For seven years I held the best job the world has to offer. It’s the most fun job I can envision, and at times, one of the hardest imaginable.

I’m talking about my happy time as a SAHD: a stay-at-home dad.

For seven years, I was the MAN. The go-to parent for every joy, every heartache, every need. I oversaw food, fitness and fun. We would take “dadventures” — exploring nearby museums, parks, historic sites and more. I raised my son and daughter, loving every moment I spent with them. And life was amazing.

But the pay … it sucked.

This past fall, my daughter, the younger of our kids, enrolled in preschool. At first, I felt free. I’d have more time to focus on the housework, cooking and other responsibilities without feeling rushed all the time. Yet, those wide-open days started feeling a bit …boring. When you’re used to constant noise and attention, the quiet while your children are at school is both empowering and unsettling.

So I started working part-time as a substitute teacher. I enjoyed spending this time in my kids’ schools and even subbing in their classes. Subbing is good for the struggling school systems (I was a full-time teacher before our kids were born) and I liked being able to do it on my terms. School holiday? I’m off too. One kid sick? I don’t take a sub job that day. And so on.

It felt strange working part-time, though. It made me realize I had an even bigger decision looming ahead of me as my children got older: Should I return to work full-time?

I hadn’t had a traditional “office” job in seven years. Would employers even want to talk to me? Realistically, as sexist as it sounds, leaving the workforce for stay-at-home fatherhood is a tough sell to potential future employers.

Another thing to consider: What would I do for work? I didn’t want to go back to teaching, I knew that. And I didn’t know what the job market for my skills would be like. I did know I wanted to try something.

I dove into the job hunt. A hundred applications across months. A handful of interviews that didn’t pan out. And a lot of crickets.

Let me backtrack a moment. When you become an at-home parent, you experience an initial period of limbo when nothing feels right or normal. You’re used to being on someone else’s clock, but now you set the timetable. Rather than a boss who dresses you down, your “boss” is now this little person you have to dress daily. Instead of being surrounded by co-workers and other adults, you are now isolated on Kid Island—sometimes I needed reminding to go outside and be around others.    

I thought about that period because here I was in limbo again. I didn’t know what I wanted or how to get there. My kids still mattered the most, but I knew I wanted to be working and earning money. I wanted to still be there for them for intense, amazing play at least a little bit every day. So then, what could I do?

Well, I threw in the job search towel.

Instead, my wife and I decided to open our own business from home, working full-time to make it succeed.

It hasn’t been easy, but here I am … making more money than I ever did as a full-time teacher. I work from home, setting my own timetable. My boss is my wife. She dresses me down often, if you know what I mean, but I keep it PG in front of the kids. And since working from home is a bit isolating, we’re constantly putting ourselves in front of others. I’m even giving a TEDx talk in front of a crowd at Philadelphia next month.

In other words, we took all the elements we liked about my time as an SAHD and kept them then fit work around them. Every day, I spend time with my kids. Every day I spend time with my wife. I work on my terms and on my timeline.

Creating and running your own business won’t be for everyone, but for me, this scenario has been the secret to being “happy after SAHD.” I think the key is to find the priorities that matter to you and find a way to make them happen. My priority is spending time with the kids. Finding an employer willing to work with me on that, with a seven-year “gap” as a SAHD on my resume and a career change in mind … well, maybe my wife’s the only boss who that would work for. Still, find those priorities and stick to them.

Parenting, regardless of your work (or non-work) situation, doesn’t end. In my new position, our dadventures still happen, and so do the dad jokes and, of course, the constant care of kids. It’s possible to do all those, and still work. Being happy after SAHD means embracing the longer-term job of fatherhood, and recognizing that everything else is secondary.

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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.

Photo by Gustavo Fring from Pexels.

Tax Day has now come and gone. Once again, NONE of my working teens filed their taxes because I told them not to bother. With the standard deduction for single dependents nearing $1,300, I told my kids to save the time and sit this filing year out.  

Since each has started working, I have given this same advice. And, honestly, I’ve never been 100% sure that I/they are doing the right thing.

From my point of view, if my kids ultimately have $0 of tax viability (we live in Florida, so no state income tax, either) then filing to get the $20 lost does not make much sense. 

Whenever I encourage my kids to take the easy way out, I feel like I’ve short-changed a learning opportunity. 

But have I?   

Learn from the “act” of filing taxes

My father’s rule was simple: once you made $1, you filed taxes. I remember loving the time my dad spent sitting me down with the manual 1040EZ form we’d picked up from the Cedar Rapids, Iowa Public Library. I’d dutifully dice up my $500 annual earnings W2-box-by-W2-box. And, in the end, I’d get back the money I’d paid in on. It felt like a surprise bonus.    

That nostalgia had me itching to teach the same lessons to my working teens. That is until they told me filing taxes can be as simple as a few simple clicks on their phone. 

Nostalgic feeling – gone.    

Yeah, the efficiency of the internet has yielded the “act” of insisting your kids file taxes, well, meaningless and devoid of the father/kid interaction I am after.

More importantly, though, than my desire to spend more time with my teens, I began to wonder about their legal obligations for filing with the government by Tax Day.     

Do teens have to file taxes?

I was relieved to learn it is fine NOT to file a tax return if a teen’s earnings do not exceed the standard, single deduction for a dependent. In tax year 2023 (returns that are due in April 2024), that amount is around $1,300.

So, no, a teen not filing taxes is, as they’d say, “not that deep.” 

While your teen may not be required to file taxes, they can without any downside. The only possible outcome of filing at lower incomes (like those of my teens) is the opportunity to, potentially, get a refund. This would occur if they paid federal taxes in excess of their liability.  These amounts are typically small and should be weighed against the time (and possible software fees) it might take to file.

I do like the idea of enforcing the discipline of filing taxes for teens. I regret I did not have them each go through the process. It would have opened them up to conversations that may be important down the road, such as concepts like “dependents,” “standard deductions,” and “tax credits.” Through these types of chats, it may become clear how meaningful it may be to a family’s taxes to claim teens as dependents until they age out. (As of 2024, a teen can be claimed as a dependent until age 19 or 24 if a full-time student).

Filing taxes is also an opportunity to explain the importance of filing status on tax liability – and not only for them! I’ll leave those lessons until next year, I guess. 

What if my teen has only been paid in cash?

My 14-year-old daughter was only paid in cash for babysitting in 2023. It was only a small amount of money made babysitting for a select few friends. She assumed, then, that taxes did not pertain to her. To me, it was also a no-brainer to avoid filing a tax return.

Upon further review, I may have messed up.  

The IRS guidance mentions $400 cash income as the line where a teen can be characterized as “self-employed” and, therefore, subject to paying taxes. Take note: the “self-employed” designation does allow for write-offs that would reduce or eliminate their tax liability. 

So, while she could have filed, given the amounts, I’m OK with her skipping out with her brothers. 

I feel better now. We haven’t skirted the taxing authorities. My kids would say they’ve saved time and that’s a win. I would contend we delayed a lesson they will need and should understand. 

We’ll all have to pick up that lesson next Tax Day.

Teens and taxes photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich via Pexels.

February 2020:

It is 6:45 a.m. and, all still half asleep, I load my two youngest (Everett, 7, and Emersyn, 5) into the minivan. There are two other cars welcoming us as we wait for the “before school program” to open. I nervously check my watch and tap my foot, my impatience fueled by an impending 8 a.m. meeting at the office. 

Great news!  My meeting goes well. 

Bad news — it lasted an hour longer than expected. I am now late to pick up the kids from the same spot where I dropped them off nearly 10 hours earlier. Finally, whizzing into the school parking lot, I see my kids on the playground in the distance with their frowning teacher. 

They are the only children left at school. 

Both kids wave excitedly. I wave back, trying to find an excuse to soften the impact of causing the teacher to stay late. I tell her, “I’m sorry.”    

A feeling of failure washes over me.

February 2021:

Feeling fortunate to have been spared from the wrath of COVID-19, I finish a Microsoft Teams meeting, temporarily log off, and head to grab my two little ones from school.  Alongside a few other “remote” working dads and moms, we watch our children spill out of the school’s gates and into each other’s arms.

It is mid-afternoon, the perfect time for a quick recharge before an evening schedule full of Zoom calls on next year’s budget. I get to hear about Emersyn’s new student and Everett’s home run in P.E. class before sinking back into my home office as they finish schoolwork. 

A feeling of gratitude engulfs me. 

February 2023:

It is mid-morning, a normal Thursday of working from home when an email lights up my inbox. The subject line is ominous: “Return to Work Update.” 

I feared this day would come. Working remotely was no longer allowed by policy.  All employees were to return to the office and their assigned cubicles the following Monday.

A feeling of dread crushes this day’s motivation. 

Lethargy quickly turned into rage. How can anyone expect an employee to suddenly undo the two years of remote-working rhythm they’ve developed? How can “corporate” expect parents to find immediate childcare? What about the added household expenses associated with that care and transportation with a mandate to return to the office?  

My outrage, though, had to be checked – there were kids that expected to see their dad after school. As I walked toward the school this day, I started to notice fewer parents mulling around than before. It turns out that nearly half of us had jobs that were now requiring work to be done in the office. I should have felt like one of the lucky ones who lasted, I guess. Instead, I felt like I’d experienced a slow fall from a picturesque cliff.

I came clean with my kids (now ages 9 and 7) right away, saying, “Hey guys, looks like I have to start working at the office again. Not sure what that means for you, but I’m working on it. Picking you up is the favorite part of my day.” 

My kids looked crushed. 

“Dad, why?” my daughter probed.

“Man, that sucks!” said my son, Everett, who was less eloquent but equally as distraught. 

My stomach twisted. I hated that such an arbitrary rule would have an impact on my kids’ lives.

But we parents roll with the punches, right? That is what we must do – and that is what we teach our children to do in their lives. So, that evening, my wife and I talked and planned, got pissed off and cooled down, and, more than anything, just felt defeated.

I dutifully returned to work the following Monday, still searching for how to get Everett to his 6 p.m. soccer practice across town and wondering if my wife will have to quit her job given the prohibited price of childcare. I am heartbroken by this forced and unnecessary intrusion into our established new normal. 

For 10 years, I have worked for a company that, I thought, cherished its people, and celebrated an employee’s ability to do the job from anywhere, anytime. I feel cheated.

Mostly, though, I feel my version of being a “present dad” has been compromised. The return to office life means I cannot pick my kids up from school anymore. They are late to virtually every afterschool commitment now. The daily grind of “wake up, hurry, drop off, work, pick up, repeat” has yielded our quick game of driveway H.O.R.S.E a distance memory. 

I see my kids every day and, still, miss them all the same. 

Great news: I have a job. I am grateful.

Bad news: I am filled with daily regrets about things I’m missing (again). 

The return to the office, for me, is a return to regret. The kind of regret I thought had been permanently abandoned – like the idea of having to sit in a cubicle to be considered a productive employee.    

Photo: © M-Production / Adobe Stock.

The CEO of my former employer loved the word “hubris.” He’d warn against it in grand speeches designed to keep us hungry, innovative and humble. He said avoiding it would ensure we remained client-focused in the face of tremendous success and a steady stream of critical acclaim.

People loved our company but, instead of embracing that love, he challenged us to keep the affection and admiration of others an arm’s length away. His thinking: once you start believing you are great, you’ll focus less on the small details that made you great in the eyes of others. And then — poof — you will no longer be great. He’s not wrong.

Despite my prep school education, I was unfamiliar with the word back then but took to it quickly. Hubris seemed a kissing cousin of “complacency,” an attitude I knew well to avoid. Still, I wouldn’t dare slip “hubris” into casual conversations. It’s a tough word to ram into everyday sentences: “I’ll take a hubris small caramel vanilla steamer hubris and a pumpkin muffin hubris hubris hubris.” See?

Plus, lots of people already think I’m an elitist douche. No need to add another log to that fire.

I believe I’m a pretty good dad. I say that with as little hubris as possible because if they drilled it into me at work for nearly a decade: hungry, innovative, humble, and focused on serving my clients. Got it, boss.

New job, old focus to halt parenting hubris

Long gone is that office full of HR reps and the tens of thousands of 401(k) contributing employees at FedEx. In fact, my client base has shrunk dramatically since choosing the at-home dad life, down to two to be precise. But I’ve stayed hungry, innovative, humble and focused. Maybe at times to the extreme and that’s been exhausting. Now though, after 13 years in this job known as fatherhood, the best job ever, I’ve actively decided to care less about the stuff happening on the sidelines and in the stands so I can stay present on the field of play. (Whoa, who ordered the sports metaphor?)

I still pepper my internal monologue with these kinds of questions:

• Did I check her phone for new apps, photos?
• When was the last time I asked about her friends and their conversations?
• Has she had fruit today? A veggie?
• Does she get enough time outside?
• When was the last time she showered?
• Why was there only one pair of underwear in the laundry but four different outfits? Eewww.
• Is she being bullied?
• Or pressured into things at school? Through text?
• Am I bullying her?
• Did she practice her instrument?
• She is growing up privileged, it’s true, but is she becoming entitled?
• Seriously, why the hell was there only one pair of her underwear in the laundry?

I suffer through a daily parade of these questions because it’s important for me to never start assuming I’ve raised perfect kids. They are pretty freaking great but hubris hubris hubris. I need to stay focused and believe, because it is true, that there’s a lot of work and foundation building still to be completed. My clients still need me to stay hungry, innovative, humble and focused.

Avoiding the TP trap 

What I no longer fret about is the roll of toilet paper perpetually left on top of the toilet paper holder that’s bolted into the wall. I’d constantly nag my wife and daughters about putting in the extra 2.5 seconds and minimal muscular effort required to install the new roll properly (or at all) but they constantly wouldn’t, and it would make me steamy as I put in the 2.5 seconds and minimal muscular effort.

I don’t nag them or even put the TP on myself anymore. The TP just sits there, a tiny white 2-ply prince upon his thrown. This might seem terribly small, and it totally is, I’ll admit that, but it is one less stupid, otherwise meaningless thing to get annoyed about during the course of my life. And that, my friends, is not a small thing at all.

Not letting the uninstalled toilet paper roll piss me off makes me a better dad because now I can focus a little bit more on the underwear thing and the phone thing and the instrument, shower, fruits and veggies, outdoor time, bullying, and maybe, on myself a little more too.

I like to think my old boss would be proud of my lack of hubris. He’d like my drive to stay hungry, innovative, humble and focused on raising two great clients, I mean daughters. Raising two great daughters.

Photo: © Feng Yu / Adobe Stock.

Weddings, births, deaths, graduations, new jobs. All momentous events worthy of celebrating. These major life transitions either mark the beginning or end of an era.

However, many milestones pass largely unremarked. Time doesn’t pause and say, “Hey, pay attention! This isn’t going to happen again!” There are no warnings like, “Yo! Only three more weeks left of this!”

For example, it could be a job we had with awesome co-workers that we didn’t realize how awesome they were until someone moved on. Maybe we were on a team on which we didn’t realize how well all the players had bonded until a few dropped off and new ones came on board. Perhaps, it’s a regular pickup basketball with friends that suddenly stops comes together.

These moments we didn’t see coming to an end can hit you strangely after you realize they have passed. However, I see one on my horizon.

It will be the day I’m no longer able to take my kid everywhere with me.

From flexible work to a ‘normal’ 9-to-5

For six years as our family’s primary caregiver, I’ve had my son with me: in the backseat, in my arms, on my shoulders, holding his hand everywhere.

He’s been with me to several hundred home showings for my real estate job, which allows me flexibility in work hours. He’s been to well over 100 closing appointments in his short lifetime. That kid has put in probably a couple thousand hours at my offices.

Then, of course, there’s the many visits to parks, museums, libraries and grocery stores we’ve shared as well as all those smoothie lunches.

Enter change.

My son goes from half-day kindergarten to full-day first grade in the fall. I’m looking at getting a “normal” 9-to-5 job when this happens.

I’m just going to be a regular Joe. Dropping my kid off at school, going to work, going home. He’s going to be just a regular kid, going to school, going home.

What I’m losing in this deal is my sidekick and my “freedom.” Losing my somewhat special status as an at-home dad.

Gone will be our lazy mornings of French toast at 10 a.m. No more smoothie lunches after the library or park. No more spontaneous trips to matinees to watch the latest kids’ movie. So long, spontaneous camping trips. No more optional bed times because now we both have some place to be in the morning.

Paradise lost.

Sometimes, life transitions to the better

I say this now. I’ve had my doubts over the past six years. There have been many moments when I’ve felt weighed down being the primary caretaker. Ego and envy has sometimes gotten the better of me. My natural desire to always be a provider for my family has battled with my full-time responsibilities for my son’s well-being. Career ambitions curtailed, recognition delayed.

Of course, I’m only looking at the negative.

There’s an exciting adventure ahead for both of us. My son’s going to learn a whole lot of things, and meet new friends. With him at school during the day, I can change my work hours so I don’t have to have so many showings and listing appointments on nights and weekends. This will give us more distraction-free time together.

This next phase, it’s going to be absolutely fantastic. Though I felt I had to take some time to observe and mourn the end of this part of my life, in hindsight, they were some of my best years. I just didn’t fully recognize it while I was living them.

Life transitions photo: © peterschreiber.media / Adobe Stock.

You know Chad. Every business in America has one.

Chad is the nice-looking, smiley, firm-hand-shaking, future C-level executive-to-be at your office. Chad is smart, but more than that, he has that “it” factor that propels him to the front of any promotion process. When you think about Chad, he seems more accomplished than pragmatically productive.

I am no Chad. I tried but have fallen short. I’m OK with it, mostly because after my wife and I started having kids, I realized I could set out to provide some lucky corporation a future Chad of my making. Yes, I’d raise my kids to be witty, quick, effective communicators who weren’t afraid of the big stage or bright lights. They would be built to dazzle any high powered, future boardroom – just like Chad.

Fifteen years into this parenting thing, though, my kids are no Chads.

Not only are my kids are not exuding the skills required, COVID-related changes to corporate America have me thinking that the Chad I knew in my young career will require a makeover to sustain his seat at the top.

The company I work for, like many, has been closed its offices to in-person working since mid-March 2020. Working remotely has ushered in a different skill set required to collaborate. While I talk to communication with colleagues via the phone, email and daily Zoom meetings, we are far more isolated than before. I had better get used to the isolation as many workplaces may have employees permanently work remotely as they harvest the productivity gains of employees’ evergreen availability and the savings on office space costs.

While I enjoy this new work-from-anywhere phenomenon, Chads may not. After all, there are no golf outings for them to rub shoulders with other C-level guys. Fewer opportunities exist for them to deliver a rousing lecture about next quarter’s sales outlook. Gone is their chance to leverage their off-the-charts charisma to make an executive-level first physical impression for new employees. Corporate Chads have been relegated to working in the connected-but-disconnected world where, to my chagrin, my kids feel most comfortable.

Will a nerd rule in a remote work culture?

Chads might find it strange that my kids:

• Rarely communicate with friends outside of group chats
• Only try to impress each other by shooting meaningless selfies back-and-forth via SnapChat
• Find normal curiosity – like asking a teacher for clarity after class — a waste of their time
• Would rather perform a Google search than ask another human for assistance
• “Socialize” in the isolation of their rooms via gaming consoles with (mostly) strangers
• Place far more value on the result (i.e., the letter grade) than the process (learning a concept by understanding test materials)
• Have no idea of that the “it” factor is — only surmising that “it” must involve the number of followers one has on Instagram

Instead of lamenting my inability to mold my children into a Chad, maybe their nerd view of the world, way of communicating, and flexibility in handling a global pandemic will redefine the successful professional of the future.

Might this be a real life “Revenge of the Nerds”?

If there is existential risk for the traditional Chad, should parents stop badgering our kids about their lack of social skills? In a world that requires more technical prowess than intrapersonal skill, should we care about kids’ communicating via choppy texts, selfies and cartoon emojis?

While I see the balance of technical and social skills to be shifting, I’m not ready to write Chad’s eulogy just yet. I still place value on my kids’ ability to have healthy relationships with people around them. We shouldn’t take for granted that our kids know how to foster traditional friendships. They are not around each other much anymore. More than ever, I’m pushing hard for my children to stay involved in activities outside of school. After all, activities are the only time our children are without a connected device during their waking hours from middle school on.

I’m learning to turn my attention from building Chads to re-emphasizing the importance of befriending humans in the world of IBM Watson. I struggle, though, with helping provide appropriate balance between technology and social skills.

I want my kids to have good, deep friendships with people around them. I want my kids to navigate rooms of strangers. I want my kids to use technology to bring this vast world closer. I want them to be as happy in public arenas as in their bedroom sniping strangers on Fortnite.

I’ve come to the realization that my kids won’t be Chads. That might not be such a bad thing.

Maybe kids, in general, are nerdier now. That said, I’ll stop short of saying that nerd qualities – like perceived social isolation and lack of charisma – will prevent them from becoming a solid contributor in their chosen field of work. Our kids may be successful because of (not despite) the things we worry most about: lack of face-to-face connection, inability to speak publicly, and more interest in virtual relationships.

We are living in a “Revenge of the Nerds” re-boot – one making today’s nerd tomorrow’s Chad.

Nerd photo: © chomplearn_2001  / Adobe Stock.

I watch my nearly 16-year-old twin sons and their three- or four-hundred fellow students pour out the doors of the high school they attend. My mind goes back to my own high school days a very long time ago.

A lot is different. No backpacks back then or phones or cool sweatshirts or yoga pants or these damn masks, but much seems familiar. The laughing and flirting and cajoling and teasing; nice cars and beaters; happy kids, sullen kids. Couples holding hands, couples longing to hold hands. Kids with big instrument cases and large art portfolios and dangling lunch boxes and the like.

Sometimes, a teacher or the principal is outside wishing them well whether the students want well-wishing or not. It is one of those teachers that sends my mind back to my own school days in rural Ohio.

Mr. Funk (name changed, because, well, you know — unless I didn’t because Funk is such a great name) was our high school’s head football coach. He also taught, poorly, algebra or something. He always had an unlit cheap cigar in his mouth, using it more as a tobacco plug than something to be smoked. He was a better coach than he was a teacher. I liked him. He cussed better than anyone I’d met up until that point.

Many years after I left those halcyon halls, I attended a reunion and a few of the teachers were there. Mr. Funk and I got to talking. He recalled me quitting the varsity football team my senior year because I couldn’t be on the team and in the fall production of Our Town (in which I been cast as The Stage Manager, a choice role).

He said to me at the time, “Gimme one good goddamned reason why you want to do that the-A-ter crap and not play football for me this fall.” My answer, “There are girls there.” That pretty much shut him up. He turned away and slammed his office door.

He revealed to me at the reunion that he didn’t turn in anger. He thought my response  was very funny and didn’t want to laugh in front of me. “That was the best goddamned reason you could have given me,” he admitted.

He revealed something else that evening: that he was a veteran of World War II. He’d been a gunner in a tank company that fought across Europe and was a major factor in the Battle of the Bulge. In fact, he told me, many of my teachers, both men and women, were veterans.

I was gobsmacked. It simply hadn’t occurred to me. Mrs. Smith had flown bombers to England, Mr. Sharp was a Navy gunner, and so on. I had no idea.

I asked him why we never knew that. Mr. Funk said they were just doing their job, and, importantly, that they were all just civilians now, plain ol’ citizens.

As I watch those students streaming out the double doors today, I am struck with that notion: What I am looking at are citizens. What I am seeing are almost adults “doing their job” participating in a nation, parts of a grand scheme — as we all are. I know I am looking at engineers and designers, scientists and mechanics, doctors and teachers, lawyers and cooks, military personnel and carpenters — citizens all.

I hear the word “heroes” a lot these days, to the point where it almost devalues the word. It seems everyone is a hero. You know the list: front-line health care workers, grocery clerks, delivery drivers, law enforcement men and women, parents and so many more. But here’s the thing. I believe most of those folks would echo Mr. Funk. They are just doing their job.

And that, friends, is what I see every weekday as I wait in that lot. Citizens doing their job. These young men and women, and so many like them, go to school or work from home, and they get the job — the job that we expect of them as citizens — done. All this quarantining, the masking, the canceled shows and performances, the tournaments unattended, the first-grade art show and middle-school recorder recitals gone, for now, all of these things that make a school year a bit more tolerable are currently unavailable. And yet they, if you will, soldier on.

I am, sadly, aware of the struggles many children and young adults suffer these days. I know teen suicide rates are up as are eating disorders and dropout rates. Self-mutilation is on the rise. Depression and anxiety are affecting more kids than at any other time in the past. I know parents are facing incredible difficulties as well. Frankly, the whole situation sucks. I probably could have opened with this paragraph and painted a terribly tragic picture of the state of education in this pandemic age.

But, you know what, I deal in hope, and I have plenty of it. When we do what is asked of us as a citizenry — masking, hand washing, distancing and showing compassion to others — we win wars. We solve complex social problems. We feed the hungry. And, we beat pandemics. We harbor hope.

I’ve read more than one article about our kids in schools that elevates them to the status of heroes. I guess you could say that. But most heroes don’t feel they are that. Most feel they are just doing their job.

Finally, I’ll add this. When we get through this national crisis — and we will — we are going to have a crop of hardworking, problem solving, resilient young adults ready to take on the world. Citizens all, they will be ready to help this great country move forward in hope and compassion, in duty and honor. I see them every day. They’re great kids. They are our future and our greatest hope.

About the author

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Photo: ©ASDF / Adobe Stock.

EDITOR’S NOTE: City Dads Group is working with longtime partner Dove Men+Care to create “how to” videos for the grooming products company’s “Dads Care” campaign. We will be featuring the videos and scripts our members appear in. This one features Brandon Billinger and his son, William, discussing what to do when a parent is unemployed.

I have been laid-off twice, and it was a blow to my self-esteem. I felt like a failure to me, to my wife, and to my kids. It was one of the low points of my life. 

I knew that for my kids it would be difficult to understand the gravity of what just happened. Being unemployed would be a drastic change to their lifestyle as well as mine. Here are some tips to help make this conversation easier for you and to help your kids understand the changes in your family’s life. 

Kids like to talk. They will tell their friends and other that you lost your job. The key here is to wait before you have this conversation with your kids. Be sure to tell your inner circle so they are not blindsided by a comment your kid makes while playing with friends. This means it could be a couple of days until you are ready to tell your kids. By waiting to have the conversation, it will help you get your ducks in a row like filing for unemployment, starting a job search, and internal processing of what has happened to you.

When you do talk to your kids, the most difficult thing will be helping them understand how this change is going to affect them. For most kids, your job was just something you went to on a daily basis and they heard you talk about at the dinner table. For most, it isn’t something tangible. 

The biggest change for them will be in lifestyle. This could mean they stay home with you rather than go to daycare. The next thing to tell your kids, and quite possibly the hardest for them to understand, is that you might not be able to spend as much money as you used to. This may mean that those small purchases of a toy or a piece of candy may not be happening like they used to. 

Another part of the conversation that you will want to have is to let your kids know that you are going to ask more of them during this time. There are going to be times when you need them to be quiet as you take a phone call from a prospective employer. Or there will be an hour or two every day that you spend searching job boards. 

Let your kids know this change is only temporary and you will all come out better in the end because of this. 

The best part of this conversation that I would leave for last is to let your kids know that they will get to spend some more quality time with you. Being unemployed while raising kids might seem like a tall task but it’s a great opportunity for you and the kids to bond in ways that you weren’t able to before. It will also help your overall demeanor to spend that time with them. Get outside, go to a playground, go to a lake and go fishing, explore your city, play some video games with your kids. 

With these simple tips, talking to your kids about being unemployed will be a bit easier, more relatable for them, and leave you and your kids hopeful and more optimistic about the future. 

Photo: © alotofpeople / Adobe Stock.

These last few months have been quite possibly the most difficult that I have had to endure. I came home the day after being laid off wondering what the next chapter in my life would be. I wondered exactly how long would this latest stint as a laid-off father be?

My family and I have been through my unemployment twice before. We knew exactly what we had to do as a result. We knew for the next few weeks, months, possibly years, I’d first and foremost be a stay-at-home-dad.

Being unemployed wasn’t easy either time before. There I was laid off, treating my employment search as a 40-hour-a-week job. Spending most of my day huddled over a computer searching job boards. Refreshing every five minutes thinking that this time “the” job would appear. Scheduling phone interviews for the kids’ nap time so there wouldn’t be a screaming toddler in the background turning off a recruiter. Hoping someone would take a chance on me.

There were many days I would sit on the couch almost unwilling to engage with my 1-year-old because I was almost certain I would be getting the phone call that would change everything. I would break down in tears in the shower. I started to feel like a failure.

Avoid unemployment blues, stay positive

“Stay positive. It’s the one thing that will get you through this.”

That’s the comment my mother-in-law made to me the weekend after I first became a laid-off father. For some reason, it really hit home.

Eventually, something will come my way whether it was going to be weeks, months or years. That was easy for me to say, but another thing for me to really believe. I attempted to take anything as a potential sign of hope.

My advice: Wake up, take a shower, shave and get dressed as if you are going to work. Be as productive as you can be, looking for a job or tending to the home front. You may be sitting there waiting for the call that will change your career, but don’t treat every day like your future employer is going to ring your phone. Treat the day like you are going to do everything you possibly can do to receive that call, some day. All it takes is one interview for someone to recognize your potential.

But some days you are going to feel like a failure. There will be days you are going to get rejection after rejection. It’s going to feel worse than getting rejected from your junior high crush.

Family is Job One

My wife and I took the mindset that whatever will happen, will happen. There might be jobs out there that you feel like should have been yours, but maybe they didn’t happen for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as family-friendly as you would have hoped or the hours weren’t going to be as flexible as you thought or maybe the benefits weren’t quite what you would have hoped they would be.

On those days you get discouraged, remember there are people who do count on you. Every morning, every afternoon and every evening your family counts on you to provide for them and those things aren’t necessarily what can be bought with your take-home pay. You are at home either taking care of the kids or providing for their needs in other ways. So when you look at it, your paycheck just might look different than other people’s. Your paycheck is being able to be there for your family, at the drop of a hat if necessary, when something happens.

Finding work gets worse before get better

One thing I took away from the two times I was laid off before is that going to get worse before it gets better. You’ll wonder if you are going to be able to make it through the day without punching the wall. You are going to want to scream into the pillow, and there will be times you want to hide your tears from your family.

However, both times I was laid off before when things were looking their bleakest, I got the phone call saying I was hired. I was fighting with my wife. I started getting depressed. I felt like things were never going to get better. It felt like no one wanted me, and I was applying for jobs I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied with but would at least allow us to pay some bills. Then out of nowhere, my phone rings and I was offered the job.

So remember: If you are laid off, keep your head up. You aren’t in your job hunt alone. There are many of us who are or have have been in the same boat as you. You are going to turn it around. And who knows, you might even find out you like being that stay-at-home-dad and, if not now, then some day you’ll make it work with you staying at home.

A version of this first appeared on The Rookie Dad. Photo: © Paolese / Adobe Stock.

On the day this piece will be published, I’ll turn 40. I have a 5-year-old, a 3-year-old, and, wait for it, a post-vasectomy 4-month-old.

Yeah, it’s been that kind of year.

Or maybe it’s just been that kind of life?

I have no career. I have published zero novels, and despite having spent tens of thousands of dollars on college, I have zero college degrees. As far as banks are concerned, I own nothing. As far as history is concerned, I’ve accomplished nothing.

By now I was sure I’d be a successful novelist blasting around in Porsches, spending summers on Lake Tahoe and winters on the Gulf Coast. As I gracefully slipped into 40, I was certain my kids would be nearly graduated high school, well adjusted, and proud of their successful father. Instead, they are just learning how to read and potty train and one is barely able to put her hands in her drooling, toothless mouth.

Life, man. It does what it wants.

If I measure my life by a standard others may impose upon me, the above list of failures would be crippling. If I were to surrender to societal norms, I’d approach this imposing age milestone with regret and an excess of emotional baggage I’d drag to the Chevy dealership, hoping it’d fit into the trunk of the newest mid-engine ‘Vette.

Alas, no crisis for me. No wild spending. No illicit tryst. I enter 40 triumphant, confident and emboldened to experience life in its rawest forms.

Why? Because I’m a dad.

Being a dad is life’s real challenge. It’s pretty easy to procreate. Hell, I did it after I had a vasectomy. I even had a post-procedure infection that stole nearly a year of my life, almost killed me (I think), and then, after all that, I got my wife pregnant. During those moments when I went to sleep uncertain I’d ever wake up, only one thing was on my mind: my kids.

I didn’t lament the lack of book deals. I wasn’t annoyed I was driving a VW instead of a Porsche (most of the time). I never, not once, pondered any of the things a “successful man” must’ve surely accomplished by age 40. I only longed to see the sun again, so I could see the light reflected in my children’s eyes.

Dramatic? Yeah, a little.

True? Completely.

So go find one of your kids. Give them one of those potentially annoying dad hugs (bonus points if this is in front of their friends), dig your nose deep down into their hair, breathe deep, and cling to the moments that matter most.

Society is filled with those eager to point out what you lack, eager to laugh at your failures, and desperate to prove you don’t measure up. As the years pile on, these judgments increase. The pressures increase. The ways to measure yourself against others become limitless, but I encourage you dads to remove yourself from the destructive narrative that we all must follow the same path. Instead, follow the path that leads you to conclude being a good dad is life’s greatest achievement.

While I’m deeply satisfied by the abundance of unconditional love swirling around my home, I’m still hoping for that Porsche. Maybe by 50?

Hmm. By then, I’ll have a 15-, 13-, and 10-year-old. Maybe at 60.

Fatherhood path photo: ©candy1812 / Adobe Stock.