If “Born in the USA” has taught us anything, it’s that people will cheerfully blare any song with a catchy beat regardless of the incongruously depressing lyrics. These days every store you walk into is legally required to play Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” at least once an hour. Tucked into that ditty about holiday cheer is this little chestnut:

There’ll be scary ghost stories
and tales of the glories
Of Christmases long, long ago

Wait – what?

Scary ghost stories? Scary Christmas ghost stories!?

On the surface, it seems like a lyric a few months past its Halloween expiration date. But scratch the tinseled surface and Christmas has some weird undertones.

What’s so jolly about a young, panicked woman giving birth in a filthy stable in the dead of night? Or an immortal being who breaks into houses and whose omnipresent gaze is fixed on your every move? Watching. Judging.

Life’s ghosts don’t take a Christmas vacation, and hardships don’t plan around your holiday calendar. So as I sat with my mother in hospice, two days before Christmas a few years back, it was hard not to notice the almost purgatorial nature of her room. At the nurse’s station outside, people flitted by – chatting next to holiday décor. In her room, it was dark and still. There was no longer the need for the expensive machines she had been hooked to for the past 10 months. No beeping or dinging. Just her shallow breath and closed eyes.

Ours had always been a difficult relationship. She was what some would describe as a “formidable woman.” Her superpower was bending reality to justify her actions. On the rare occasion where she owned up to being in the wrong, she would happily tell you why it was really someone else’s fault. Likely yours.

Becoming a father put into relief how differently we were wired. My journey into parenthood has taught me the value of self-reflection – examining why I am where I am, what I’m feeling, and what lessons I have learned. And how am I going to impart that to the two malleable humans who are always learning from me, whether I want them to or not? It’s a rich and rewarding road, but the tradeoff is it doesn’t end until you do. There’s no finish line. And you never get to fold your arms and say, “So there. Checkmate.” Reflection versus justification. My mother and I simply had different approaches to life.

But, oh, how she was loyal. I knew she would pitch a tent and just live in that room if the tables were turned. If half of life is showing up, she showed up – even if you didn’t realize you needed someone there. That’s also how she was wired. I admired that. I wanted to be that kind of person. And she brought me into this world. She deserved someone to stand sentry as her body prepared to leave it. The someone should be me.

Hours later, my thoughts turned to another family. The one I chose to build with the woman I love. A year of managing my mother’s illness had taken me away from them so often – missing moments big and small. They deserved my showing up as well, especially at Christmas. In the dark, I gathered my things and stood over her and said the last words I hoped she would hear. “I love you. … Goodbye.” And I left

The next morning my phone rang. It was the hospice. At 7:30 a.m. On Christmas Eve. They weren’t calling to discuss paperwork.

Christmas Day, my wife and I had to sit down our 6-year-old and tell her grandma died. She had known pets who had passed on, and over the year I kept her up to date as best I could on what was going on with her grandmother, even though she might not make it. All this she handled with surprising grace. But the end hit her hard. Amid the debris of wrapping paper and toys, I held my crying daughter and told her all the things I had researched to say. I spoke honestly about how special their relationship was. We would make a memory book of all the fun times they shared. I also could see her telling a future therapist, “I think it all started when I was 6 and my dad interrupted Christmas to tell me THAT MY FRIGGIN’ GRANDMOTHER WAS DEAD.”

I’ll give my mother this much, she had a flair for the dramatic. Every Christmas Eve from now on I’ll be haunted by her ghost, like Jacob Marley visiting Scrooge. As for my daughter, well, we’ve all changed in this last year. Kids are strong and resilient all right, but you can’t just say that with a shrug and go get a snack. There’ll be checking in, talking, listening, observing. As I said, no finish line.

If you want Christmas “tales of the glories,” you’ll have to take the Christmas “ghost stories.” That’s what relationships leave you with – even at this time of year. Especially at this time of year. Whenever we can celebrate the holidays with people and music again, you’re likely to be visited by a ghost or two as everyone is swaying to a favorite seasonal tune – be it traditional or hip. And if someone is wondering why you aren’t moved like they are, just give them this sage response: “Well, because, I’m listening to the words.”

Christmas ghost stories of photo by © RK1919 / Adobe Stock.

When COVID-19 hit in March, I had to assume caring for Mr. Pre-School and teaching Ms. First Grade. About two days in I thought to myself, “OK, I think I got the hang of this. Put in a solid day’s work. Maybe start dinner soon. But lemme just rest my weary bones, after all it’s … 1:24 p.m.!?!?!!”

I realized at that moment that I faced the very real possibility that if the virus didn’t kill me, being the sole parental/educational figure in each of their lives would.

To get through the day after having these COVID sleep issues, I had to find the fuel, and my personal options are limited. Coffee is a mirage for me – too many times I’ve been lured in by its pleasant aroma only to be burned by its rancid taste. Usually my morning caffeine intake consists of Diet Coke (because if I refuse to change some college habits because that means I’m still young) and tea (because I am a fancy man). Turns out, I had to hit myself with that one-two punch multiple times a day to make it through. At first the only side effect was peeing so much that even pregnant women were like “Damn, son, you’ve got a thimble for a bladder.” But at least I was getting in my steps going to and from the can.

Over time I noticed my sleep habits started to resemble that of a farmer. Where my night once had not been complete until I had caught a little late night TV, I was now eyeing the clock at 8:45, trying to calculate how much longer I had to hang in there before I could begin getting ready for my own beddy-bye. All in all, it’s pretty humiliating. I already have reading glasses, I don’t need this.

On the flip side, I found myself getting up earlier and earlier. These days I am clocking in well before the sun even considers rising. And know what? I LOVE IT!

There’s no yelling, whining or screaming. I don’t have to make sure any one is doing schoolwork. There’s no need to oversee what anyone is ingesting or excreting. Most of the time I just bask in the dark and silence of my personal sensory deprivation tank.

So, what gives?

COVID sleep problems common

An informal survey of random parents (i.e., people I know) reveals that there is a lot of this going around. The morning people among us have described their pre-dawn rising to a phenomenon scientifically known as “the only goddamn time I ever get to myself.” The night owls posit that staying up till two or three in the morning is “the only goddamn time I can get anything done.” For this latter group of moms and dads, it helps to have older kids who are (allegedly) self-sufficient enough to get themselves up and fed in the morning or a priceless spouse/partner who can handle the morning routine while you sleep in (hi, honey!). Everyone agrees that between kids and work, they are drained whenever it is they get to sleep.

Is this bad? Not necessarily. As someone with apnea, I have my very own sleep doctor (not to be confused with this sleep doctor) and the generally held belief is that the pandemic has knocked everyone’s schedules off kilter. If you are getting seven to nine hours a night of restful shuteye, you are ahead of the game. Once enough people get vaccinated in this country (within the next 15 years at this rate) your lifestyle will get back to what it was and so will your body’s internal clock.

But if you’re not …

Then it’s time to talk, to put down this blog and see a doctor. COVID-related sleep issues such as anxiety is a very real thing with very real consequences – up to and including your physical and emotional health. Insomnia, alcohol/substance abuse, and nightmares when you finally do manage to go down are just part of it. Let’s face it, if you’re on this site you have other people in your life who need you to be sharp. So talk to your physician, do some relaxation exercises, and get some rest.

Then you can tell me all about how you hadn’t noticed how much this stupid virus kept you sleep-deprived, and how great you feel now. Just not over a cup of coffee.

COVID sleep anxiety photo: © dream@do / Adobe Stock.

Others can give you a more riveting account of that day. What they saw. What they felt. What they smelled. 

Stories that are breath-taking and heartbreaking in the same sentence. Someone living out a surreal real-life action movie.

Nothing extraordinary happened to me that day – Sept. 11, 2001. I was just one of the millions of spectators. But as I cut through Union Square in Manhattan on my way to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village to give blood, I do recall one lightning bolt of a thought flash across my mind.

There is no way I’m bringing a child into this world.

I was 25, single, and under no threat of the ladies forming an ovulation line at my doorstep at any point in the near future.  But the sentiment was there. Fuck this place and everyone in it. What’s the point of building anything – of trying – if the worst, most reckless impulses of this species can wipe it away in the blink of an eye.

And I’m not just talking about the terrorists. Shortly after 9/11, a store on my block covered their window with a huge sign that read “NUKE THEM ALL.” It was still there when I moved away nine months later. For all I know that sign is still there today. The person who put it up probably has a Cabinet position now. I could see where 21st century America was headed. 

Twelve years later, my wife and I brought our first child into the world. So, what changed? 

It’s human nature to be defiant. We’re hard wired for it. Here I am writing this and here you are reading it. We’re both products of millennia of defiance. Ancestors who faced famine, war, disease, persecution. People with less resources at their disposal than you or I. And yet they soldiered on. They held a tiny baby in their arms – your great-great-great-great-whatever – and made a bet that things would get better. Diseases would be cured, famines would pass, education be acquired, representative government truly attained. Maybe not in their lifetime, but sometime. Maybe even in a far off and distant land. 

What can I say? I’m a product of people who took a chance that things will get better. So are you. So are we all. 

I had the same thoughts on 11/9/16 that I did on 9/11/01. And I had more skin in the game to boot, with a wife and daughter. What made it worse, was that this time America did it to itself. I’ll be honest, if I see the wrong headline at the wrong time, I wonder if I did the right thing bringing life into the world. It’s easy for despair to get a toehold.  

And yet, almost a year to the day later, we welcomed our son into the world.

Irish playwright Samuel Beckett once wrote, “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” Is the damage done this century to our society, our environment, our world irreparable? I don’t have a crystal ball – but I’ve got two bets on the future that says it’s not.  

Photo by Jason Greene

My wife had her college reunion this past Father’s Day weekend, so we packed up the car (well, “a” car – as proper city folk, we don’t own one) and headed to New Hampshire for three days: her, me and our children, ages 4 and 7 months.

Going anywhere for more than three hours with two small kids is like moving an army. And, while I love my family, I hate travelling with them. It’s laborious, expensive and you’re always “on,” especially me this particular weekend as my wife caught up with all her old friends. You’ll be happy to know she had a blast. Me? While I was happy to work overtime caring for the kids so she could relive her college years, I was a little uncomfortable in my own skin.

Here’s the thing: I’m a stay-at-home dad, or as the acronym goes, a SAHD. (Good luck not saying that in a Trump voice: “He takes care of the kids all day. SAHD!”) Culturally, it’s still not something seen as a “manly” thing to do. Just ask my parents!

I’m kidding, of course. You don’t have to ask. They’ll simply tell you along with how much money they spent on my education.

Yet, being a stay-at-home father has been by far the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done with my life. The only thing I don’t like about it is telling other people that’s what I am.

Whenever I’m at a dinner or a cocktail party, I live in dread of the question, “So what do you do?” and then seeing the people’s reactions after I tell them. The clipped “hmm”s. The too quick and slightly over the top “Oh, that’s greaaat” like they’re talking to a preschooler showing them his or her latest crayon scribbles. The realization on their faces that there is no shop to talk, no professional connections to make, that they have no further use for you. And that’s on a good day.

Now imagine doing that for an entire weekend with a bunch of Type A Ivy Leaguers (she went to Dartmouth). I’d rather have been at a cockfight. And been the losing rooster.

Weird side note: You know who DID really want to be there? Alex Azar. He’s President Trump’s secretary of health and human services. He managed to get a few days off from work just for this. Probably did it like this: “Sorry, boss, you know how I love serving the health of humans, and I know we’re currently in the midst of this country’s greatest humanitarian crisis in a decade, and arguably it’s biggest ethical crisis in generations — but all the guys from Delta House are gonna be there. And I got a feeling this is the year I win the Best Polo Shirt Tucked Into Shorts Contest. See ya Monday!” I wish I wanted anything as much as he wanted to go to that reunion.

But the hang ups are mine. This wasn’t exactly how I drew it up when I planned out my life. I imagine many a stay-at-home father feels this way. I wanted a career. For heads to turn when I walked into a room. Something to brag about. And I still may have that someday. My story isn’t over.

For now though, I’ll just have to settle for raising the two most precious things in my existence. Not a bad trade. And if Tad the High Powered Banker has no use for me, there’s always someone else he can schmooze with. Hey, have you met Alex? Yeah, with the tucked in Polo shirt.

I don’t mean to make it sound like the reunion weekend was a terrible time. Folks there were all very nice. It was heartwarming to see how many of them were thrilled to see my wife, and that her awesomeness is not lost on other people. And any time spent with my kids is time well spent, despite my occasional complaints about being an at-home father. The highlight was sitting on campus with my daughter, who stood up and announced that she wanted to take a walk. When I asked where we were going, she said, “Nah, that’s OK. I’ll just go by myself.” Her independence and confidence filled me with such joy pride that I couldn’t help but laugh. We’ll see if I still feel that way in 14 years.

One last thing. Father’s Day wasn’t a complete bust. I got a very unique gift on the drive home – my first-ever speeding ticket.

At-home father photo: Picsea on Unsplash

I’m not really sure what I was expecting.

When our daughter became old enough to watch TV – or should I say, when we threw up our hands and said “To hell with it. Watch this. We’ve got stuff to do.” – Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood was a welcome gateway to the small screen.

I probably don’t need to tell you, a fellow parent, about Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood positive life lessons, the nostalgic link it has for our generation back to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, or the fact that Teacher Harriet sounds like she smokes a daily pack of unfiltered Marlboro Reds. So when I saw that Daniel Tiger Live would be coming to the Kings Theatre in Brooklyn, it seemed like the perfect way to introduce my now 4-year-old to her first theatrical experience. (Not to mention, but I will, that I was stoked to see the newly refurbished theater with its French baroque architecture and location not far from where my dad grew up. Sure, I thought the first time I would check out this joint would be to see Death Cab for Cutie or Tori Amos — don’t judge me — but such is the parenting life.)

More importantly, I was curious what would my daughter’s reaction be to the experience. I fell in love with live theater when I was a freshman at Xavier High School in Brooklyn. We did a production of Oliver! (yes, the exclamation point is part of the trademarked title. I checked), and our dress rehearsal was performed for kids from the Foundling Home around the corner. Being a naïve dipshit, I assumed these kids would be a”bad audience” – talking, jeering, you name it. You’re going to find this hard to believe, but 15-year-old me was wrong. The kids were enthralled, one of the best audiences I’ve ever performed for. Turns out kids from broken homes who’ve known a lot of struggle in their short lives really connect with the story of an orphan struggling to find his place in the world.

On the subway to the Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood show that night, I reflected on the power of the unique human habit of gathering in groups to tell and listen to stories – how they give us a different perspective on the human experience, the ways they interconnect us, or sometimes just give us a much needed break for a few hours.

So would seeing Daniel Tiger Live mean my daughter would grow to love the theater as I do? Would this be her first step into a larger world? Would this be the first of many times we go to shows or concerts together? One day, will she drag me to see some boy band that will make One Direction seem like The Pixies?

As the lights went down these thoughts raced through my head. And then, this one did too:

“SHE’S FOUR! Let her just watch the damn show and enjoy herself.”

Not everything done for the first time needs to be a magical experience. As a parent, sometimes it’s good to remember to just take a deep breath, relax and let the kid have her fun.

Two things I took away from this event are:

1. Definitely check out the Kings Theatre. It is truly a thing of beauty. Plus the décor itself could class anything up. Seriously, put The Jerry Springer Show there and you could probably get the Times to come review it. They also served alcohol, which was a mercy for a lot of parents. Not me, I was parenting solo, and while I would never drink to the point of inebriation around her it was pretty chaotic in there and there was a fear that if we got separated for a second, she could get lost. Plus, it would be pretty bad optics if I tell the police “yeah, I don’t know happened officer. I turned around and my kid was gone” (sips gin and tonic).
2. Kudos to the woke casting in the live version of  Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. The character of King Friday is white on the show but was played by an African-American actor, making this the second piece of pop culture I’ve seen this year featuring a benevolent black monarch (Wakanda forever!).

I guess there’s a third thing. If you’re wondering how she liked it, she was rapt with attention the entire time. Occasionally, though, she leaned over and gave my arm the biggest hug. So, all in all, something definitely clicked in her.

Of course, now she wants me to take her to Bubble Guppies Live. I may need a drink for that one.

We were walking home from church one Sunday. My eight-month pregnant wife started telling me about some woman at her company who had a C-section and told the doctor to tie her tubes while he was at it.

I was only half-listening, half-watching our 4-year-old daughter play hopscotch with the cracks on the sidewalk. Suddenly, I heard, “Well, one of us should get something like that done.”

Then she gave me a “you’re up, buddy” pat on the back.

That’s how I learned I was getting a vasectomy.

To be fair, there wasn’t a whole lot to discuss. Like most New Yorkers, the joy of finding out we were having another child soon gave way to “Um, where are we going to put this thing? And how are we going to pay for everything it needs?” (Answer: Make it up as we go).

We already had a mutual understanding that two kids would be all we could handle. Still, some mental hurdles had to be cleared. There’s a difference between “I prefer not to” and “biologically impossible.” A vas difference. (Dad humor badge unlocked!) When people in white coats start throwing around terms like “unwanted fertility” and “sterilization consent,” the idea of using condoms no longer seems like such a hassle.

The more I thought about it, though, the more it made sense. We’re in our 40s. Even if we had more money than we knew what to do with and more space than we’d ever need, the fact was that at some point the risks of something going wrong are too much of a gamble. Down syndrome, birth defects, miscarriage – you name it, the odds of it happening get exponentially higher for a pregnant woman in her 40s.

Besides, pregnancy No. 2 wasn’t as smooth as No. 1. My wife’s abdominal wall separated, which is as pleasant as it sounds. A few weeks later, we discovered by accident that the baby had a heart condition which required an emergency C-section. Our son would spend his first 10 days in the NICU. (He’s fine.) Another pregnancy would bring even greater risks, and frankly, she had done enough. The time had come to take one for the team. A team, I might add, that wouldn’t exist without her. When I think about it, my only regret is that she and I didn’t meet earlier in life. But I guess that’s better than never meeting at all.

Your vasectomy may vary from mine

If you’re curious, the vasectomy process is pretty straight forward unless you go to Dr. Nick from The Simpsons or something. My urologist did have a weird habit of explaining crucial details while he was handling my scrotum the way the rest of us would test an avocado to see if it was ripe or needed another day (“Sorry, Doc, I’m going to need you to go over that again. My focus was … elsewhere”).

Due to having an undescended testicle removed, I only have one in operation (potent as it may be), and it rides high, so I had to go to the OR to have the surgery. In most cases, however, you can have a vasectomy done in a urologist’s office. The most uncomfortable thing was the “cold wash” they give you on the operating table.  They’re not kidding around with that. It felt like it was zero degrees Kelvin. My manhood was trying to shrivel up and hide like a cat sensing a thunderstorm.

But then … it was over. They were wheeling me to the recovery room and that was that.

The bounce back was OK, too – just follow medical advice. I was up and walking around inside of 45 minutes. Icing and Tylenol take care of most discomfort. Just avoid lifting/strenuous activity for two weeks — say, during March Madness if you time it right — and you’re set.

As I was getting ready to leave the nurse casually said, “Oh, you might have some blood in your ejaculate for a few days.” Forget an angry deity, that’s a great way to stop boys from masturbating. Alas, it wasn’t something that came to pass for me.

My wife picked me up from the hospital and we took a cab home. As fate would have it, it was Valentine’s Day. Some guys get chocolates for their ladies, I made sure she would never get pregnant again. Needless to say, we were staying in that night. Being the cook of the house, we were also ordering in. As the four of us sat down for dinner, I took stock of the woman I married, and the two children we had created. In the middle of the kitchen table sat a vase. The roses I had gotten her were in full bloom.

So was our family.