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.

That Tiffany song. You know the one. It played in sixth grade at my first school dance.

There I stood for the first time in close physical proximity to a female who didn’t birth me and in a way that would’ve said, “Hey there, beautiful,” if a chubby boy in a peach knit cardigan sweater and a regrettable volume of Drakkar Noir could have exuded such a brand of clumsy middle school pre-sexual energy.

These are not memories I reflect upon so often that they spill like spring rain from an overly saturated flower pot. These faint brush strokes and passing scents remain with me after a quarter century of neglect. So much new and good has come that there isn’t room for what won’t promote growth. Onward and upward. Everything else goes overboard.

This is awkwardness in retrospect, the opposite of nostalgia. I didn’t enjoy my grade school career, to put it bluntly. That first dance was a tidy microcosm of my school life. Mostly alone. Portly. Embarrassed, before I knew what meaning the word could hold. And with a girl who, rightfully, didn’t see me as a threat. It would be years before I’d realize this was the role of a lifetime.

My 10-year-old daughter has her first school dance this Friday evening, a sock hop with music from her grandparents’ heyday on the cutting-a-rug circuit. She’s over the moon with excitement, as am I, for her.

She’s said some kids are asking each other to the dance, less a date, from what I understand, as it is a ritual of accompaniment. No one wants to be alone. She has asked a friend, a girl, if she’d “go with her.” That’s great because none of the fifth graders will likely have full dance cards.

This dance will be charming in its formality. Bow ties will be straightened by moms who’ll find it damn near impossible to keep their hands from shaking long enough to capture a single clear iPhone photo to commemorate the night. Car doors will swing open and glittering silver-and-black shoes will clatter down the concrete walkway to the grade school gym while dads drive back home in cars emptied of their most precious cargo. I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.

As I write this, it is Tuesday afternoon. I sit here anxious for the 8 p.m. Friday pickup time to arrive. But not because I want my daughter to stop dancing. It’s because I cannot wait to listen as she puts her head on my shoulder and recounts the entire Technicolor evening in hi-def detail.

Those will be memories worth letting soak in for a quarter century or more.

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This blog post, which first appeared here in 2017, 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.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids. First dance photo: gsdsw via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA)

I am going through a long and sentimental (bordering on mawkish) ending of sorts. It involves a 20-year-old Coleman pop-up camper.

My wife and I bought it new just after we were married. This was well before we had the twins, well before I even dreamed that was on the horizon. It’s old and worn now, ravaged by time, memory, miles and many backyard sleepovers. I am trying to figure out what to do with it as it’s barely roadworthy.

We were so delightfully young and naive when we purchased it. For weeks we looked at floor plans, considering size and amenities, before finally deciding on a smaller one that could be towed by my six-cylinder Chevy S-10. A smaller size would also make backing it up easier. Truth be told, I suck at backing a trailer. This one proved small enough it actually be hand-pushed into a space when necessary. It never occurred to us we might be camping with twin toddlers or giant teenagers, so we based our needs on just us. It contained no toilet and an interior set up to accommodate just two newlyweds and a guitar.

The camper’s been in our backyard for some time now. The boys like to hang out in it as the WiFi reaches that far. I’ve got to put it down before … well, I can’t.

You see, when we bought the camper, I purchased a nice leather-bound journal. I put it in a drawer inside the camper and vowed to write a bit about every night spent in it. And I did. The writing is not very good, few metaphors or deep insights, but the years are covered, each trip dutifully noted. Through the pages, the boys grow up, I age, the relationship with my wife deepens and a continuity and connection is established. Over the years, it has held the stories and hopes of a young family growing together. Stories of thunderstorms and frightened toddlers, scraped knees and sleepless nights. Hopes for the future in the minds of 6-year-olds and my hopes for their lives moving forward.

I am very glad I bought that journal. It sits to my left as I am writing this right now.

I spent a couple of recent evenings in the old camper, looking through what was in it when I came across the journal. With a curious urgency — fueled perhaps by the beers — I put it with the pile of things to take into the house.

Here’s the thing. The “ending” of that old camper is a new “beginning” for that journal. It is done with its long present and now can begin to show me my past: a past where I hoped for my boys’ future. It is so strange how, as one writes in diaries and personal journals, how prescient we can be. There’s an entry from 2011, written of an early morning at a state park in central Ohio, where I say: “The boys are getting along surprisingly well. They rarely fight or bicker and are good friends, it seems. Who knows how long that’ll last, but I really hope it does.”

How could I know then that, nine years later, they’d still be best friends?

Or, that at the time I was watching the beginnings of what I think will be a lifelong friendship?

How, perhaps, would I know that camping and bonding in the close quarters of that little camper would help that along? Maybe I had helped it through sheer happenstance and in a leather-bound journal I’d noted it. Now I can look it up.

Recently, a fellow father and writer on this website purchased a used camper. He solicited advice from a social media group we are in. I typed a long answer — advice on gear and the such — but I deleted it. The real advice was too ethereal and came from a place I’m at now, a place he’ll get to, a place he already is. Camping, like so many other family adventures and hobbies, is about memory-making. Their worth can only be revealed later. However, at the time you’re making them, you still somehow know that even if you don’t realize it then.

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. Bill also coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

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This blog post, first published in 2020, 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.

Remember when you were a kid and every year on Thanksgiving your family would …

And on every July 4th you would …

Can you fill in the blanks?

I’m sure if you can’t for those holidays, there are others where you had a standing family tradition. You looked forward to it, and the holiday was not complete without it. Then you went through a stage in your teens where you rolled your eyes at this tradition.

As you look back on your childhood, it’s those traditions you remember. It’s those traditions that make you smile and form the picture in your mind when the holiday comes up. It’s those traditions you talk about with anyone who will listen.

There’s no secret formula to forming those traditions – at least none I’m aware of. Sure, repetition seems like a needed ingredient. Sprinkle in some loved ones and fun. And well, I think you have a tradition.

I believe our Thanksgiving tradition will remain memorable for my children. My wife has made dinner for her family ever since her father’s last Thanksgiving, and he passed away nearly 30 years ago. It’s the one holiday that we know where we’ll be and who we will be spending it with.

The family has another Thanksgiving tradition: naming the turkey. That’s right: while eating the bird, everyone is given a slip of paper and a pen. They write a name on the paper, fold it up, and drop it into a hat (when someone has not been able to make Thanksgiving dinner, they’ve texted). The names are read aloud, and a winner is selected based on crowd reaction. Last year’s winner was Num Num, named by our great niece (those were her only words at the time).

My wife spends Thanksgiving morning cooking and watching March of the Wooden Soldiers, and the boys and I go to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. This will be my oldest son’s seventh year of attendance and his brother’s third. We’ll point out our favorite floats, complain about the cold, and wish we were taller to get a better view.

But they love being in New York City.

They love taking the bus and train.

They love the snacks.

One day, my boys will be getting ready for Thanksgiving. Maybe they’ll be getting together for the holiday, like their mom and her sister. Maybe they’ll just be calling each other sometime during the day and sharing memories of naming the turkey, or trip to New York City. Either way, I’m happy and proud that we gave them this Thanksgiving tradition.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: mgstanton via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

A friend of mine from college was in town recently so we got together to catch up. Seeing him again was great because it brought back some great memories and encouraged me about today’s young people.

For the record, I feel I’m 90 years old when I write “today’s young people.” However, in this context it’s true. My friend’s son is in his senior year of high school. My kids are 3 and 5. I don’t feel like an “old” dad but, suddenly, having a good friend talking about his near-adult child made me feel weird.

Having a kid forces you to grow up immediately and become more mature. What would I have done had I become a father in my 20s rather than my mid-30s? I know lots of guys who became dads in their early 20s. It all worked out fine for them. But for me, it seems alien and out of place. Being a dad and, more importantly, being mature enough to parent responsibly is something I couldn’t even fathom until I was in my mid-30s.

My friend and I met for lunch at a fast-food restaurant with one of those attached playground rooms. He marveled that my sons were always by my side. They always wanted to be near me. They’d pop out of the playground room to ask questions, play peek-a-boo and generally be cute.

“One day, they just stop wanting to be with you all the time,” he said. “They get their license, get a group of friends and you’ll see them for dinner. Maybe.”

I peppered him with questions about raising older children. As his son is applying for college, I asked about that process. He was frank about the costs, how much he could cover and how much debt he’d have at the end of four years. It was shocking to realize that the total cost for four years of college for the two of us cost only slightly less than one year of college for his son.

But he also put some of my concerns at ease. Some things had changed for the better since we went to college. For starters, a rising freshman now has an idea of what to expect employment-wise from their proposed major. They know their job possibilities, where those employment opportunities are located and how much they’ll realistically earn after graduation. We never had an idea of how much money it takes to exist, make it, succeed or prosper in the real world. Believe me, had those information fields been filled in for me when I was in college, I would’ve gone after a more stable and profitable profession.

My friend went on to tell me about some of our school friends who now owned small businesses, were chefs, city planners and one who is a high-ranking explosives expert for a large state bureau of investigations. We marveled at how we all ended up in such a diverse arena of employment.

My friend had to start his drive home. He left me feeling that the kids who are going to college today aren’t going in as blind as their parents did back in the day. It was also a great reminder that no matter how annoying, tiring, messy, repetitive and frustrating small children can be; a day will come when I’m not as cool to them as I am now.

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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.

A version of this first appeared on Daddy Mojo and ran here in 2015. It has since been updated. Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net

The best fatherly advice I received before we had our son was so simple and straightforward that it’s the only tip that stood out among the clichés most people offered me.

The advice?

“Just be there.” 

As simple as it sounds, the decision to consciously be present with your children goes deep. Just think back to your favorite memories of your parents. Do you remember the toy you opened on your seventh Christmas? Or the present you got for your 14th birthday? I highly doubt it.

But I’d bet you remember playing basketball with your dad. Or putting a puzzle together with your mom. What about playing video games with an uncle? Or cooking with your grandmother. Do you remember the connection you felt when you played a board game with your entire family? Even though my dad sucked at basketball and my mom always cheated at board games those are my favorite childhood memories and why I have a strong bond with my family.

This is why I didn’t mind quitting my job and becoming a stay-at-home dad. And if you’re an at-home dad I’m assuming you probably feel the same way. You want to be a part of your children’s life. You want to have that connection. It’s easy to be present like this when your kids are babies because you’re holding them or playing with them most of the day.

But as they grow older, they become more independent and it becomes too easy to start letting distractions come between you and your children. Distractions like email, chores, Netflix, Facebook, YouTube, exhaustion, smartphones, errands, Threads, Instagram, video games … did I say Netflix?

These are my main offenders at least. They plot against my relationship with my son and slowly try to drive a wedge between us. But I found that if I stand up to them and keep my relationship with my kids in mind, they’re weak enemies.

What’s my solution to be present more often? As often as we can, my wife and I take an hour and turn off all of the electronics in the home, especially smartphones. We use this time to play with blocks or toy soldiers, draw, paint, paste, build, role play, go for a walk, bike ride, go to the park, or do anything that involves us connecting. This one-on-one time is so important to your child’s development and it’s something you don’t want to leave out of your relationship with your kids.

Why is it important? Because one day they’ll be … teenagers! 

OK, everybody calm down, you can stop crying now.

I know you don’t want to think about it now, especially you guys out there with a little princess to protect. However, laying the groundwork by being present now is important. It helps build a solid foundation for your relationship with your children. You’ll want that when the tween and teen years arrive because you will want them to trust you enough so they can talk to you. That talk may be about drugs, alcohol or sex. It may be about bullying or sadness they are experiencing. It may just be about how their day went.

Now that you’re done reading this distraction, turn off your electronics and go find your kids. It’s time you did something together.

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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.

This post first appeared on the Chicago Dads Group blog in 2015. It has since been updated. Photo by Ketut Subiyanto via Pexels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voluntary evacuation not an easy decision

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

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

It was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly prepared for hurricane

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

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

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

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

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

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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 George Desipris via Pexels.

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.

Of all the words you could’ve used to describe my life before marriage and kids, “routine” would not be one of them.

With no real responsibilities other than work a decade ago, I never really knew what my day would hold from one day to the next. I came and went as I pleased. It was the life – at the time, of course.

But fatherhood changes things. It’s transformative. And those changes can be a rude awakening if you’re not prepared or equipped to deal with them. 

Friday night lights out

I think back to just a few Fridays ago. I was hanging out on the couch in the evening, decompressing after a long week. The kids were asleep and my wife was upstairs watching one of her shows. Alone I sat, aimlessly flipping channels and scrolling on my phone. Looking at my contacts, it quickly became apparent that most of my friends who I would consider sending a “what’s the move?” text to in the same boat as me – parents worn out from the week and not willing or able to get out and do anything.

So just as the story goes for most Friday evenings these days, that night ended with me falling asleep while watching TV. A thrilling turn of events. 

That’s my routine now. A life that was once free-flowing and spontaneous, is now structured and predictable, with little-to-no wiggle room. From school and daycare pick-up and drop-offs, to weekend activities, to bedtime routines, the look and feel of my days as a dad rarely changes. I know what needs to be done and when. Rinse and repeat. 

Accept today’s routine, change is coming fast  

While having a routine and structure can be tedious, it’s ideal for how I’ve chosen to approach fatherhood. My kids are 5 and 2 so stability and consistency is vital to their development at this stage of life. Their routine has pretty much been their norm since birth and it keeps things somewhat in order. For me, however, it has been and still is at times tough to accept.

For all its joys and rewards, dealing with the lifestyle changes that come with fatherhood is tough. I’ve struggled with the loss of my “old life.” I’ve longed for just one weekend where my responsibilities could be put on the shelf so I could go to happy hour. Or just hang out with my friends. Or maybe play a round of golf.

Don’t get me wrong, I do get out and have fun here and there. But the “heres and theres” are few and far between. The routine of fatherhood is where I am now. I’ve come to accept that, even though I’m surrounded by energetic little people, the loneliness I feel navigating through the day-to-day routine is just for a season. Kids grow up. Their needs and demands of you will change until one day it will pass.

But for now, I’ll keep checking my Google Calendar daily to make sure I know where the kids need to be, and when.

Tips for breaking out of a parenting rut

If the routine of parenting is running you down, first realize that you are not alone. Then do something about it. Here are some helpful tips from online parenting experts about practicing self-care and changing things up:

• Schedule a date night with your spouse/partner. Hire a sitter and take a night every few weeks to have a quiet dinner out or catch a movie or a concert.
• Find time to decompress every day. Whether it’s five minutes of peaceful meditation, a walk around the block or a cup of coffee in a corner cafe, take a break for some quick relaxation.
• Join a parenting support group. Whether online or in real life, there’s a like-minded group of moms and dads to commiserate with and draw strength and support from. Dads can find a local City Dads Group, join the The National At-Home Dad Network or one of Fathering Together’s popular Facebook groups.

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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: © globalmoments / Adobe Stock.

You know when you’re innocently talking to a child and they open a whole new avenue from where you were planning on going with the conversation? I related it to America’s road system.

Sometimes it’s a simple cul-de-sac. The conversation goes round and round. Other times, it takes a “merging on to the highway” warp-speed jump from innocent to “hold me tightly, I need a moment.” This recent talk with one of my sons about where babies come from combines the two types of streets.

We were on a Georgia highway. My son was talking about some of his friends who were going to or had just returned from Walt Disney World. I reminded him he was there three years ago, but that carried very little street cred to a 5-year-old.

I tried steering the conversation another way.

“You know, Daddy used to work at Walt Disney World,” I said.

“Was Mommy a baby back then?”

For the record, I am older than my wife, but it is nowhere near that kind of age difference.

“No, that was before I met Mommy,” I said.

“Was I a baby then?”

“No …”

“Was Charlie a baby then?”

“No … he …”

“Daddy, where do babies come from,” said the 5-year-old who had just been talking about Mickey Mouse and Goofy.

“Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much they’ll have a baby. It’s important to have that because …,” I started to say before he cut me off.

“No, I mean how are they made?”

Is it time for the ‘birds and bees talk’ already?

Well, here is where our ever-expanding cul-de-sac of a conversation veered onto an on-ramp and started to rev up. My son is very detail-oriented, always wanting to know “why” and “how” things happen. I knew what he meant and thought for a moment about how to respond.

“It’s like chemistry,” I clumsily started. “Daddies have a special chemical that they combine with chemicals that mommies have — and that is what makes a baby.” As you can see, my initial foray into sex education went over swimmingly.

Right after I said that last word I knew it sounded odd and inauthentic. In my mind, I thought about telling him about how willies work with girls’ private parts, the pregnancy, doula, placenta, birth canal and epidural. But I was tired, driving and frustrated with myself for stumbling over the initial answer.

I need an off-ramp from this conversation and the closest thing was a golf range.

“Cool, check out that golf range,” I said.

“Daddy, we’ve seen that before. It’s right next to the video game place,” he said with all of the smarm and know-it-all-ness a 5-year-old could muster.

Then he went on to talk about something else.

That topic escapes me. I know that it wasn’t about reproduction. Since that trip, my wife and I have sorted out what he should call his private parts and we planned a basic overview of how to address the “where do babies come from” talk. I certainly didn’t expect to start this conversation when he was 5, though.

A friend of mine had their 6-year-old ask them what sodomy was. He was listening to the news and the child heard a new word he didn’t know. I guess my wife and I should prepare talking points for that possible query another time.

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A version of Where Babies Come From first appeared on Daddy Mojo and then on this blog in 2015. It has since been updated. Photo: ©New Africa / Adobe Stock.

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.