Editor’s Note: Jason Greene is a long-time member of the NYC Dads Group and contributor to this blog and its predecessor. In recognition of his many years with our group and given his family history, we’ve agreed to publicize his fundraising quest for the Alzheimer’s Association.

I entered my great-grandmother’s room to see her frail body sitting by the window. Her glassy eyes stared at a nearby tree. My dad walked over to her and called her name, waking her from her daze. She smiled at my father.

“I know I’m supposed to know you,” she said.

He ran down who he was and who was with him as she nodded politely.

Alzheimer’s disease has plagued my family for generations. And I’m not alone. More than 6 million people in the United States suffer from Alzheimer’s. If something does not change, that number is estimated to grow to 13 million by 2050. Studies show that those with a family member with Alzheimer’s have an increase of 30% to get the disease.

Anyone who loves someone with Alzheimer’s knows the cruelty of the disease. It robs you of everything — your memory, your ability to think clearly and perform even routine activities. My earliest memories of my great-grandmother are of a strong woman working on a farm. My last memories of her are painful. Unfortunately, these final years of her life are what I remember the most.

Dads want what’s best for their children. Most of us work to squash generational trauma, anger issues, self-loathing or myriad other obstacles that rise deep within our chests; however, medical conditions are one thing we only have limited ability to control. No one wants to pass on that kind of legacy. That is why I decided to run the New York City Marathon on Nov. 3 to benefit the Alzheimer’s Association.

I turn 50 this year and I wanted to do something big to celebrate. I have a friend, Patrick, who has run the NYC Marathon for the Alzheimer’s Association and he put me in touch with the organizers. A few clicks later, I was on the team and began my training.

During my training, I’ve encountered a lot of obstacles — plantar fasciitis, Achilles tendonitis, blisters, back pain and lots of chafing just to name a few. I’ve also been challenged by simply being a dad in a busy family. I’ve had to find time to fit in training while juggling my kids’ hectic schedules, cooking meals and overall exhaustion. Getting out the door is hard enough even without facing physical challenges.

On those days when I want to give up during my runs or I don’t feel like running at all, I remember the why. I’m not running just for my health, but for the hope that one day families will not endure the pain of watching a loved one fade away.

Donate to help fight Alzheimer’s disease

You can support Jason and his cause to find ways to prevent, treat and cure Alzheimer’s disease by donating to his fundraising page.

+ + +

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.

Alzheimer’s woman photo by Mario Heller 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.

If you walk into my house during dinner or a movie night, you can tell my parenting style from where I sit. And there is a reason I sit where I do.

The house I grew up in was arranged like most houses during the 1970s and ’80s. Our living room showcased the hierarchy of the home. A couch and a loveseat lined up along the walls opposite one another while my father’s recliner received a direct view of the television. Sitting on the couch or loveseat meant you had to turn your head or body to watch TV.

My father’s chair always seemed silly to me, even though my sister and I would fight over it when he wasn’t around. It was silly that only one person could have the best view of the TV. It was silly that everyone huddled close together while one sat all alone.

In my house, a couch sits directly in front of the TV and a loveseat sits off to the side. There are no chairs. There are six people in my family, and we often squeeze together on the couch. Arms wrap around one another, legs cross in different directions, but we’re all on the same viewing page. If there was a chair, chances are it would be shared by two people.

The same goes for my seat at the dinner table. Growing up, my parents sat at both ends of the table, while my sister and I sat across from one another in the middle. We have a long rectangular table in our house today, but my seat is the same one I occupied as a child, right in the middle. In my seat, I am in the center of the action. Everything goes through me and around me. I am smack-dab in the middle of my family.

Fatherhood looks a lot different now than it did generations ago. Dads are stepping into the middle of their families, instead of watching from the top. Trickle-down parenting is on its way out while a more engaged and hands-on approach has taken its place. My seating arrangements may not be the way of the generations before me, but it is my way. My kids, wife and I sit (or stand) shoulder to shoulder – whether taking on tasks, being entertained, or simply just living.

And in this way, no one in my family is alone.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: jaredpolin via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2014.

There’s a theme circulating on the Internet right now, mostly related to prom season – dads who threaten their daughters’ dates.

I’ve seen it on T-shirts, tweets, Facebook messages, and other places. The posts usually include a reference to the father’s guns, bullets, and, sometimes, boots. A list outlines the father’s expectations for the potential boyfriend and usually ends with a comment that if some boy mistreats his daughter in any way, then the above-mentioned guns/bullets/boots will be used on said guy.

These are well-meaning dads who want to display their devotion to their daughters, I’m sure. And as the father of a little girl, I get it.

I understand the love you have for your daughter, but let me be clear. If you mistreat any of my sons when they show up to your 1950s doorstep to take your daughter out on a date, you’ll have to answer to me.

I do not take disrespect lightly and that rings true from adult to child. I’m teaching my sons and daughter to respect others, so don’t be a jerk and act like a tough guy when my boys come around your girls.

Because you know what? If you act that way, they won’t come around and your daughter will probably sneak out to meet them anyway.

I get it. I get that you want to preserve your daughter’s innocence. That you want to be the only man in your daughter’s life. But you won’t be. So instead of bragging about how you’ll threaten your daughter’s dates with your guns and the “whooping” you’re going to give that boy if he breaks her heart or mistreats her, teach your daughter:

To stick up for herself and others.

To be wise and independent.

To be smart and courageous.

To value her own image and hold it in high self-esteem.

To make good choices.

To hold on to something that’s worth waiting for (and that means having “The Talk” with them). That’s what I’m teaching my girl … and my boys.

So go ahead and post your blah-blah-blah and that you have blah-blah-blah and you’ll do blah-blah-blah if some guy does blah-blah-blah.

But I suggest, instead, that you quit talking and start raising. (And encouraging, for that matter.) Throwing out ridiculous threats won’t stop boys and girls from doing anything. The best way to protect them is to raise them to make good decisions for themselves.  Have frank discussions about the risks of engaging in certain behaviors and the benefits of waiting for the one that may change their lives for the better. And you don’t want to risk scaring away the person that could do that.

Threaten daughter’s dates photo: © Mdv Edwards / Adobe Stock.

I stood outside the school as my 4-year-old lined up with his pre-K class in a single file. He looked at me and raised his tiny hand. We mirrored one another’s waves. He lowered his hand and took a step forward. As he did this, his little hand raised once again and waved. I waved back. Before he entered the door, he looked back one more time and waved at me. With tears welling up in my eyes, I waved back.

Fourteen years later, I stood outside the Army recruitment center with my son and his mom, where a bus would take him far, far away. Before he entered the building, he raised his hand and waved goodbye. With tears streaming down my face, I lifted my hand and waved goodbye.

I had 18 years to prepare for the moment, but it wasn’t long enough.

It’s pretty common for parents to wish they had done a lot of things differently when their children become adults. Before my son boarded a bus to Uncle Sam’s, I looked back at my life as his dad. Many regrets flooded over me. Times when my discipline was too harsh, struck me. Moments as his soccer coach when I was too hard on him have always been a constant sorrow. Then there were movies I wanted to watch with him, music I wanted him to hear, and more things I wish I had said. And things that I wanted to hear him say.

When I used to push him around in a stroller, I would occasionally hear another dad say, “It goes by fast.” I heard it so much that I would get annoyed. Silly, I know. Now that I’m looking back on his life, I admit they were right. Life indeed goes by fast. Way too fast. So fast that it makes me angry.

I believe I was a pretty good dad, yet, those regrets hurt. And so, I try to remember the good moments. The moments where we laughed and played. The times I sat on the floor with him and played with Star Wars action figures or kicked around a soccer ball in the backyard. The moments I placed a Band-Aid on a skinned knee, or held him after getting a shot. I recall every soccer game he ever played and every award he’s ever received.

And yet…

I grieve at the loss of childhood.

Being a stay-at-home parent is a privilege. It means you miss nothing. I’ve had a front-row seat to my children’s lives. We got to experience the world together. Now that he’s in the Army, our lives branched off. We have a job as parents to prepare our kids for adulthood. To pave a way so they can ride. His journey is his now and not ours. I’ll be relegated to being a sounding board and hearing stories about what’s going on in his life. If advice is sought, I’ll be ready to offer it.

The door closed behind him and I stood outside his school 14 years ago, wondering, “What now?” I slowly turned and walked toward my home. A home that would be a lot quieter without him. When the doors to the school opened up later that day, I was waiting outside. My arms were wide open, and I hugged my son.

A few weeks ago, I turned and walked toward my home, wondering, “What now?” A home full of noises from his younger siblings awaited, but his absence left a deafening void.

I’m waiting and my arms are ready to stretch.

A version of this previously appeared on One Good Dad. Photos by Jason Greene.

The best thing my wife ever did for me after my son was born was nothing.

Let me explain.

Babies were a mystery to me when my son was born. Lamaze classes are great, but once you’re holding that squirming and peeing baby, everything goes out the window. The only thing I was confident doing when my son was born was changing diapers. I used to work with developmentally disabled adults and had changed thousands of diapers, so I had diapering down.

Everything else? Clueless.

Clueless, but fearless. I was completely confident that I was going to “get it.” And I was determined to do so.

My wife was equally confident I would be able to understand how to go about taking care of a baby. She would leave me alone with our new baby without worry.

Within days of our baby’s birth, I was alone with a crying little guy who I had no idea how to quiet. I walked around, danced, bobbed, did everything I could to help calm him, but time and again I failed. I tried to give him a bottle, but that also didn’t work. He was unhappy and I didn’t know how to hold him.

So there we were: two guys who didn’t know one another.

But my wife left us alone, and we figured it out.

My wife never yanked him from my arms and said, “Hold him this way.”

She never yelled, “You’re doing it wrong!”

She let me figure it out on my own.

My wife understands how I learn things. I’m like a lot of guys, I learn from being in the moment. I learn by doing things with my hands. Looking back, it must have been frustrating for her to watch the two of us struggle, but those struggles were important so that we could understand one another.

All too often I hear from new dads whose wives make them feel incompetent. This makes them not want to bond with the baby, let alone be unable to bond. Constantly fearing you’re doing it wrong and you’ll be scolded for doing so is not the way to start a parenting partnership. I don’t know if my wife consciously did this for me or if it was simply the result of being exhausted from delivering and breastfeeding.

Whatever the reason was, what she did was good for me.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: Contributed by Greene Family.

The ball sailed into the upper corner of the goal and the crowd went crazy. My son’s high school soccer team had won the championship. The crowd rushed the field. I stood in the middle of it, but instead of barging into the hugs he was giving and receiving, I stopped to watch him. Within those seconds, 17 years of soccer memories flowed through me.

Soccer has been a big part of our lives. When I say “our,” I mean the entire family. But it all started with me and my son. I looked at my son’s soccer life as being as much his as mine. From the time he could crawl, I started playing soccer with him. And when he learned to walk, I started coaching him. For many years, we were the first two people on the field and the last two to leave. We were a team within a team.

While coaching him, we faced many obstacles together. We won championships and suffered humbling defeats. There were tears of joy and sadness. Bruises and chipped teeth were frequent, along with an occasional broken bone. And side by side, we took it all on.

Change in leadership, not relationship

But the time came for someone else to coach him. I had passed on everything I could, and it was time for another to teach and guide him. Thus started his life with a club team, where he and the team excelled.

Even while my son was with a different coach, I still felt as though we were a team. I drove him to games and practices, offering little tidbits of advice when I could. Since soccer was our thing for so long, it felt as though it was still our thing.

Then, the ball went into the corner of the goal his senior year of high school and our soccer life ended.

With people celebrating all around, I met my son and hugged him hard. I told him I was proud of him and I loved him. We talked briefly, and I let him rejoin his teammates in enjoying the moment. I was overjoyed, but the realization that our soccer journey was probably over brought about sadness. I wasn’t just letting go of soccer, but I was letting go of my teammate. No longer would we have soccer to bond us.

Finding new obstacles to overcome, together

While sitting around the table some day later, my son mentioned doing a Tough Mudder might be fun. I immediately thought, “That’s it!”

It would be a way for us to take something on and together overcome an obstacle, both literally and figuratively. We could be teammates again, and it could be a way for me to say goodbye to his youth with one last bonding moment before he started the next chapter of his life.

I searched through Tough Mudder’s website. The only event that fit into his schedule was one in Central Florida. I purchased tickets and immediately began searching for workouts I should do to prepare for the event. My son, who has been working out like a madman for months to prepare for a potential life in the Army, was already in tip-top shape. I had been running for over a year but had done little strength training. So, I began working out three days a week and running. I was determined not to let my son down.

We flew from NYC to Florida and settled into our hotel. We went out to eat, watched TV, and swam in the pool. All the while, we talked about his future, our past, and life in general. The next morning, we jumped into our rental and drove to the race. I thought I would be nervous, but I wasn’t. I was pretty chill. So was my son.

Lifting each other

We got our armbands and proceeded to the start. There were some other parents with their teens, but it was mostly friends and teams of adults. After the emcee tried pumping up everyone before the start, he asked everyone to take a knee and remember those that have given their lives for our freedom.

As my old knees descended to the grown, tears welled up in my eyes.

I tried not to let anyone see. Being there with my son, while saying goodbye to his youth and with the Army on his horizon, it was too much for me. It hit hard.

We stood and started the race.

My son and I started at a medium trot so not to get bottlenecked with everyone else. The emotions I had felt passed as the two of us took on the first obstacles. We met each one and overcame them all. Nothing was too hard because we were there for each other and working together. There were times I lifted him and times he lifted me.

We spent the following day lounging around the hotel and the pool. I had booked an extra day in Florida because I thought I would need an additional rest after the Mudder. Turns out, I did. I also needed the day to spend with him. Of course, he didn’t realize it. Much like all those countless hours of coaching him and watching him play, the most important thing was that we were together.

As our time under one roof ends, I’ve started recalling all the obstacles that we faced throughout his life. There were many. Some were more painful than the barbed wire and tasers at the Tough Mudder. But we overcame all of them. I’m proud of the man he is and thankful for the journey that got us here.

Now to witness his life through phone calls and stalking his social media accounts.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: ©Ingus Evertovskis / Adobe Stock. Other photos courtesy of Jason Greene.

I added strength training to my exercise routine this year. That is to say, I’ve added strength training when my schedule permits working out. Being a stay-at-home dad and influencer/blogger eats up a lot of my time. There isn’t a lot of room for consistent “me time.”

Other than my long run on Saturdays, everything else fits in when it can. While I would love to be a gym rat, I can be a “home gym rat.” My teenage son has been acquiring weights and workout equipment over the past couple of years. As a result, my fitness routine has been a beneficiary of his growing collection.

Having my “dad life” and my new desired “fitness life” has made me realize the similarities between the two.

Balance is key to working out, good parenting

When working out, your legs need to be set right and balanced. If one thing is off, it could be a disaster. No matter what I do when I lift weights, I keep my feet shoulder width apart, my knees slightly bent, and my weight equally distributed. If I were to shift too much one way or the other, I’d fall or get hurt. When I’m set, not only will I keep myself from getting hurt, I can also carry a lot more.

The same goes for fatherhood. When I’m firm in my foundation, I can carry a lot more. Balance is important for parenting. A well-balanced dad can carry the weight his family needs him to. If unbalanced, the family can fall apart.

Know when to lessen the load

Some days when I work out, I can pile on the weights. Rep after rep adds to a great day of lifting weights. Then, there are days I struggle. Those days require extra attention. If the body is telling you “no” then something has to go. Pushing through could result in an injury and that can keep you from being your best for a long time. The saying “No Pain, No Gain” isn’t always true.

Dads try to put as much as we can on our plate . We believe we can shoulder all the responsibility and still be at our best. And sometimes, that can work out. Then there are days when you can’t. Those days require an adjustment. Carrying a little less those days can stop a permanent pain.

Stretching is as good as exercise

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized the importance of stretching. There was a time when I could jump right into a workout or run and have it not be a big deal. Now, my body has to be limbered up before I work out or run. Stretching helps keeps muscles healthy and flexible. If someone doesn’t stretch, the muscles can tighten and become sore.

Stretching is also good for dads. Often, we come into fatherhood with a set of ideas and beliefs. In the early years, we stick to them. Then, as the years pass, we’re stretched to new ways of thinking, believing and acting. If we don’t stretch, we can’t grow. Our lives seize up and tighten everyone around us. We must move beyond our believed norms for the benefit of everyone around us.

Routine is key workout, parenting success

Working out here or there is fine to start, but to get the transformation you desire, you need a routine. I devote one day to one muscle group, another day to a different group. It’s best to come up with a calendar of exercises for what you need to do on that day and for how long.

A good routine also helps you have a successful day of parenting. If there is a routine in place, everyone knows what is expected at a certain time. For example, my family’s lives are crazy during soccer season, but I still need a routine to guide us through. my kids must do their homework by a certain time before soccer practice or they’ll be too tired once we get home. If we wait, I get upset that they’re not prioritizing their day right.

You need a rest day

If you’re working out regularly, you need some time off to rest the muscles and relax. That doesn’t mean sitting on the couch all day and eating junk food. You go through the day and get done what you need to, but give those overused muscles a break.

A rest day for a dad is the same. You don’t need to sit on the couch all day, although it is nice on a Sunday afternoon during football season. Giving space to your kids while resting provides dads with a lift to get back at it the next day.

Working out your priorities

The one thing that doesn’t fit equally into the worlds of working out and fatherhood is self-sacrifice. When working out, you are the priority. Being a dad, you’re the last priority. Sometimes, I have to sacrifice my hopes and dreams of the lifestyle I want for the overall benefit of my family. It’s a sad moment, but as a father to four, it’s worth it. All that being said, when the time comes around again, put yourself back in action.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: © VadimGuzhva / Adobe Stock.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Summer is already starting to wind down, but the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., is open year round. Fall is a great time to visit as crowds are smaller, the weather cooler and the autumn scenery spectacular.

As a kid, I would spend hours on my bedroom floor organizing my baseball cards. It was quite the process.

My favorite players went into one folder. A second folder was for good players that weren’t necessarily my favorite. A third folder was for Hall of Famers. Players that didn’t make the cut went through another organization process, being sorted into teams inside of a box. I looked through my folders daily and reread the stats on the back of the cards.

Besides collecting cards, some of my favorite memories as a kid took place on the diamond. I fondly remember hot Oklahoma summer days getting sunburned while playing Little League. Baseball brought me and my friends together as we yelled, “Hey batter, batter, batter,” and other chants while trying to get a win. We argued about our favorite players and favorite teams, and rode our bikes all over town, buying cards from a variety of stores.

I knew early on I would not get a Hall of Fame plaque with my name on it, but I always dreamed of visiting Cooperstown’s Baseball Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, it took me a very long time to walk the aisles that showcased baseball’s elite.

I drove the four hours from New York City to Cooperstown with three of my kids. We wanted to do more than visit the Baseball Hall of Fame, so we spent three nights and four days exploring the town. After a hike in the nearby woods and a trip to the Farmer’s Museum, we entered the Hall of Fame to pick up our tickets.

On entering, my kids received a scavenger hunt sheet full of questions with answers found in the exhibits. My 16-year-old acted like he didn’t want to fill out a paper and volunteered to help his younger siblings, but if kids fill out the paper and turn them in at the end of their visit, they receive a packet of baseball cards. Since I wanted everyone to have their own pack, I filled out the questionnaire my oldest received. This sheet helped me by entertaining my kids so I could spend more time perusing the plethora of baseball memorabilia. As we toured the museum, it was obvious I wasn’t the only dad filling out a kid’s sheet.  Everywhere you looked, there was a dad holding a paper and pencil while their kids wandered around. Occasionally, I would greet other dads with a smile of acknowledgment.

Before I go on, I want to mention the friendly staff at the Baseball Hall of Fame. From the person greeting us at the entrance to those in the gift shop, everyone was kind and generous with their time. One employee, who we bumped into throughout the day, showed us exhibits and provided his knowledge on people, artifacts and games. And he was patient with my little ones while they badgered him with questions and comments. The Baseball Hall of Fame has the kindest employees out of any museum I have ever visited.

As I walked around the Hall of Fame, it took me back to being that kid on the floor of my bedroom who loved baseball. I relived staring at my TV during George Brett’s pine tar incident while looking at the bat that caused the controversy. Pete Rose’s shoes and bat brought me back to glorifying his playing style and being heartbroken by his gambling and banning from Major League Baseball. Cal Ripken Jr.’s helmet sat behind the glass, and I once again admired his commitment to baseball and the fans. We also walked through exhibits discussing baseball’s racist past, the Negro Leagues, and the great Jackie Robinson. Other exhibits honored Latin players and the women who played. With each stop, I talked to my kids about the players and the memories they stirred.

Walking through the Baseball Hall of Fame wasn’t only about exploring baseball’s history, but it was also about exploring mine. With baseball being a big part of my childhood, fond memories opened up again. What made it even more special was that I got to run through my memories with my kids by my side.

My oldest is 16 and all-too-soon will be caught in a rundown between taking his own path and the home he grew up in. In a way, it’s already started. Standing next to him while looking at memorabilia touched by baseball’s greatest players; I foresaw an older son standing with his kids in front of the glass and sharing moments of going to Mets’ games and, hopefully, fondly recalling playing catch with his old man. He pointed to a question on his brother’s sheet and helped him spell out the answer. My chest was full of pride of the young man he has become. This had nothing to do with the love of the game, but because of a love for who my kids are. That’s what the Baseball Hall of Fame provided me. To remember how far I’ve come and who I’ve brought with me.

Baseball stirred memories that reminded me time is fleeting and to spend it as wisely as possible. As a dad, I’m the team manager and it’s the 7th inning stretch. There isn’t a lot of game left, but plenty of time to make an impact. I’m reminded to have fun, play hard, and get the line-up ready to make the save. Visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame was a parenting win with lifetime statistics racked up with wins and losses. I cherish moments like our tour because it was one for the win column.

If you’ve been contemplating making the trip to Cooperstown with your kids, I suggest you put it on the calendar. It will bring up old memories and provide new ones.

Baseball Hall of Fame Tips

Tickets:
Tickets are timed. It’s recommended to buy your tickets ahead of time. You don’t want to show up and try and purchase your tickets the same day. It’s possible you will not be allowed to enter.

Kids under 6 are free.
Adults and Seniors are $25.
Juniors are $15.
Veterans receive a $7 discount with proof of service.

Hours:
The museum is open 7 days a week from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. between Memorial Day and Labor Day, and 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. the rest of the year.

Disclaimer: This Is Cooperstown sponsored Jason’s visit. The words and photos shared in this post are his own. A version of this post first appeared on One Good Dad. All photos by Jason Greene.

EDITOR’S NOTE: If you or someone you know needs help coping with the death of a cat, dog or any pet, we suggest visiting the Grief Support Center at RainbowsBridge.com.

After the kids went to sleep and the house was quiet, a small furry four-legged friend would creep toward the living room.

Lizzy was the smallest and most passive of our three pets, therefore, the low animal on the totem pole. She scared easily and spent much of her time in the corner of a windowsill or under beds. The kids’ bedtime was when she would make her grand appearance.

Every night, after I put the last child to bed, I’d collapse on the couch and watch TV. Like clockwork, Lizzy cautiously made her way toward the couch. She would sit at the corner and look up at me, waiting for an invitation. Many times, I pretended not to see her though I’d watch her from the corner of my eye. Sometimes, she would lift her paw and gently nudge my leg. After acknowledging her, I patted the space next to me. Lizzy would jump up into the area and purr as I scratched her head.

Several months ago, Lizzy lost weight. Already a skinny cat, the weight loss was quick and dramatic. I was sick with COVID-19 at the time and couldn’t take her to the vet, so my brother-in-law made the many trips back and forth, relaying the vet’s messages. The vet said several things could be wrong, but diagnosed diabetes. Lizzy was given a new routine of receiving insulin shots in the morning and evening after her meals.

Lizzy belonged to my teenage daughter and she took up the responsibility of giving Lizzy her shots in the evening. I took the morning shift. Every day, I crawled under the bed to fetch Lizzy by sliding her out. While she was in my arms, I made my way into the kitchen while petting her. I readied the insulin shot before I brought her in and would hold her tightly in my arms while injecting her. After petting her some more, she’d run off to find a hiding spot. We did this for a month.

At first, Lizzy responded well. She became stronger and put on a little weight. It thrilled my daughter. And, it thrilled me that my daughter was happy, because she’s had a rough couple of years. Lizzy became her comfort animal as life and circumstances delivered blow after blow.

We buy our cat food at Costco, and as most Costco customers know, a product you’ve enjoyed for years might suddenly vanish. This happened with Lizzy’s food. We bought other food for her, but she didn’t like it. Lizzy was a picky eater. Because she was already underweight and on insulin, and could only receive insulin after eating, her health quickly deteriorated. Once we could order the food she liked, it was too late.

I contacted the vet, but the vet was in surgery that day and couldn’t see any animals. I was told if she needed immediate help to take her to the animal emergency room. When I walked toward Lizzy, she ran and jumped up on the windowsill. I assumed if she was healthy enough to jump that high that we could wait another day for the vet. So, I went on with my busy day. When I came home later that afternoon, it was apparent Lizzy was in horrible shape and needed immediate help.

My daughter wrapped Lizzy up into her favorite blanket and we drove to the animal emergency room. As the vet checked her out, he said frankly, “This cat is dying.” I explained her treatments and her history and asked if there were any way they could help her, but he shook his head. I asked him if we could talk it over and he left the room.

With one hand slowly petting Lizzy, my other hand made circles on my daughter’s back, trying to comfort her. My daughter’s heart was breaking as we looked upon her sick cat. I asked her what she wanted to do, and in a broken and brave voice, my daughter replied, “I don’t want Lizzy to suffer.” And we agreed to put Lizzy to sleep.

I act indifferent about the animals in my house and it probably annoys my family. The truth is, I care about them. While standing in the backroom at the animal emergency room, I was tasked with two important jobs. One, I had to be strong for my daughter and give her the dad she needs. And two, I needed to comfort Lizzy in her last minutes of life. It was a moment that I didn’t predict would be as hard as it was.

We drove home later with my daughter holding an empty blanket. Many tears were shed on the way. After arriving at home, her mom was waiting with open arms and held her close. The next few days were hard as every room shared memories of Lizzy.

After all the kids were asleep and the house was quiet in those next nights, there was no Lizzy to jump into the space next to me on the couch. I had no idea that a pet’s death would affect me as hard as it did. During the more intense moments, I was sad because my daughter was heartbroken about the loss of her kitty. And she was my focus. In the quiet time of the night, I was sad because my moment of Zen included a little purring cat and she was gone.

As the days passed, we moved forward and the other animals in the house, another cat and a dog, showed up in situations that normally would have been Lizzy’s job. It’s as if they knew we were grieving, or maybe they were grieving too. Our pets have an important job that I didn’t realize they held before. They are more than a living plaything, but also a friend and comforter. Something they’ve known all along.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: ©Elvira / Adobe Stock.