call “Disaster Daddin’.”

Disaster Daddin’ combines preparation and recovery. It boils down to one goal: to be the impenetrable force of stability for our loved ones. That does not mean we are not frightened or able to show vulnerability. No, this means that we embrace the family’s attention to get through the predicament together.

From our home in a suburb of Tampa, Fla., this month had me in Disaster Dad Mode far too often for my liking. 

While we were incredibly fortunate compared to others, helping my family get through a natural disaster taught me several important lessons in preparation and crisis parenting. 

1. Hurry causes worry

Every aspect of parenting through a disaster comes down to planning and preparation. A plan should not be hatched as all hell is breaking loose around you. If you have time to prepare, take it seriously. Work on it with your kids. This will not only distract them from the escalated concerns but also will help them when it’s time to execute it. Waiting until the last minute will stress the entire household out – especially the kids. Children are emotional sponges, easily sensing our stress and nervousness. 

Our disaster preparation before Hurricane Milton included my kids helping board windows on the house two days before the forecasted landfall.  At this point, this was more of a project than an emergency. My 12-year-old enjoyed the manual labor. This experience would have been far worse for everyone if done as a last-minute, “We need to do this NOW!”  situation. 

If the disaster does not provide adequate time to prepare, parents must step up. Your kids will pick up on the urgency and feel increased anxiety as a result.  Be aware that making unpredictable, last-minute decisions dials up household stress levels as go time draws nearer. 

2. Reinforce your responsibility to keep everyone safe

Whether you’re facing a hurricane or a blizzard, before the storm starts you should tell each family member this: “I would NEVER intentionally jeopardize your safety. Never.” 

When my family recently evacuated for Milton, I sensed my kids were nervous (if not fully freaking out) as we drove for hours to a spot my wife and I had determined to be safer. I acknowledged their fears while en route by telling them I was frightened, too. It became clear to everyone in the family minivan that we were in this together and that my wife and I would never take them toward anything deemed dangerous. 

3. Embrace spending time together in “old school” style

Disaster Daddin’ provides a great (if limited) way to do things with your children that have disappeared for many families. These include playing board games, coloring/drawing together or just talking. When we initially lost power, there was a 12-hour or so period where my teens were desperate to charge their phones. When it became clear that it might be a while before normalcy (i.e., electricity) would be restored, their priorities changed. 

From our powerless-but-safe hurricane crash pad, we played Uno, Sequence, charades, Pictionary and Scrabble together. Amazingly, even the teens were not constantly clamoring for TikTok or Snapchat (at least for a while). 

Disaster Daddin’ can provide the ultimate “back when I was your age” moment for parents. Assuming you remain safe, do not waste that unplugged time!

4. Celebrate your safety by helping others

For families that are relatively fortunate after a disaster, there is a tendency to return to normal as quickly as possible. My kids wanted to return to soccer practice and hanging with friends right away after Helene and Milton. While returning to our pre-disaster life was a priority, I did not want our kids to forget that some of our neighbors might not have such a luxury. 

As our area rebuilds, I’m encouraging my family to help in a way that suits them. For example, we had our kids reach out to their circle of friends to make sure they had (at least) what we did – food, water, clothes, etc. 

With our kids’ sense of community being mostly online now, the aftermath of a disaster allows us to reframe “us” to mean the people around us, not a YouTuber we connect to half a world away. 

Hearing “I’m scared, Dad” is the worst. I hope you never do. But, if you do (and you likely will), Disaster Daddin’ will help make your family stronger.

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Juan Pablo Serrano via Pexels.

I was wearing my trusty Columbia rain jacket. The sound of the rain on the hood was nearly deafening. I reached up to tie the drawstrings, but the wind snatched the beaded strand from my hand and smashed the bead into my tooth.

My head arched back in pain. This allowed the relentless wind to catch the hood and yank it violently off my head. Lateral rain immediately pelted my face, stinging like sleet, but I was in Florida. There’s no sleet in Florida.

I was in knee-deep water. Angry clouds whirled overhead. Broken branches and random debris filled the air. A cacophony of sirens, exploding transformers, and howling wind echoed off the low, tumultuous cloud layer. I could taste a little blood in my mouth from the drawstring hitting my gums, and the sheer absurdity of being outside as a Category 3 hurricane made landfall was not lost on me.

Milton is entirely too gentlemanly a name for a hurricane that tried to remove my family from the earth.

Ultimately, I fought a dozen tiny battles with Hurricane Milton. I’m proud to say that, despite not being the most handy fella, I was victorious. Sadly, we lost our tallest tree. A beautiful, healthy Live Oak, towering well over 40 feet. Lying on the ground, it was still taller than my neighbor’s house. When the mighty oak toppled, it took a few of my water pipes with it, flooding my driveway and threatening my garage. That’s why I ended up outside in the thick of it.

The house, although without power or water, emerged unscathed. While the overturned oak stump has left a scar in my front yard (and even the road – oopsie), the real scars are within.

Voluntary evacuation not an easy decision

Why didn’t I evacuate my three kids? Good question. I found myself asking as the apocalypse raged just outside our 40-year-old, non-hurricane-proof windows.

The wind finally died down around 2 a.m. or so. I was watching the movie Sabrina (the black and white, old-school version) on my wife’s laptop. It was supposed to be The Karate Kid. My wife assured me she had downloaded my favorite movie. She hadn’t. This was perhaps the most damaging blow I experienced during the storm. The kids were asleep. My heart rate had finally settled. It had been a long seven hours of scary wind, and an even longer several days of preparation and planning.

It was over.

I know. I know. Get to the, “Why didn’t you evacuate,” part.

If you haven’t been through a hurricane, it’s easy to view the evacuation decision as binary: storm — bad, leaving — good. It’s truly way more complicated than that. My wife and I made decisions, had an evacuation plan, had a hotel room booked several hours away, but by the time the storm did a last-minute, pain-in-the-ass wobble, we were stuck. There wasn’t much choice. Just 10 to 12 hours earlier, we were outside the cone of uncertainty, and it looked like we would just have a rainy day. Man, that didn’t happen.

I’ll never forget my 9-year-old daughter, crying in the dark, “Daddy, why didn’t we go to the hotel?”

I have some full-on apocalyptic reasons for staying. A car full of supplies and kids is a rather soft target. A house is a hard target I can defend. That’s a little dark, but that was one of my reasons.

Another reason to stay is to be able to control as many variables as possible. At home, I know what I have. I know my supplies. I know my neighbors. I have my tools, etc. Once you leave, you deal with the most terrifying variable of all: panicked humans. Honestly, I’d much rather tangle with the hurricane.

We also aren’t in danger of storm surge or flash flooding. If we were, I would’ve been sipping maple syrup somewhere in Canada. No way I’m rolling the dice with water. Ironically, we almost flooded because of a burst pipe. Had I not been here to battle the water, our garage would’ve flooded, and possibly even the rest of the house. It was dicey there for a while.

Mostly prepared for hurricane

This was a good test of my disaster preparation. I was happy with some of it, but Milton exposed some gaps, which I’m grateful to have discovered. Considering we could drive 20 minutes north and have power and water, this really wasn’t the most dire experience, but seeing the ripple effects of no gas and empty grocery shelves in the area was a solid reminder of how fast things go sideways.

I was prepared for all that. The major thing I missed was the immense pressure of having three tiny humans, who have blind faith in me, trusting me to make the best decisions. It was up to me to keep them alive. It was up to me to have food and water. It was up to me to keep what we had protected. As a veteran of at least a dozen hurricanes, this burden was much heavier than I had previously experienced. The kids changed everything.

As parents, we don’t have the luxury of winging it. Sure, most of the time it’ll be fine. You’ll have what you need when you need it. A little slip-up is not a major deal, but life can happen fast. Really, really fast. I’d encourage any parent reading this to take some time, real, thoughtful time, ensuring you’re ready for life going sideways. Check your water supply. Check your food rations. Have batteries. Candles. Download movies on the kid’s tablets (double check on The Karate Kid for yourself). Whatever the disaster preparation is in your area, take it seriously. Stop winging it.

I promise you don’t want to ever hear a sobbing kid questioning your choices during an actual disaster. The feeling of failure will never leave you. Take some time to be prepared.

Start with the bourbon. Oh, and rum. Rum’s great in a hurricane. 

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by George Desipris via Pexels.

I spent three wonderful weeks on a family trip to Ireland this past August. When, like me, you have two young children with you, a trip like that isn’t exactly a vacation. It’s an adventure.

Travel puts a lot of stress on kids and families. So while there are sights to see, wonders to explore and memories to be made, there are also many hurdles to overcome. One important thing I learned on this trip is that no matter who or what you encounter while traveling, kindness matters.

I’m going to start with the end of the story. We returned home after an eight-hour flight from Dublin to Philadelphia. The time difference was a killer, and there was no food on the plane my kids were willing to eat. My daughter, age 5, sat next to me on that incredibly long, exhausting flight. She’d made it through the plane ride without too much fuss. However, by the time we gathered our baggage in Philly, the stress of the journey and the exhaustion of a three-week trip all came crashing together.

She screamed. She threw a massive tantrum in the terminal. Hungry and exhausted, the one thing my daughter wanted and needed was to hold my hand. I happily offered it despite trying to juggle suitcases. I understood how upset she was and I wasn’t mad at all.

Then a stranger approached us.

This woman marched straight to my daughter and me and announced in a booming voice, “You’re parenting all wrong. You need to beat some sense into that girl.”

WTF.

I didn’t curse. Instead, I told the woman she was wrong and to leave us alone. I was appalled. And angry. This stark, crazy scene felt like a “Welcome back to ‘Murica” moment for us. Because one thing we’d seen in Ireland was a completely different attitude toward children. One I was not accustomed to.

Kindness.

Changes of countries, changes of attitudes

Everywhere we went in Ireland, people bent over backward to be kind and help. It didn’t matter if we were at a playground, in a department store or on a street. People saw that we had kids and treated us with great empathy and compassion.

Two weeks before our encounter with rudeness upon returning home, we had an opposite experience. My 8-year-old son melted down on the streets of Killarney. He’d been refused a lollipop and decided that required staging a tantrum. He lay on the side of the parking lot near some pubs and refused to move. He screamed a bit too. And while my wife and I did our best to handle the situation, strangers came by.

“Is there anything I can do?” said one.

“Oh, I’ve been there,” said another. “So sorry for this, but it’ll get better soon.”

Kindness. Just an attitude of kindness everywhere.

Perhaps it is a cultural thing. Irish laws are different. We quickly noticed every indoor area designed for kids (such as soft play centers) came equipped with a double-locking alarm mechanism to prevent kids from running out or strangers from going in. We noticed every place we went, even the tiniest middle-of-nowhere towns, had handicapped-accessible unisex bathrooms with changing tables — something we once struggled to find in America. Perhaps this mindset toward a “care culture” transcended laws and permeated into the general public?

Kindness comes in many forms

As we explored Ireland, we kept encountering that same kindness again and again.

One restaurant had nothing the kids wanted to eat. The chef marched out, offered to make something just for them, and soon did.

Our kids appeared bored while we checked into one hotel. A worker spotted them and then hurried over with coloring books.

When we tried taking a tour that was sold out, a stranger offered us his tickets on the spot, noting that I had younger kids than he did.

These were not isolated incidents. They were a pattern of kindness and compassion and understanding that children have different needs, everywhere we went in the country.

Back to that moment in Philly. Perhaps that woman was an isolated example. Or perhaps not. I vented about her rudeness later to a friend in New York. My friend said that three times in the past month someone told her to beat her son. This advice came from strangers who didn’t know her or her kid. The expectation to some is that kid needs and adult needs are the same, therefore kid behaviors and adult behaviors are the same.

I’m no longer mad at the rude woman. I feel sorry for her. And I feel sorry for everyone else who thinks it’s appropriate to say such things to parents. In the future, I wish all people, parents and non-parents alike, would treat others with a bit more kindness.

The world could use some more of it right about now.

Photo by Yan Krukau via Pexels.com

My oldest was sick and pitching a fit. My youngest, also sick, was crying as she claimed, “I can’t breathe.” Meanwhile, my middle child was crying because, well, everyone else was crying, so why the hell not? Meltdowns, meltdowns, everywhere!

My wife and I made eye contact with one another. Then we both began laughing like The Joker hatching a grand plot to destroy Gotham.

Sometimes, the ship just sinks.

It’s no secret to any mom or dad that parenting is easily one of the hardest jobs in the world. Parents often feel out of control and ruled by their children’s whims. I’m not talking about bad discipline or poor parenting. Your kids hold your sanity and your very destiny, in some very real ways, in their hands – and I’m convinced they know it.

These moments of complete familial meltdowns felt like failure for a long time. Isn’t it my job to keep it all together? If I’m any good at this parenting thing, why can’t I always stop the kids from freaking out? Why can’t I calmly and rationally navigate the quagmire of endless variables to find a way to de-escalate this situation and bring peace to the family dynamic? Why?

Because, sometimes, the ship just sinks.

Meltdowns? Let ’em happen!

I’m not sure why that phrase has come to mean our home has descended into bedlam. Over the years, I’ve used the phrase to comfort myself. I visualize trying to save a cruise ship from sinking by bailing it with a cheap plastic cup. The phrase and visual remind me that no matter how hard you may try to keep everyone happy, you’ll eventually fail. On certain days, the kids conspire together to burn the universe down. Resistance to their assimilation is futile. Like any cleansing fire, you just need to let it burn.

Sadly, I’m not here to offer advice on how to avoid the ship sinking. I say let it sink.

Let the kids cry a bit.

Let them feel their feelings.

This is not an invitation for them to run like banshees down supermarket aisles. However, when at home, trying to forcibly restore order can be more damaging. It often prolongs the suffering. When all three kids were crying, and my wife and I chose to laugh, it quickly diffused the situation. Each child slowly calmed down. This allowed us to address their issues – if possible – and slowly, calmly restore order.

It would be great if I could smugly proclaim this has always been my strategy. I’m an order guy. I like to tell the kids what to do, and I often demand they obey with little to no complaints. (I bet you’re laughing. You should be laughing!) But in reality that doesn’t often happen. The wisdom contained in my words has emerged from the fiery cauldron of failure and chronic mistakes. Some sort of super-powerful parenting physics law comes into play here: Every forceful and ill-fated action taken by parents to restore calm is often met with an exponentially greater reaction to resist desired calm. You just read it on the internet, so it’s irrefutable science.

Sometimes failure is an option

If your home is often plagued by full-scale meltdowns, I’d understand if you have adopted a different strategy. My wife and I only occasionally experience our Chernobyl, so it’s a bit easier to surrender to the moment. If your family dynamic is more complicated, maybe there are too many fires to let burn, but I hope the following encouragement soothes the scars.

It’s OK. It’s all OK.

I’m not offering a participation trophy. I’m speaking truth. Sometimes, the ship just sinks, and that’s OK. You’re not a failure. Your children aren’t monsters (well some are, but surely not YOURS). We all fail to maintain full unit cohesion every now and then. They may be tiny and cute, but those damn kids are still just people. Sometimes people suck. Sometimes, there’s not much you can do but step back, let it all burn down, and be there with a hug to cool things off.

The next time your neck deep in a kid-generated flood, remember you’re not alone. All across the world, maybe even the universe, there are parents witnessing the full meltdown of their brood. Whether it’s a spaceship, a cruise ship or a battleship, sometimes the ship just sinks. Let it happen, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Unless your kids really ARE monsters. In which case, build a submarine.

Photo by Keira Burton via Pexels.

“It moved,” muttered George Costanza, the contemptible yet lovable Seinfeld character, in terror. He had been receiving a full-body massage from an objectively attractive male masseuse, and, well, “it” moved.

I suspect I don’t have to spell this one out. If you grew up with “it” between your legs, you know it has a mind of its own. It does what it wants when it wants and, for the most part, we are passengers on the “please no one notice” train.

The Seinfeld episode in question first aired in 1991. I would’ve been around 11 or so. This is a prime age for uncontrollable and inexplicable, ummmm, swellings. Around that time, I would’ve been begging dear sweet baby Jesus to protect me from the Devil’s hormones raging in my body. The all-too-tight khakis I had been forced to wear at church offered no protection. I was exposed. I could do my best Ron Burgundy “It’s the pleats” defense, but I had no pleats. Only a snug, flat fabric stretched across my crotch, waiting to advertise an untimely pitched tent.

Self-care or snake oil?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been awkward about being touched, and since this Seinfeld episode, I have genuinely had a fear of massages. I feel compelled to report it had nothing to do with men or my sexuality, but it heightened my fear of accidental bulges – regardless of who or what may have been the cause. Now you understand why “it moved” has been a terrifying mantra bouncing in my brain for 30-plus years.

And so, at the age of 44, I finally had my first massage.

I tend to reject what’s new and popular. The self-care industry has become so full of snake oil and nonsensical claims, I barely pay attention. There’s an infinite supply of influencers and hucksters eager to prey upon our desperate desire to feel better. Through smiling, beautiful faces, they claim to care about us, when it mostly seems they only care about separating us from our money. Sadly, the preponderance of profit-obsessed businesses and products has made it hard to find the real people, the genuine healers, who truly devote themselves to helping others. This cacophony of profiteering has made it hard for me to believe there’s any value in taking care of myself. I’m a stay-at-home dad. My full-time job is caring for three (sometimes four) kids. Taking care of myself is low on my list of priorities.

After my hour-long massage, I’m questioning the ranking of my priorities.

Feeling bad normally is not normal

Let’s address the first fear: Did it move?

Yep. Sure did.

A man didn’t give me my massage, but that was never my fear. I was worried about making things awkward and weird because I’m awkward and weird – which is exhausting, by the way. But, although blood was certainly flowing, and I did feel pretty dang good, nothing untoward happened. In the words of Costanza, “I think it moved. I don’t know. … It was imperceptible, but I felt it. … It wasn’t a shift. I’ve shifted. This was a move!”

My face was covered by a towel. In the background, there was meditative music. I was doing guided breathwork. Periodically a deep breath would be filled with some exotic aroma. All the hippy woo-woo shit the old me would mock.

The new me? I’m weary of being afraid of everything. I’m tired of being the frowning skeptic closed off from everything and everyone. “No one touch me. No one hug me. Respect my giant, ‘Merica-sized bubble, dammit!” I’ve always confused intimacy and sensuality with sexuality, and it’s a shame our society seeks to continue this confusion. Feeling good isn’t bad, but we’ve all felt so bad for so long that we’ve convinced ourselves it’s normal.

As fathers, how has all that impacted our children?

Massage your parenting message

I don’t know about you fellow dads, but I don’t want my kids to feel bad. Ever. About anything. OK, maybe sometimes, like when I recently found tiny particles of “window crayons,” all over the house, but in general, I want my kids to feel great. Great about themselves. About their bodies. About feeling great. Why would I want anything else?

How can I make them feel great if my body is falling apart? How can I create a happy home if I’m tense, grumpy and in pain from being tense and grumpy? I want to be a better human so I can be the best dad I can be. I’m no longer going to reject some of the tools in the cosmic toolbox. [*Giggles* — tool!]

I’m not saying we all need to put on our tinfoil hats and stop getting measles vaccines. We should absolutely trust doctors and experts when appropriate, but they don’t deserve our blind allegiance – no ideology does. There’s a whole world of possibilities, and the only way to know what works, sometimes, is to give it a try. Imagine our hypocrisy when we frustratingly stare at a plate full of uneaten food we encouraged our kids to try while knowing we’ve rejected alternate solutions to our own problems because we didn’t have the courage to try.

While on the massage table, I felt transported into another realm. My recently departed mother and brother were there. They were laughing at me. It was ludicrous some silly episode of a 30-year-old show had isolated me from my fellow humans. They told me the only person standing between me and everything I ever wanted was me, “It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem. It’s me.” They were right. And I think I realized I’m also standing between my kids and everything they may want, and I desperately don’t want to be that guy.

Be better today than you were yesterday

Did I REALLY travel to alternate dimensions? I hope so, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is whether I’m willing to be better today than I was yesterday. While I can’t pretend I’ll always be willing to make my physical and mental health a priority, viewing self-care as a service to my wife and kids puts a whole new spin on it.

So get a massage.

Go for a run.

Lift some weights.

Sprinkle some rosewater on your pillowcase.

Mediate and get a little dizzy trying to figure out some complex breathing technique.

Go stretch in a hot room and try not to fart.

Give it a try. It just might work.

If it doesn’t work, that’s OK too. At least you tried, and it’s probably your kid’s fault, anyway. It’s always the kid’s fault.              

Author’s note: During the writing of this piece, “it” did NOT move.

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Massage photo by Pixabay via Pexels.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Those words from President Franklin Delano Roosevelt served as an encouraging rallying cry for Americans navigating the Great Depression. But to an 8-year-old who got pegged in the helmet by a “fastball” in his first at-bat of the new recreational baseball season, they mean nothing.

Sports bring out the best and worst in us, whether we’re fans watching our favorite team (go Knicks!) or participants on our church softball team. That’s a lot for parents to handle because much of our life seems to revolve around watching our children play sports, organized or otherwise, as soon as they can walk. For example, all three of my kids play on rec teams. This means two games a week for each child. Then add on one of two practices — again, for EACH CHILD. Then add that to all three kids’ other extracurricular activities. It is, to put it mildly, a busy life. For me.

This brings me back to FDR’s quote about fear. 

When I checked on my son, Jackson, after he got hit with that pitch, I could see his desire to play baseball had left him at that very moment. It was a brand-new experience for him. Two years ago he hit off a tee in games. Last year was coach pitch, so fathers lobbed slow pitches he could crush to the outfield. He had always been one of the best players on his teams up until that fateful at-bat. I loved watching him play and believed he could be a special player for many years. 

But after taking that less-than-fast one on the helmet, even though was OK physically, he was not OK emotionally. His not wanting to play for the rest of the game hit me in a way I was not expecting.

It got worse after the game. That’s when Jackson told me he didn’t want to play baseball anymore.

I was mad.

‘Fun’ comes first in ‘fundamentals’

Something felt like it was taken away from ME. I had spent time getting him ready, taking him to practice, doing pitching drills, and many other things to prepare him for another great season. The moment became about me, my time and my feelings rather than about my son and his state of mind.

Baseball soon became a struggle between the two of us. Two games later into the season, Jackson was still apprehensive about playing. I would spend an hour getting him dressed for games and practices. We’d argue the entire time about why he had — NEEDED — to go and couldn’t just not show. I was getting frustrated and so was he. I could see he was getting further and further from wanting to pick up a bat again.

Then, one day before practice, I was talking with another dad who coaches the team.  He didn’t blame Jackson for not wanting to play. He even admitted he would be scared to get back into the batter’s box after an experience like that too. While Jackson warmed up with his teammates in the outfield, the dad reminded me of a simple fact.

“They’re only 8,” he said. “This should be about learning the fundamentals of baseball but also having fun. If they aren’t having fun, then why are they doing it?”

That’s when I realized my duty as a father was not only to provide for my family. It was also my duty to listen to them. I wasn’t listening to Jackson about his genuine fear of getting hit by the ball, a fear anyone might have. It is no different than being afraid to get behind the wheel of a car after a traffic accident. Trauma affects everyone differently, and as parents, we must learn to recognize it in our children and address it.

With youth sports, we parents sometimes get caught up in the fantasy. We hear about all the benefits beyond physical health — friendship, teamwork, discipline, etc. — and expect results on Day One. Often it becomes about our kids living the athletic dreams we wanted to come true for ourselves. Maybe we even indulge in thoughts about the riches (or at least the college scholarships) it provides only a select few. We make it about ourselves and think our kids should tough it out. 

Youth sports parents: Listen, learn, enjoy

But these are just children. Some just want to hang with their friends, sing a few fun and clever rallying cries, and then get a hot dog and slushy from the snack stand after the game. Youth sports parents must remember to frequently ask their kids one very simple question, “Are you having fun?”

If you know they are having fun, it makes the long road trips, the late-night games, and the rain-soaked practices worth it. If your kid is not having fun, then you as a parent are definitely not having fun. So what’s the point?

As parents, we want our children to be active, but we must have the wisdom to step in when necessary be it youth sports or violin lessons. We should not let them become overscheduled. We need to be sure they are having fun while building healthy relationships and habits they will carry off the field.

As of this writing, Jackson is halfway through the season. He still isn’t swinging the bat much, but he is playing and his confidence appears to be returning. I make sure before every game to tell him the coaches and the other sports parents are there to ensure he has fun while prioritizing that he doesn’t get hurt. I remind him that getting hit is a part of the game of baseball, but it doesn’t happen very often. And I tell him after every game that I am proud of him getting back out there and facing his fear. 

When I see him out there making plays, catching a fly ball or two, I remind him of all he would have missed if had let his fear keep him from playing baseball. However, I let the coaches do their jobs and coach. Sometimes hearing things, especially instructions, from an authority figure who is not your parent, gets through to a child better.

So if this turns out to be his last season of baseball at the ripe old age of 8 going on 9, I am OK with that. If he’s not having fun playing a game, then why should he? He will have plenty of time to do “not fun” things when he is an adult. 

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash.

People often ask me about the big age gap between my second and third child. The five-and-a-half-year difference makes people wonder why we began our journey through babyhood once again. When asked, I usually smile and say simply, “The timing was right.”

The truth is there wasn’t supposed to be such a big gap. Several miscarriages lead to the huge age difference.

How it started

One morning, the rain poured outside as I walked down the stairs into the basement. A good foot of water welcomed me. As I stepped into it, I realized it wasn’t just water. Our sewer line had backed up into the basement. Our upstairs neighbor called a plumber, but they couldn’t come until late that evening. So from 9 a.m. until then, I carried buckets of sewage out our backdoor and dumped it into our backyard. I yelled and even cried with exhaustion as I fought a losing battle with the rising water.

Then my wife walked into the basement. She hugged my sweaty, tired body, and said, “We’re going to have another baby.”

Suddenly, I didn’t care about the basement anymore; I just wanted to hug my wife. We smiled and kissed. She asked if I was happy and, with raw sewage dripping from my pants and shoes, I said I was. Very happy.

Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to meet the source of the happiness. We had a miscarriage. It turned out to be the first of several.

‘The silence was backbreaking‘

My wife told me she was miscarrying as she laid on our bed. My stomach dropped. I felt like thousands of pounds were upon my back. It was still morning, so I got the kids dressed, fed, and off to school. I returned to my wife, who was still in the same position. I didn’t say anything and neither did she. We just occupied the same room for a little while. She didn’t want to talk and I’m not sure if I wanted her to. But the silence was backbreaking.

I think I muttered a few words. She may have muttered something back. Nothing real was said. Just murmurings. I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn’t.

Deep inside, I wanted to be comforted, too. But I couldn’t be and I couldn’t ask anyone to. She took a little nap and I left the room. I sat down on the couch with my hands covering my face and wept.

In the days and weeks that followed, we didn’t talk that much about it.

I think we both wanted to forget and, by not talking about it, we thought we could. We hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy yet so nobody knew. There was nobody to give that sympathetic look. There was nobody for us to talk to. We were alone in our sorrow and we weren’t necessarily talking about it together. So I stuffed it into that place in a man’s soul where things are stored and never let out again.

My wife told me a few months later that she was pregnant again. But, only a few weeks later, that too ended in miscarriage. Two miscarriages in less than six months.

Putting up my guard

When my wife told me that we were expecting once again, I put up a guard. As the baby grew inside my wife, I refused to let myself get too attached. I didn’t want the ultimate disappointment to happen again. I’d go along with my wife for check-ups and ultrasounds, but I continued to wait for and expect bad news. When she was pregnant with our other children, I would stare at the ultrasound pictures and dream of their future in wonder. This time, I barely looked. Every day I battled to put on the face of the supportive husband, but inside I just couldn’t let myself get close.

When our baby entered the world, I finally exhaled. Everything that built up inside of me over the years had been released. There was a beautiful and perfect little boy in my arms and I once again felt joy. The barrier of speaking to my wife about the past miscarriages was gone. And we finally felt like we could talk about the experience with other people.

There are days though that I still can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have four or five children, instead of three. I always wanted a lot of kids and dreamed of a house filled with beautiful family chaos. Time has not been kind to my body and the days of hoisting babies into the air are coming to an end. To say that I’m completely over the miscarriages would be very wrong. I’m not over it and probably never will be.

I’ve talked to a few guys since then and it seems that we all feel the same way. We want to be there for the women in our lives and give encouragement and comfort. To try and make our partners feel better. But inside, we’re breaking.

I’ve also seen what miscarriages can do to women. Not only my wife but other women I’ve known. It’s terrible and difficult to talk about. My heart goes out to any woman who suffers through one. And my heart goes out to their men who aren’t sure how to talk about it, aren’t sure how to relate the feelings of great loss when they barely had anything to begin with.

When dealing with tragedies in life, most of us try to find some closure. When someone near to us dies, we talk about the life they lived and what they meant to us. The moment is heartbreaking and we never fully get over the loss. With miscarriages, closure is hard to find. A beautiful promise was there and now it isn’t. Your hopes were high and then … nothing. For the man, we can only observe the physical and emotional pains of the loss of the woman. Helplessly watch.

I’m not sure what my point in writing this piece was. Maybe I wrote this for my cathartic process. Or maybe I was hoping to have men start a dialogue about this issue. Maybe it was to let others know that nobody is alone when it comes to a miscarriage and there is no shame in it. It isn’t anyone’s fault and a miscarriage is just one of life’s many tragedies.

A version of this was first published here and on One Good Dad in 2013, and has since been updated. Photo by MART PRODUCTION via Pexels.

The pilot walked slowly toward us, his face stern. We’d been sitting nervously for 30 minutes. When we arrived at our seats on the plane, my 4-year-old daughter had thrown up.

We’d been on vacation. A magical vacation, until then. A week of princesses, rides, food, and fun. Yet, the pilot didn’t want a kid onboard who’d thrown up. Never mind that she was by then asleep, and just wanted to go home.

“You have to leave the plane,” he told us.

Anger welled in my gut. Maybe, in the post-pandemic world, a 4-year-old spitting up is an act of war.

Things went downhill fast. I asked if our bags could be pulled from the plane. They told me they’d be in the baggage area, so I hurried down. Not our bags. Ours were on the plane, now flying. I asked if our bags could be held at our destination, and was laughed at. I asked if we could book a flight for the next day, and was told the airline doesn’t fly on the weekends. Pulling up Google, I showed them the listing for their flight the next day. The worker said, “Well, I can’t help you.”

Stranded at an airport with two children, no flights to our home airport (which only this tiny, awful airline served) and no clue what to do next.

I am a calm man. As a parent, I’m the silly guy. The guy who loves to do improv theatre with the kids. The guy who makes silly voices and pretends to be a robot or a tree. As a former teacher and occasional substitute, I know how important a thick skin is. I’ve had kids throw things at my face, and managed to keep my cool.

Yet, at that moment, in the Orlando airport, exhausted, and astonished at the poorest service I’d ever experienced, I broke. The pot of water boiled over into a full explosion.

I screamed at the nearest airline worker until I could barely breathe. I don’t even recall what I said. All I wanted was to get my kids home, and at that moment, I felt that I’d failed as a father.

While I essentially threw a tantrum, in a situation completely outside of my control, I saw my 7-year-old son’s face.

He stared at me with these huge, panicked eyes.

And if I wasn’t completely broken before, I was then.

Use an anchor to hold on to better times

Showing emotion in front of your kids is fine. Hell, put on any Pixar movie, and I’ll be crying long before that final scene. But, how could I show him that things would be OK? How could I reassure him, when I had no idea what to do?

There’s no simple answer. But one strategy I’ve used often is what I call the “anchor” approach.

When you’re feeling adrift, search for one, specific “anchor” to ground you.

An anchor is an intensely positive emotional moment. It’s not something nebulous, or imagined, but a memory, preferably something pretty recent. And it’s something that brings immense joy or happiness. In the airport, the anchor was simple, we’d just had an amazing trip to Disney, and focusing on that experience helped us pivot out of despair and into moving forward. I thought specifically about my son’s face after piloting the Millennium Falcon with me on a Star Wars ride. That grin stretched from hemisphere to hemisphere. And as far as my anchor was concerned, the grin was still there, even days later.

An anchor doesn’t need to be a big vacation. I was substitute teaching recently in my daughter’s class. That night, she looked at me with eyes wider than dinner plates and told me I was the best teacher she’d ever had. That love and that intense memory are the types of emotional anchors that can help a parent weather any storm.

No matter what happens in your life, the anchors are there. They’re moments of joy, of pride, of gratitude. The time your spouse gave you an extra kiss for no reason whatsoever, jump-starting your day. The time your boss paid you an unexpected compliment. The student who drew a picture of you with a smiley face.

The anchors are there.

No matter what you’re going through, try as hard as you can to focus on one positive emotional memory. One of my strongest anchors this week was my little girl holding my hand, saying “I love you, Daddy.” Last week, my wife praised me on my new job, and I recall feeling intense pride. Doesn’t matter what the anchor is, hook onto it. Use it. It’s that simple.

Because even when the world is boiling and seething around you, there are anchors.

We did get home from Orlando. A crazy end to an otherwise amazing trip. And I had a long talk with my son, about why Dad lost his temper. About how Dad’s only human, but he’ll try to do better next time.

He responded, with those same big eyes, saying “Yeah … you’re the best, Dad.”

And I added another anchor to my bag.

Photo by Snapwire via Pexels

As fathers, and as parents, we know that whatever is within us is imposed upon our children. Whether it’s our jacked-up DNA or the baggage we carry from personal traumas, we can’t help but infect our kids with who we are – who we REALLY are. This is an involuntary imposition. Most of us want to share the good and excise the bad inherited traits in our kids.

But parenthood doesn’t always work that way.

I’ll start with a confession: I’m chronically anxious. I am afraid of everything and nothing all at once. I know that sounds impossible, but the things I should fear, I don’t. It gives a false impression of courage and confidence, but it’s just unhealthy. Rational fears have almost no place in my life. The irrational, the improbable, the highly unlikely, the complex web of “what-ifs” — those cripple me daily.

Over the years I’ve put genuine effort into keeping my inner struggles from impacting my children. For a while, I was sure I was succeeding. I made a lot of changes, and if I may boast a teeny bit, I made amazing progress. Sadly, it wasn’t enough.

As my oldest child’s personality began to emerge, my attempts to change the outward expression of my inner struggles clearly worked with her. The same struggles were embedded inside my daughter. It was the betrayal of DNA.

She becomes quickly discouraged by a simple task, seemingly overwhelmed by very minor obstacles. She latches onto a feeling and it overwhelms her and consumes her, leaving her unable to keep herself from spiraling. Too many variables can crush her forward progress. What for others is a quick decision — grab the thing and go – for her is a quagmire of possibilities with no clear path forward. She gets stuck.

Just like her dear ’ol dad.

Hope never gives up

For example, tonight is supposed to be her first sleepover. Last night she was shaking. Panicking. Terrified of the sleepover. In her fits and worries, in her frustration and anger, she asked if she could see a therapist.

It’s heartbreaking to know this is my fault. What broken strand of proteins have I cursed my daughter with? It’s clear she has the same poisonous voices in her mind. Her brain leaps to the darkest outcome for the darkest reasons – just like mine. It feels like an unbroken connection to ancient Celts on forlorn, rocky shores cursing the gray skies, fearful they may not survive another harsh winter.

But as parents, there’s one thing we can never do. It’s an option we discard when we embark upon this great adventure of parenthood: we can’t give up.

There’s no time for belly-aching. Our kids need our help now. Right now. We can be honest about our failings, and gentle in our solutions, but there’s no retreat here. We only get to move forward. Not trying is the only way we truly fail them.

I wish my pessimistic mind was able to gaze toward a horizon I believe to be filled with rainbows and chirping birds, but I know there’s no solution to this problem. There’s only learning how to cope. My brain will forever be this way. I’ve done the therapy and I’ve done the work. I’ve discarded the indoctrination that blamed invisible forces existing in imperceptible realms. All of these tools have been transformative, but the storms remain.

My hope is these words don’t discourage my fellow parents. My goal is to encourage, to empathize, but above all, I hope this acts as a reminder about the sacred oath to our children. It’s our job to raise them to be superior to us in every way. We must accept we can’t “fix” them, in the same way we can’t fully “fix” ourselves. We can be a little better every day and so can our kids.

I’m going to break the fourth wall here a bit. (Yes, I know, it’s a bit of a hack thing to do, but I don’t care.) A few paragraphs ago, I mentioned my daughter was having a mild panic attack regarding her first sleepover. As I’m re-writing and editing this, it’s the next morning. She made it through the night! I was unable to do the same at her age.

See, there’s hope, fellow parents. There’s always hope.

Of course, my daughter’s strength may come from her mother’s DNA.

Ahhhh, dammit …

Inherited traits photo by Anna Shvets via Pexels.

I sat with my cat, Faith, in the waiting room of the veterinarian. Faith, a rescue, had been in our family for nearly 11 of her 14 years. And I’d strongly suspected this might be our last trip together.

During her physical, the vet started listing what was wrong. After four years of hyperthyroidism, she now had detached retinas (leading to blindness), renal failure, massive dehydration, and a troubling abdominal issue that might be cancerous.

“There’s a lot going on,” the doctor said, “and while we can do more tests, there’s not many treatments we can really offer …”

I grew up with cats. And I’d seen pets die. But I’d never had to make that call. I’d never had to decide to end a life. I’d also never had to break the news to my own kids.

My son, 7, understands death. He knew what I meant when I said Faith wasn’t coming home again. He wasn’t there as I held her, or as I looked on when the doctor added a medicine into a syringe. And he wasn’t there as I killed our pet. Yes, it was the humane thing to do, and yes she’d been suffering for months, but I still felt horrible. Like a twisted murderer.

That night, I held my sobbing son in my arms. Grief overrode him, and while I tried to talk to him about the decision, I couldn’t help but wonder about what I’d done. Who am I to play God? At the same time, how will I feel someday if my son has to make the same call about me?

We all live on borrowed time. Eventually, that time runs out. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder about my final days. Will I deteriorate and my body collapse issue by issue? Will my son, this same sensitive child I’ve raised, determine what to do with his old man’s body? How can I help him understand the nuances and complexities of this decision when I barely understand them myself?

Yes, she was just a cat. She brought joy to our lives before she crossed the so-called “Rainbow Bridge.” Yes, we made the right choice. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, with wars raging, people suffering, a world pummeled by climate change, racism, violence, political uncertainty and more … well, this all seems kind of minor.

Yet, isn’t this minor brush with death the most important reminder of all? If death is the shadow of life we all ignore, maybe it’s good to occasionally recognize that death is there, and not something to be feared. Maybe it’s good to show my son the tears and fears, and hope that within his small, sensitive heart, he has learned that we are all doing the best we can.

I spent the next day setting aside extra time for the kids. We started decorating the house early for Christmas, singing songs and visiting the playground. Not simply to distract, but to remember that in this borrowed time of ours, every moment counts. And as we said goodbye to a pet, we are reminded of how fortunate we are to have such a loving family.

And together, even with the world seeming to succumb to its many ailments around us, we’ll keep focusing on the joys.

Remember pet photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.