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.

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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.

For many new parents, all of their time is spent simply taking care of the baby. It can be tough figuring out how to find time to work out or exercise. If running is your thing (or was — before having kids), here’s a “how to” guide for getting back into your sport by using a jogging stroller:

Picking a Jogging Stroller

There are many great brands (Jeep, Graco, BabyTrends, Joovy) and types (single, double, fixed wheel) jogging strollers. I suggest that you try out a few before deciding. I use BOB Gear jogging strollers because I found they work best in terms of size, flexibility, and durability for the streets, elevators and small apartments of New York City. Our BOB Gear stroller comes in handy for more than just running with my child. It’s great to take when I bring my daughter grocery shopping or to a museum.

Start Slowly

I started running with my daughter, Lucinda, when she was around 5 months old. The instructions for my BOB Gear jogging stroller advised me not to run with a baby younger than 8 months. You need to use your best judgment. I felt confident trying it as soon as she could sit up without slumping over in the stroller. The first time out we went for about 2.5 miles. The first mile and a half she was fine, but then she got fussy. So we abandoned ship. The second time out was a little better. By the third time, she had gotten used to the stroller and things started to go more smoothly.

Jogging Strollers Help with Naps

After about five short runs in the jogging stroller, she had gotten into the routine of napping really well during my runs. Before I knew it, I couldn’t stop or she would wake up! And as you know or will certainly learn … you should do whatever humanly possible NOT to wake a sleeping baby. The breakthrough came in early June, when she fell deep into a nap and didn’t wake up after the usual 30 minutes. She slept and slept, and before I knew it, I had run almost 2 hours in the middle of the day! Running with ourBOB Gear jogging stroller was a great antidote to short napping. Eventually, we got into a routine of taking most afternoon naps during a jog in the park.

Stopping could end a nap prematurely during the middle months, but I find as she’s getting older, stopping isn’t as detrimental to the nap. My daughter has always been a light sleeper, but if you have a good sleeper it should be fine.

Prepare for Weather

Spring and fall are the best months for the jogging stroller. Always keep in mind that your baby is not getting warmed up from exercise like you are.

If you plan to run in the summer, find a model with a sun shield. This will protect your child from the rays and keep her cooler. Most good brands (BOB Gear, Jeep, Graco, BabyTrends) have jogging strollers with these that are either detachable or foldable. It’s also best to go early or late and avoid the heat in the middle of the day.

In the winter, we’ve been using a weather shield, essentially a plastic enclosure, which keeps the stroller quite toasty and dry. In fact, you should not use the shield unless it’s lower than 60 degrees due to the possibility of overheating. It also protects your child from wind and the elements. I’m not sure how cold will be our cut-off for going out, but below 30 degrees will probably be our limit.

Speed

Don’t expect to be running 7-minute miles with the stroller; it can really slow you down. My running pace is around 11 to 12 minutes with the stroller, and when I’m without the stroller it’s usually more in the 9- to 10-minute range, sometimes faster if I’m racing in a shorter distance. So don’t expect to run fast with the stroller, but do expect to work hard. I think the extra effort you put into running with the stroller, even if you are going at a slower pace, can make your runs without the baby a little faster. Think of it as a type of speed work!

How Much Should I Run with the Stroller?

I train for ultra marathons so running for 90 minutes every day with my baby isn’t such a problem for me. But if you are not an ultra marathoner, at least getting out there for an hour will be great for you and the baby.

Best Jogging Stroller Routes

Living in NYC, we usually head to Central Park or Riverside Park. Hills are tough but add to the fun. Quiet routes are ideal, so try to stay away from construction, heavy traffic, and people wanting to ask how it is to run with the baby. That is my warning, but it’s hard to schedule around those problems.

Bringing the jogging stroller into your and your baby’s life can be fun (a little intimidating initially) and I think it can help you and your baby explore the town, provide fitness, and give your baby a great opportunity for napping. Since my daughter, Lucinda, is turning 1 next week, we will see how this plan works and evolves as she gets older.

About the author

Mat Gerowitz is a stay-at-home dad, ultra runner, and part-time running coach. Mat can be found on what used to be Twitter at @matruns and at ultrarunningstayathomedad.blogspot.com.

This post first ran in 2012 and has since been updated.

BOB Gear, Jeep, Graco, BabyTrends single, double, fixed wheel jogging strollers

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 could feel the anxiety kick in as soon as the notification popped up on my phone. May was supposed to be the month I took a break. I’d just finished running 92 miles in April, so I wanted to give my body a rest. I’d convinced myself that 40 to 50 miles was all I had to give for the next month.

Then, unexpectedly, my Nike running app let me know I’d been invited to a challenge for May — 75 miles.

My running journey dates back to around 2013. I started in part because many of my friends ran and would post their miles on social media. I guess in some ways it was a case of FOMO. But what began as something to do for “fun” has developed over the years into a lifestyle, albeit a love-hate one. And since I’ve become a dad, it’s become a fitness routine that I’ve committed myself to.

As fathers, we not only owe it to our kids to be our best version, we owe it to ourselves. And believe me, I get it. It’s tough. Practicing healthy habits while parenting, working, spending time with your spouse or significant other can be challenging. However, becoming fathers doesn’t eliminate the responsibility we have to take care of our bodies. The question I often ask myself is, “How can I be the best version for others when I’m not investing in myself?” What good are we to our families if we’re not doing what we can to ensure we’ll be around to enjoy the fruits of our labor?

For all that’s required of us as fathers, being available is at the top of the list. That’s why my primary motivation for trying to be healthy is my son. He will turn 3 in November, which means he’s on 100 from the moment he wakes up in the morning until it’s time to go back to bed at night. Nonstop. As someone who’s approaching 40, I have to work extra hard to ensure I can at least keep up with him as he gets older. No, I don’t have the final say on what happens in my life, but at the very least I can do my part.

It’s discouraging to see my dad and other older men, particularly those of color, popping pills every day and doing so accepting that it’s the norm. For many men of color, diet and exercise was not a priority in their lives as young men, and they are paying for it in their advanced age, or not even making it there at all. In recent months, DMX and Black Rob, both star hip hop artists of my youth, have passed away around the age of 50. With the knowledge and resources now accessible at our fingertips, we have no excuse but to live life more abundantly. That includes better health, both mental and physical.

To be clear, I’m not a fitness guru by any means. I’m just doing what I can to stay active and keep the juices flowing. And I encourage all fathers to do the same. We all have to find something that works for us. For me, it’s running. For others, it’s weightlifting or the Peloton or intramural sports.

While the dad bod is a running joke of sorts, it’s not funny when it starts to impact our livelihood. We have to do all we can to avoid that, whenever and however. I’ll start by trying to get these 75 miles in. Even if I don’t really want to.

Fitness father photo: ©LIGHTFIELD STUDIOS /  Adobe Stock.

I’ve seen this before – a half-assed tryout, making the track team and, suddenly, floating the idea wanting to quit before the second practice. Yes, my seventh grader, Lynden, hopes that his subtle hints about leaving the school track team will garner my support to do so. He must not know I value the act of participating more than he does.

“Dad, track is boring,” he mentioned in passing the morning after tryouts.

I said nothing and picked him up from practice later that day.

That evening, on the van ride home, Lynden escalated the quitting chatter, “With everything else going on, track is gonna get in the way of soccer.”

Again, I remained quiet and stoic – taking note of his hope for my agreement wane.

By day three, Lynden resorted to feigning illness to avoid track practice, “Dad, I have a headache. There is no way I to go to track and soccer tonight.”

I’d had enough.

“Lynden, you’re not quitting the team. Nope.”

He shot back, “Why does it matter? You’re not out any money – it’s just the school track team! I’m not even good.”

Sparing him another “it’s not the act, but the principle at work” talk, I kept it simple, saying, “Yes, you’re busy. Yes, you’ll be tired from running at track practice before soccer. But you tried out and took a spot that someone else could have earned. That means you’re sticking it out. Tough. You’re on the team for the season so you better learn to like it.”

Request denied.

The truth is, Lynden quitting the team didn’t have me as annoyed as his nonchalant attitude about being on the squad in the first place.

As I thought about Lynden’s logic, I came around to the idea that he wasn’t technically wrong. The school track team was a free, throw-in for his normal, more expensive, more serious, more inconvenient-to-the-family team activities. This rationale, though, clearly does not value participation as a valuable use of his time. He isn’t alone in the line of thinking, I see the numbers of kids on the field at school reducing universally.

As the act of trying new activities at school has given way to paying-to-play, the quality of middle school sports have suffered. My family has a front row seat to witnessing the plight of the school team fueled by an invasion of uber-serious, uber-expense “travel” teams that do little to fortify friendships and do far too much to allow parents to live vicariously through their exhausted young athletes.

I began unpacking Lynden’s mentality as follows:

• School sports are free and, therefore, not as valuable as the other (ie: higher priced) options.
• School sports are less valuable, so my commitment to the team doesn’t matter.
• Commitment does not matter so quitting the team carries no repercussions.

Parents cannot allow this – I won’t. We must band together to stomp out these flames before they ignite the lacquer of the middle school gym’s floor. Worthwhile commitments must not be dependent on the financial cost of admission or perceived ability level. Having fun is worthwhile!

Maybe some of Lynden’s “quitting doesn’t matter” way of thinking can be traced back to the way parents have devalued the act of participating. The rush to disavow the “participation trophy mentality” may have inadvertently discouraged kids to try anything new. Our kids would rather sit out than entertain the idea of making an ass of themselves in front of classmates, friends and family by giving a new activity a shot.

But, not Lynden, not this time. By making him stick out the track season, I hope to change his view of what is important (and not) – and, potentially, test my own biases about the importance of participating.

Picking Lynden up after his fourth track practice, I explained to him my point of view — that his bellyaching to quit the track team was about something bigger to me. Sure, the most obvious lesson was about perseverance and integrity. Less obvious, though, are lessons about value – looking for intrinsic worth through friendships and owning the courage to step outside of a comfortable zone. These lessons are about placing more value on systems that care little about the quality of play relative to the qualities developed by simply taking part. These lessons require participation.

Kids cannot quit on school activities. Let’s tell our kids that trying is OK. In fact, participation is what it’s all about – absent the trophy, of course.

Photo: ©Anneke / Adobe Stock.

A few weeks ago, my 14-year-old son, Yosef, had a decision to make. Would his fall sport of choice be football or cross country?

While insignificant compared to the major world issues engulfing the news each night, this choice was important to him. Yosef was entering a new high school where roster spots on any other athletic team would be nearly impossible to come by.

As the season drew nearer, my wife and I detected Yosef’s self-induced pressure to make a fall sports pick was mounting. My son understood his mother and I would support any decision. I’m sure my son also understood his parents approached the choice from different perspectives.

My wife is a highly competitive type who wants to win – at everything. If she senses an ability to excel, she’s in. If not, she would choose not to go through the motions. If she were faced with the same choice as Yosef, cross country would win out.

That point of view is completely defensible here. After all, Yosef weighs less than 100 pounds, and sat the bench in his one stint as a football player in a Pop Warner team several years ago. Cross country was the hands-down choice from the perspective of playing to succeed athletically.

I am less athletic and less competitive than my wife. I like to win but would not forgo participating on a team even if I’d be relegated to a full-time role on the bench. I have never been great at any sports and was more of a “social” player — more apt to focus on having fun and playing with friends versus wins and losses.

Crunch-time call

Yosef and I spent some time driving to conditioning practices over the fleeting days of summer break before he finally asked for my perspective on how for him to make his choice.

I wrestled with how to advise him, understanding my wife and I represented two divergent paths:

• Play what you’d be decent at (cross country), or,
• Play where you’d have more fun (football)

The crushing responsibility of raising a teenager into a capable, independent person weighed on me. My response could make this choice obvious or leave him to choose for himself.

“You know, the choice is yours – not mine,” I said. “I’ll support you either way and so will your mom. If I were faced with the same decisions, I’d figure out where I’d be happiest.”

As Yosef nodded his head and gazed out of the passenger window, I knew that we’d be spending the fall season on the gridiron. I have regretted giving that advice ever since.

I do not regret allowing Yosef to make the choice himself. He’s old enough to control his social calendar.

I do not feel regret knowing that my son would spend the football season buried deep on the team’s depth chart – probably never to see the field after pregame warmups.

I do not regret not trying to more directly steer him to cross country. There is always next year.

I do regret, though, punting on the opportunity to teach Yosef about making choices in life – those that have consequences beyond the equipment needed for participation.

Telling a teenager to base a decision solely on happiness might be fine for minor things — like football and cross country — and terrible for life. The truth is, very few of the decisions Yosef will make should begin with the evaluation of his assumed, resulting joy and happiness.

Happiness not always an option

Most adult choices involve boring stuff like needs and utility. Often, I make choices based on whether the means are truly worth the end. My decisions are pragmatic, logical and done after serious opining of potential consequences.

While I’m content with Yosef sitting on the sideline this football season, I am not OK with him taking such an approach to college admissions, his studies or his future career pursuits. Will Yosef, though, understand the difference?

Have I traded the short-term path of least resistance by signing my son up for a treacherous, long-term climb?

That day, I think, I was indoctrinated into the world of parenting a teen – the time in life where I’m in the passenger seat of the decision-making minivan. I would prefer to be at the wheel, controlling the route to the destination. Or, at minimum, I’d like to have one hand on the wheel so that it is impossible for Yosef to ignore my influence during the trip.

I thought about that analogy as I waited for Yosef to immerge from the locker room, in the pouring rain, after his team’s first game (an ugly 13-0 loss that was delayed by rain midway through the second half).

He seemed upbeat for having sat on the sidelines all evening.

“Man, Dad, I know I can get in there!” Yosef was quiet, but confident.

“Just keep working, man. Control what you can. Nothing in life is given,” I replied quickly.

“Yep.”

I suddenly swelled with pride. Yosef probably will not play this year, but he sure as hell will not quit.

Maybe, after all, Yosef is learning something because of making decisions based on happiness alone.  Maybe he’s learning that the perception of what will bring joy is not devoid of hard work and suffering. Maybe he’s actively redefining what his happiness looks like.

And maybe, if football continues this trajectory for the season, next year Yosef will run cross country instead – and still be happy.

Photo: © Sunny studio / Adobe Stock.

Running is my time to think about everything and, eventually, nothing. Finding Zen in those moments makes my early mornings stuffing lunch sacks through my late nights up with a sick kid, all worth while. It’s not that I run out of things to think about — it’s getting to that place where I am thinking solely about the NOW. How do my knees feel?

Is that left calf loosing up or is it still tight and messing with my stride?

Look, that lime green light seems to bounce off the pool of water next to the trail!

I tend to be a reflective person by nature, finding Zen whenever and wherever I can. Looking back and learning from my mistakes is common practice for someone who makes a lot of mistakes. It makes me feel better about going forward and not making the same mistakes twice. Well, definitely not three times.

This particular time in my life, I have a lot to think about. My birthday being close to Father’s Day offers a unique challenge for retrospection. Before children, my birthday was a time to think back on the year and what changes I wanted to make moving forward. Father’s Day was a time to think about my dad and celebrate all of his accomplishments.

That all changed years ago when I first became a father. Now, when mid-June rolls around, not only do I get to think back on what kind of a person I am, but I also get to ponder about what kind of a dad I am.

Oh, joy.

The heat had finally broken here on the East Coast and I was about three miles into a five mile loop. I was deep in thought, not quite to finding Zen yet, but close. I was still thinking through the tough morning we had trying to get everyone up and moving.

It is difficult to move quickly when you are 5 years old. The concept of being late is still foreign to the young pre-K student we have living with us. She is a “stop and smell the roses” kind of girl. I love her to pieces. But she needs to learn about at least making it appear that she is trying to move quickly or her poor old dad will lose his poor old mind. Seriously. Mix this morning with the fact that I just turned the big 4-0 (thank you) and you have the makings of a deep, introspective run.

Back to Mile Three …

I was looking forward to this afternoon when I could sit down with my daughter and talk about why I was so angry and why I yelled at her this morning. It was really eating me up. My first day as a 40 year old and I have already yelled at my sweet little one because I slept in and ignored the alarm. It was unfair to her, and I knew it.

That’s when I saw the dog, off-leash, running toward me. This is nothing new. People break the leashed dog rule all the time. I generally stop running, wait for the owner to apologize, give them a few choice words, and head on my way. But this time was different. The dog owner was very concerned about me not moving until he caught up to us.

“I don’t trust this dog,” he yelled.

Well, that’s good! Let him run free then, why don’t you?

He finally made it in between me and this snarling mutt that didn’t seem too happy with the fact that I was enjoying a nice run toward his owner. I assumed the dog had no ideas on how to talk to my daughter about the stresses of being late in the morning or how learning to wake up early and be prepared for life is a good quality.

“I’m so sorry, didn’t think we would see any …”

That was the moment when I felt the strength of the dogs jaw clamp down on my big cushy ass.

“OW! Hey, what the f@*! man!” I screamed in pain.

“Are you OK? I’m so sorry! Are you bleeding?” he said.

I pulled down my running shorts to reveal a nice row of small bruises forming. No blood.

“What if I had my kids? What if they got bit in the face? Keep your dog on the leash!”

We stared at each for a few moments, his dog still growling. My instincts told me it was time to go. I turned, giving one last farewell involving a few more choice words, and continued through the empty woods.

I was still in shock with what just happened when I stopped to look at the bite again.  It wasn’t that bad but still, a bite is a bite. It hurt like hell. I had to finish my route not only because I wanted to keep running, but I needed to get back to the car.

Then it happened.

My mind was clear. I was in that Zen place.

I was thinking about the bruise forming on my posterior and the heart rate that was finally coming back to normal. More importantly, I was immediately thankful.  Thankful I didn’t have to go to the hospital. Thankful my kids were not mauled by a dog in the woods. Thankful I was a dad. Thankful I was able to keep running and now it’s just a story to be exaggerated at a later time by yours truly. Thankful to be alive.

The dog brought me into the NOW.

Happy Father’s Day to all the other dads living in the now.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bryan Grossbauer is an actor, musician, former teacher and full-time stay-at-home dad to two children. A member of our NYC Dads Group, he and his family live in New Rochelle and enjoy traveling, hiking, and live music. A version of this piece first appeared on his blog, Dig it, Daddy-O.

Finding zen on the trail photo: © kovop58 / Adobe Stock.

Jogging for a good, hard 35 minutes around my neighborhood in southeastern Jerusalem is no different than dropping acid except for the lack of hallucinations, flashbacks and induced schizophrenia. Running simplifies life as it clarifies thought, dousing everyday trivialities in strong, bright colors whose pleasing afterglow continues for hours.

There’s not much more to jogging than putting one foot after the other, heel-toe, heel-toe. But these steps, run in a pair of worn-out L.A. Gear sneakers, create the mental callouses I need to weather life’s little tempests.

When I begin my run, on the corner of Derech Hevron and David Remez near the Jerusalem Cinematheque, fatherhood feels like boot camp for the soul. Being a patient, supportive, and understanding husband and father requires me to access emotional reserves that I don’t come by naturally.

But Jerusalem is a city built on a plateau in the Judean Mountains. I run up five different hills of varying elevations. As I traverse these inclines, my sharper edges are slowly rounded off, enabling me to bare life’s burdens more gracefully while I become less burdensome to my wife and kids. As Beitar Street becomes Leib Yaffe, the latest outbreak of laziness by the chronically absent lady who runs my twin sons’ nursery flows off me like water off a duck’s behind. My wife’s ailing leg, a growing concern for everyone in the family, no longer seems mysterious, but solvable. Our four children’s frenetic energy becomes a source of amusement, even pride, instead of fatigue tinged with frustration.

As springtime in Jerusalem nudges up to summer, the temperature and humidity rise. And I’m in high cotton. Exhaust fumes, blaring horns, irritated pedestrians and double-parked cars bounce off me as effortlessly as a mountain gazelle gallops through the Ramot Forest. Frayed nerves are magically strengthened as I round the bend and attack the short but sharp Yanovsky Street incline. For a few fleeting minutes, I’m footloose and fancy-free. Home life’s many splendor madness has evaporated, freeing up my mind’s eye to focus on a great issue or two, depending on how much longer my legs can keep pumping.

Jogging frees soul, mind from parenting, world burdens

Netanyahu … what’s his deal? As I’m about to drift off into a SWOT analysis of the French Law, checks and balances, inherent weaknesses of the parliamentary system, term limits and electoral thresholds, a man with a thin mustache and thick bathrobe wanders into my path. Homeboy is chasing down a poodle right as I’m veering left on Ein Gedi Street. I hop over the runt canine with uncommon elan as the owner shoots daggers at me. By the time I regain my bearings, the strengths, vices and possible fate of Israel’s premier have fallen to the street, to be trounced on by a runaway poodle and its gasping owner.

Hezbollah in London. I’m ruminating on the story of the day when the Beatles playlist I’m using for this run’s soundtrack is suddenly interrupted by an Israeli commercial for an Israeli insurance company. The actor’s loud staccato delivery and nonstop punning drill a small hole in my head. I try and use my thumb to find and tap the “Skip This Ad” button, to no avail. I endure the entire commercial with true grit. But when it’s over, I’m not rerouted back to my carefully chosen playlist. Pumping my arms up and down somehow diverts me from Classic Rock (or ‘Daddy Rock’) to an interview with George Will about his new book.

Books. This will turn out to be the final subject tackled during today’s jogging. I’m on a serious reading-losing streak. The last four books I’ve read have been godawful. What gives? Am I trying too hard to expand my reading horizons? Should I stop trying to be an intellectual dilettante and return to the safe and cozy confines of history and biography? Why can’t I grasp even basic concepts in astrophysics? Linguistics? Economics? Why is it that the only information I can retain are song lyrics? Hey, there’s that guy with the mustache again. What happened to the poodle?

As I take off on a final sprint passed St. Claire’s monastery, a final thought: Why is it that after I congratulated a colleague today about the birth of his daughter, he refused to tell me how many children he has?

Me: “Mazal Tov!’

Him: “Thanks, G.”

Me: “How many is that?”

Him: “We don’t count them that way.”

Me: “All righty then!”

And here we are: home.

Another day not merely endured, but lived!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Jogging photo: © kovop58 / Adobe Stock.

I took a picture while running recently and I can’t stop staring at it. I get lost in it. My daughter’s ponytail caught mid-swing as she comfortably strides at her perfect pace. Our puppy chasing her, eager to catch up, mid-air, sprinting. Their shadows are crisply cast. The photo tells a story, not only of what’s happening but of things to come.

I’m not a photographer, by any stretch. I just snapped a bunch of shots with my phone, hoping to get something good. I tried to get my own shadow in the picture, because how cool would that have been? Couldn’t do it. Even if my shadow didn’t quite make the cut I know I’m there, just behind them, smiling like only someone who is completely aware of the moment can. Looking at the picture now, I know who they’re running with and it makes me smile all over again. It’s also making the outermost corner of my left eye slightly moister than usual. It doesn’t bring a tear to my eye or a lump in my throat; I’m not that big a sap. It just makes me sort of exhale a little louder, almost a sigh, but not quite.

Left on her own, our dog, Mallomar, could outpace my daughter and me with no problem, at least in relatively short distances. I could totally kick her puppy behind in a 10k! (Unless there was a squirrel pacing her.) It’s fun to hold Mallo back when we run with my daughter, Penny. All she wants to do is run alongside her girl, our girl. She practically pulls my arm off, her front and hind legs working in unison and straining against her leash and my shoulder socket. Finally I let her have at it. I have to go full 100-yard dash mode to keep up with her, bounding, practically bouncing, in an effort to catch up to Penny. (I say “effort,” but nothing could be easier for Mallomar.) She practically gets a foot in the face from Penny’s carefree kicking, but she doesn’t seem to mind. As soon as she catches up, she slows down. Everything slows down. I’m not normally one of those “Life is Good” bumper sticker people. But … Life. Is. Good.

All of that is captured in the photo. All of that and so much more.

I look at the picture and I already feel nostalgic, even though it’s from like a week ago. Who am I kidding? I felt the pangs of a moment gone forever the moment I took the photo. It was already in the past. But it also gave me a glimpse into the future.

I saw it all very clearly, as I blinked my eyes my baby girl was 17 years old. Ten years away. More time than she’s spent on the Earth thus far, but it happened, will happen, in an instant. I saw her heading off to college, but humoring me with one more run together before shipping out. I even joked a little bit about it that day.

When you do you think you’ll be faster than me? I asked, purposely goading her.

I’m already faster than you! She paused for dramatic effect . Because I cheat! 

That’s why you’re Cheater Girl.

I’m Cheetah Girl, daddy. Chee-TAH.

That’s what I said, Cheater Girl. Chea-TER, right?

It’s only funny when she says it, so she tried give me a little jab. Too bad I’m too fast for her! For now. In 10 years, who knows?

I think running together is going to be our thing. I hope so. Like most runners, I have a love-hate relationship with the sport. It’s annoying, frustrating and brings me so much pain. Kind of like Penny. But it has also afforded me some of my proudest, most cherished moments. And there is almost nothing in the world that makes me smile more. Exactly like Penny. (And her little brother, Simon, but he’s not running yet. Yet.)

A version of this first ran on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.

Editor’s Note: City Dads Group is proud to occasionally feature writing from members of The Handsome Father, a support community that helps connect, prepare and inspire gay fathers. In this inspirational piece, Craig Peterson writes about his special-needs son, Andrew.

From the day I met my adopted son Andrew at age 5, he liked to walk in front. He wanted to lead.

Meanwhile, my two younger sons were in no hurry. They liked to walk hand-in-hand with their new father and didn’t want to share me with anyone – including their older brother. But Andrew didn’t mind. He’d be off on his own and out of sight, if I didn’t keep an eye on him.

He had so much energy – and was always smiling, since he hadn’t learned to use words.

Although Andrew’s brain damage from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome left him clumsy and afraid to ride a bike, I persuaded him at age 9 to run a 3K race with me.

“Stay with me. Don’t stop.” And with constant encouragement, he did just that for the entire 1.8-mile course. I wasn’t surprised. Pleasing others came naturally.

Two years later, on the same 3K course, my son ran by my side without me saying a word. I saw his potential and told him to run ahead – leaving me behind.

He had found his niche.

Yet in middle school, the cross-country coach was convinced that my sixth grader wouldn’t be able to follow directions. Andrew showed him, becoming the second fastest runner on a team that included seventh and eighth graders.

For the next five years, he and I spent countless weekend hours working on his running form. Many early mornings found the two of us at the track near our home with him completing intervals and me recording his times.

He never complained. Not once.

By his senior year, my son Andrew showed everyone once again. He became the first student-athlete in his school to earn four varsity letters in the same sport – even as many people still focused on those things he would never be able to do because of his intellectual disability.

Yet he didn’t rest on his laurels.

Through his decade of involvement in Special Olympics, he raised the bar for every participant. At the 2014 USA Games in Princeton, N.J., he dominated the distance events – earning three gold medals. He also achieved three personal bests over four days of competition, including a very impressive 4:47 in the 1500.

Andrew set a new goal in 2014 – to be on the cover of Runner’s World magazine. From 2,000 entries he was one of five male finalists. And although he didn’t win, his picture appeared five times in the December 2014 issue. He was a finalist again in 2015, gaining the most votes in Reader’s Choice category, though the cover still eluded him.

Never one to be discouraged, Andrew found another outlet to share his gifts. He confidently took his message of respect and inclusion to 60 Indiana high schools – eventually addressing 60,000 students with his inspiring message.

Not one show of nerves, as he spoke from memory for 15 minutes.

Craig Peterson became the first openly gay man to adopt through the Indiana foster care system in 1998. He is finishing a memoir on raising his six children with special needs to be called Adopting Faith: A Father’s Unconditional Love, and maintains a blog by the same name. A version of this article first appeared on The Handsome Father.