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.

I’ve discussed at length turning 40, in writing and in various conversations with friends. I’ve talked about what it means from a physical and mental standpoint, where I am now versus where I thought I would be, and the reality of how this age has been so far compared to what I thought it would be when I was much younger.

Nearly two years in, it’s been great. I feel good — aside from the occasional aches, pains and concerns that come in this season of life. OK, overall it hasn’t been that bad.

For those of us in our 40s, we have spent the better part of two decades or so getting acclimated to the information age. Social media allows us to connect with others, learn, and debate about various topics every second of every day. It also gives us a glimpse into the lives of our peers. We learn of their struggles, their highlights, and whatever they carefully curate to share with us on their respective timelines.

With that, one thing has stood out of late. It seems every time I log on to social media, someone in my age range is dealing with some life-altering event. A parent has passed. A separation has started or a marriage has ended. An illness has struck. These always remind me that we have to enjoy life as much as possible because things can change in an instant.

Big questions to ponder, answer as we age

As a dad, when I see these updates from friends and family, it can’t help but make me think of my own mortality. This is the “dark side” of being in your 40s. Real-life issues and concerns weigh on you more than ever before, especially when kids are involved.

If something were to happen to me tomorrow, would my kids be OK?

Am I doing enough to prepare my kids for a successful future, with or without me?

Are my affairs in order?

I should be thinking about these questions anyway, but they sound louder and more urgent when I learn about the bad news of others. It makes me look in the mirror.

The irony for me is that, in dealing with my own aging parents, I’ve been trying to have these conversations with my mom and dad. It’s uncomfortable for sure, but necessary. However, because those talks to date have not been as productive as I would like, it’s given me more incentive to make sure I’m doing right by my children now. I want to make sure that when my time comes, whenever that may be, the process will be as stress-free as possible for them. Why? Because we’ve all seen online when families aren’t prepared for life’s twists and turns. The GoFundMes pop up, along with the venting, and much of it can be prevented by proper planning.

I try to lead by example to make sure my son and daughter understand the value of preparation. We should always hope and pray for the best, but prepare for the worst. My prayer in my 40s is to live a long, healthy life to be there for my kids. But if my story has an unexpected ending, it’s my responsibility to make sure they have the tools needed to finish their own book.

How to prepare for life-altering family events

Here is some suggested reading to help start you on readying your children and family when life throws you curves:

• 11 life skills you should teach your child (Very Well)
• 65 life skills to teach kids at every age (Mommy Poppins)
• Teach masculinity to sons with positive, healthy examples (City Dads)
• Saving for college: Educate yourself on these 3 main methods (City Dads)
• How to write a will when you have children (WikiHow)
• Tips for estate planning conversations (Fidelity Investments)
• Living trusts vs living wills (MetLife)
• Children and divorce (HelpGuide.org)

Prepare photo by cottonbro studio via Pexels.

People often ask me about the big age gap between my second and third child. The five-and-a-half-year difference makes people wonder why we began our journey through babyhood once again. When asked, I usually smile and say simply, “The timing was right.”

The truth is there wasn’t supposed to be such a big gap. Several miscarriages lead to the huge age difference.

How it started

One morning, the rain poured outside as I walked down the stairs into the basement. A good foot of water welcomed me. As I stepped into it, I realized it wasn’t just water. Our sewer line had backed up into the basement. Our upstairs neighbor called a plumber, but they couldn’t come until late that evening. So from 9 a.m. until then, I carried buckets of sewage out our backdoor and dumped it into our backyard. I yelled and even cried with exhaustion as I fought a losing battle with the rising water.

Then my wife walked into the basement. She hugged my sweaty, tired body, and said, “We’re going to have another baby.”

Suddenly, I didn’t care about the basement anymore; I just wanted to hug my wife. We smiled and kissed. She asked if I was happy and, with raw sewage dripping from my pants and shoes, I said I was. Very happy.

Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to meet the source of the happiness. We had a miscarriage. It turned out to be the first of several.

‘The silence was backbreaking‘

My wife told me she was miscarrying as she laid on our bed. My stomach dropped. I felt like thousands of pounds were upon my back. It was still morning, so I got the kids dressed, fed, and off to school. I returned to my wife, who was still in the same position. I didn’t say anything and neither did she. We just occupied the same room for a little while. She didn’t want to talk and I’m not sure if I wanted her to. But the silence was backbreaking.

I think I muttered a few words. She may have muttered something back. Nothing real was said. Just murmurings. I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn’t.

Deep inside, I wanted to be comforted, too. But I couldn’t be and I couldn’t ask anyone to. She took a little nap and I left the room. I sat down on the couch with my hands covering my face and wept.

In the days and weeks that followed, we didn’t talk that much about it.

I think we both wanted to forget and, by not talking about it, we thought we could. We hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy yet so nobody knew. There was nobody to give that sympathetic look. There was nobody for us to talk to. We were alone in our sorrow and we weren’t necessarily talking about it together. So I stuffed it into that place in a man’s soul where things are stored and never let out again.

My wife told me a few months later that she was pregnant again. But, only a few weeks later, that too ended in miscarriage. Two miscarriages in less than six months.

Putting up my guard

When my wife told me that we were expecting once again, I put up a guard. As the baby grew inside my wife, I refused to let myself get too attached. I didn’t want the ultimate disappointment to happen again. I’d go along with my wife for check-ups and ultrasounds, but I continued to wait for and expect bad news. When she was pregnant with our other children, I would stare at the ultrasound pictures and dream of their future in wonder. This time, I barely looked. Every day I battled to put on the face of the supportive husband, but inside I just couldn’t let myself get close.

When our baby entered the world, I finally exhaled. Everything that built up inside of me over the years had been released. There was a beautiful and perfect little boy in my arms and I once again felt joy. The barrier of speaking to my wife about the past miscarriages was gone. And we finally felt like we could talk about the experience with other people.

There are days though that I still can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have four or five children, instead of three. I always wanted a lot of kids and dreamed of a house filled with beautiful family chaos. Time has not been kind to my body and the days of hoisting babies into the air are coming to an end. To say that I’m completely over the miscarriages would be very wrong. I’m not over it and probably never will be.

I’ve talked to a few guys since then and it seems that we all feel the same way. We want to be there for the women in our lives and give encouragement and comfort. To try and make our partners feel better. But inside, we’re breaking.

I’ve also seen what miscarriages can do to women. Not only my wife but other women I’ve known. It’s terrible and difficult to talk about. My heart goes out to any woman who suffers through one. And my heart goes out to their men who aren’t sure how to talk about it, aren’t sure how to relate the feelings of great loss when they barely had anything to begin with.

When dealing with tragedies in life, most of us try to find some closure. When someone near to us dies, we talk about the life they lived and what they meant to us. The moment is heartbreaking and we never fully get over the loss. With miscarriages, closure is hard to find. A beautiful promise was there and now it isn’t. Your hopes were high and then … nothing. For the man, we can only observe the physical and emotional pains of the loss of the woman. Helplessly watch.

I’m not sure what my point in writing this piece was. Maybe I wrote this for my cathartic process. Or maybe I was hoping to have men start a dialogue about this issue. Maybe it was to let others know that nobody is alone when it comes to a miscarriage and there is no shame in it. It isn’t anyone’s fault and a miscarriage is just one of life’s many tragedies.

A version of this was first published here and on One Good Dad in 2013, and has since been updated. Photo by MART PRODUCTION via Pexels.

I’ve been obsessed with time for as long as I can remember. I owned a watch as soon as I was able. I was the kid who always knew the time. My friends and I had a game where we’d guess the time after playing football or a round of Risk. I usually won (the guessing game and also Risk). Somewhere inside of me is a wildly accurate timepiece connected to the great cosmic mystery of time.     

It should be no surprise then that, in the past year, I’ve started getting a bit nerdy about watches. It started when I embarked upon a seemingly frivolous quest to find a watch that matched my car. Months later, I bought a 63-year-old, handmade Swiss timepiece, imported from Germany, that I must wind every night before bed. So, you know, that escalated.

The watch wasn’t wildly expensive and it’s subtle. Only watch people will “get it,” and as a piece of antiquated jewelry, no average person would mistake the well-worn case as anything special. Full disclosure: I’m unwilling to say how much I spent on the bespoke leather watch strap imported from the UK. I mean, whether it’s new controllers for a PS5 or new wheels for the project car, you can’t run stock, bruh.

Naturally, as curious kids do, my oldest daughter picked up on this new pursuit of mine. She likes to play with my vintage watch. It has a loud ticking sound that harkens back to a bygone era. All three of my kids like to hold the watch to their ears like it was a seashell whispering ocean magic, but only my daughter, a third-grader, is able to interact with the pushers to unlock the watch’s secret powers: multiple complications! Seconds. Minutes. A sweeping hand. It’s magical. I pretend to be totally comfortable with them running around the house with my watch as they use it to time different activities.

Then, I needed to buy a watch for my daughter, because, well, duh. It’s a battery-powered quartz watch, but it’s analog. No easy-reading digital for her. She wanted to learn “the proper way.” (I’d like to say I didn’t put that propaganda in her head, but I pride myself on my writing being honest. So, well, mostly my fault.) She’s not allowed to wear the watch to school, but when she gets home, she immediately puts it on. “Daddy, I put my watch on,” she’ll announce with pride.

This Christmas, my daughter handed me a small box. My daughter was beaming as I soon found myself opening a watch box. She was so excited to give me this watch. She had picked it out, sure she knew what I wanted. In that moment, my growing watch snobbery was met with my beautiful, bright-eyed daughter handing me a gift.

This watch wouldn’t be one I’d pick for myself. She got the right brand and the right color scheme. She got it on leather, instead of a metal bracelet. So much she got right, but she got the most important component, the heart of the watch, the movement, all wrong.

And I couldn’t care less.

I’ll keep this green Seiko quartz watch until this mortal body fails, and I slip into the great darkness where time ceases to have any meaning.

This new watch anchors me in time and space to a moment of innocent joy and pure love. This Christmas totem is now infused with curly hair, Taylor Swift, and the smell of girly shampoo. It’s an anchor rooting me in the good times, the best times. Even Doc Brown couldn’t design a more perfect time machine.

Why am I attaching some much significance to this gift?

Recently, my mom died. I have nothing physical that emits memories of her to which I can cling. My dad will soon pass too, and I have nothing from him either. I seek neither wealth nor luxury, things our family never had, but I’m desperate for a physical connection that could transport me back to the times of my youth when my parents were robust and full of life. Something like that green Seiko quartz watch my daughter gave me for Christmas.

Parents, I want to encourage you to find objects into which you can pour memories. Instead of buying a thing, build a thing with your kid in the garage. Don’t just order something online, go try and find it at a yard sale and drag your kids along. In this consumerist world of disposable garbage, seek out items that will endure. I’m not talking about heirloom quality things with high monetary value. I’m talking about the little things, the memories with infinite value. In a digital world, go find some real tokens of time and place. Put in the effort and make the memory. Seek out these items, not just as a way to justify collecting something, but as a way to ensure your immortality. Memories keep us alive. Spoken sentences containing tales of old memories are the surest way to live forever.

We are all going to die someday, but we can be immortal by speaking to our children through the sentimental items we leave behind. In my mind I see my daughter sitting with her own kids. She has my old vintage watch around her wrist. She fingers the loose and weathered buckle, the aged leather gives way, and a well-worn Heuer Pre-Carrera Chrono slips off her wrist. Her own daughter is asking to hear “the ticking and the tocking.” Before passing it along, she holds the watch up to her ear, a mop of curly hair nearly obscuring the pale watch face, and there’s my immortal voice.

Photo by Jacek Szczyciński on Unsplash

Let’s admit it: Most of us hate going to the doctor. In fact, parenting and self-care are often at odds.

This is especially true in the chaotic early years when all parents struggle to find time to use the bathroom in peace much less exercise, see friends, and visit the doctor. Mothers in our culture are frequently reminded to practice self-care, but I’m here to urge increasingly involved fathers to do the same.

Though dads tend to feel less guilty than moms about taking time for themselves, one particular area of self-care we need to improve on is seeing a doctor.

A 2016 Cleveland Clinic survey found only three in five men, ages 18 to 70, get an annual physical. A little more than 40 percent go to the doctor only when they fear they have a serious medical condition. Those are some frightening numbers.

I can speak to the stereotype of men avoiding doctors from personal experience. I was one of those “I hate to go to the doctor” guys, too. But several years ago, I told my wife half-jokingly: “I’m either in the best shape of my life, or I’m dying.” I had finally been working out again, and I was excited to be losing weight. Freshly 40, I had spent nine long years as a stay-at-home dad, so it was thrilling to return to some “me” time.

But then I kept losing weight.

The self-care stumble 

Over three months I lost 15 pounds. Also, I began to notice frequent stomach aches, often followed by diarrhea. I started to worry. Admittedly, as a guy with a hate for going to the doctor, it probably took me longer than the average human to notice these rather dramatic changes.

Then came the kicker.

I was in the yard and bent over to pick up a rake. On my way up, I got dizzy and nearly fell over. Finally, I knew this was more than just “how 40 feels.”

I saw a gastroenterologist who performed a blood test and biopsy before pronouncing the verdict: celiac disease. His nutritionist explained celiac disease is a genetic intolerance of gluten, a protein found in wheat, rye, barley and other related grains. Gluten damages the villi in a celiac’s small intestines, which leads to malnourishment and a variety of symptoms — e.g. diarrhea, weight loss, fatigue, migraines and depression among others. Symptoms can appear anytime during a celiac’s life.

What I remember most was the nutritionist’s statement, “It’s not that bad. Just avoid things like beer, bread and pasta.”

What?

For an Irish boy married to an Italian girl, she just eliminated 80 % of my diet! Immediately, I visualized an atlas of my past culinary pleasures I would never be able to revisit: the Buffalo chicken wing, the Philadelphia cheese steak, the Chicago deep-dish pizza.

Many with celiac disease never get diagnosed

But after researching the disease and the growing dietary options, I realized I was lucky this was my only problem. My good fortune was soon reinforced at my new hangout, the health food store.

When I mentioned I had just been diagnosed with celiac disease, an acquaintance asked, “Oh, does your whole life make sense to you now?” I nearly got dizzy and fell over. What? No, I thought. Now my life makes no sense. My whole life was going just fine!

But I learned she knew people whose lifelong health problems were cured after they were diagnosed with celiac disease. So then I felt grateful for 40 years of reveling in gluten. (Specifically, no beer in college would have been tough to swallow.) So if any unexplained symptoms apply to you, consider asking your doctor about celiac disease since many people go undiagnosed.

Now that I’m gluten-free, I’ve regained a few pounds and feel healthy. It’s also nice to fit back into my pre-stay-at-home dad clothes. However, you know you’ve been a stay-at-home dad too long when you put on a button-down shirt and your daughter asks, “Dad, why are you dressed all fancy?”

After my health scare, I consider such a moment a little reward for going to the doctor.

Editor’s Note: This article about men’s health and the fear of going to the doctor was originally published in 2017. Photo: “Doctor greeting patient” by Vic, licensed under CC BY 2.0)

I sat with my cat, Faith, in the waiting room of the veterinarian. Faith, a rescue, had been in our family for nearly 11 of her 14 years. And I’d strongly suspected this might be our last trip together.

During her physical, the vet started listing what was wrong. After four years of hyperthyroidism, she now had detached retinas (leading to blindness), renal failure, massive dehydration, and a troubling abdominal issue that might be cancerous.

“There’s a lot going on,” the doctor said, “and while we can do more tests, there’s not many treatments we can really offer …”

I grew up with cats. And I’d seen pets die. But I’d never had to make that call. I’d never had to decide to end a life. I’d also never had to break the news to my own kids.

My son, 7, understands death. He knew what I meant when I said Faith wasn’t coming home again. He wasn’t there as I held her, or as I looked on when the doctor added a medicine into a syringe. And he wasn’t there as I killed our pet. Yes, it was the humane thing to do, and yes she’d been suffering for months, but I still felt horrible. Like a twisted murderer.

That night, I held my sobbing son in my arms. Grief overrode him, and while I tried to talk to him about the decision, I couldn’t help but wonder about what I’d done. Who am I to play God? At the same time, how will I feel someday if my son has to make the same call about me?

We all live on borrowed time. Eventually, that time runs out. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder about my final days. Will I deteriorate and my body collapse issue by issue? Will my son, this same sensitive child I’ve raised, determine what to do with his old man’s body? How can I help him understand the nuances and complexities of this decision when I barely understand them myself?

Yes, she was just a cat. She brought joy to our lives before she crossed the so-called “Rainbow Bridge.” Yes, we made the right choice. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, with wars raging, people suffering, a world pummeled by climate change, racism, violence, political uncertainty and more … well, this all seems kind of minor.

Yet, isn’t this minor brush with death the most important reminder of all? If death is the shadow of life we all ignore, maybe it’s good to occasionally recognize that death is there, and not something to be feared. Maybe it’s good to show my son the tears and fears, and hope that within his small, sensitive heart, he has learned that we are all doing the best we can.

I spent the next day setting aside extra time for the kids. We started decorating the house early for Christmas, singing songs and visiting the playground. Not simply to distract, but to remember that in this borrowed time of ours, every moment counts. And as we said goodbye to a pet, we are reminded of how fortunate we are to have such a loving family.

And together, even with the world seeming to succumb to its many ailments around us, we’ll keep focusing on the joys.

Remember pet photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.

I reclined on the bed of the CT machine, ready for a close-up of my heart. I’d been waiting for this moment since August when an ultrasound failed to determine if I had inherited my family’s history of heart defects. A better picture was needed.

As the machine spun around my chest, I hoped the resulting image would show nothing faulty with my ticker. After all, just three days prior, I had completed a 5K race, and last year, a half-marathon. If something was amiss with my heart, wouldn’t I have known by now, after nearly half a century of living?

The path to this moment began in June when my uncle was hospitalized. My mother started talking about our family history of heart disease and defects. I knew the stories of disease (mostly the result of lifestyle), but tales of abnormalities present at birth were news to me. She even casually mentioned she had an extra heart cusp, a disclosure that triggered my decision to get checked out.

It’s about your heart

I needed to know if I’d been born with a congenital heart defect known as a bicuspid aortic valve (BAV). As the Mayo Clinic explains, “The aortic valve is the main ‘door’ out of the heart. Blood flows through the aortic valve to exit the heart, and supplies oxygen and nutrients to the rest of the body.”

A normal valve has three leaflets or cusps. Some people are born with one, two or even four cusps (like my mother) on their aortic valve. But the most common abnormality is an aortic valve with two cusps—a bicuspid aortic valve. This condition occurs in about 1 percent of the general population and accounts for more premature deaths than all other congenital heart diseases combined.

For better or worse, we receive a multitude of inheritances from our family. Some take the form of heirlooms like an antique pocket watch, a well-worn family Bible, or vintage family photographs. Others are intangible yet no less real. Think cherished family traditions, oral histories, or the cultural rituals that tether us to our ancestors.

But there’s also the messiness of our genetic inheritance. This legacy passed down through generations includes physical traits such as eye color or height, as well as health conditions, like a congenital heart defect. This inheritance is a reminder that our bodies are not merely reflections of our own choices; they are also the result of a genetic lottery in which we have little say.

Searching for congenital heart defect

During the CT scan, a cool sensation enveloped my arm as a contrast dye coursed through the IV port in it. This technique would enhance the visibility of organs in the images. Soon after, a wave of warmth swept through my body, signaling the end of the procedure. That evening, I received the results.

My aortic valve was healthy, devoid of any signs of coronary artery disease. But there was a twist.

The genetic lottery had struck again; my valve was also bicuspid.

No one wants to hear there’s something defective about their body, especially when it involves a vital organ. My first reaction was a mix of emotions, from gratitude to having lived this long with no heart issues to a sense of concern about the implications of this diagnosis. Would I have to make any lifestyle changes? What’s my likelihood of requiring surgical intervention in the future? How soon should I have my daughter screened?

Thanks to a cardiologist (and the privilege of having access to medical care), I have answers to these questions.

Inherited condition not a destiny

In the meantime, it’s just a matter of wait and see. As I age, my defective valve could begin to degenerate sooner than expected. It may eventually leak and/or narrow causing my heart to work harder to pump blood to my body. If left untreated, this extra work could increase my risk for heart failure. But with regular check-ups and proper care, I can expect to have a normal life expectancy, as most people with this condition do. Genetic inheritance is not neccesarily one’s destiny.

At 49, I’m acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve likely seen more days now than I may see later. I’ve witnessed friends fall ill, some recovering, others passing away. I’m watching my mother age gracefully and have shouldered the responsibility of caring for my father, who died in July. I take my recent diagnosis as another reminder to live fully in the moment, to not delay dreams and passions, to seize the present.

As fathers, we often reflect on the legacy we’re passing down to our children through our choices and actions. While we can’t change the genetic traits we’ve inherited, we can choose how we manage and navigate them. By staying on top of our health, we enrich our lives and set a profound example for our children, modeling the importance of self-care, resilience, and the determination to live to the fullest.

That’s an inheritance any child would be proud to receive.

Operating on congential heart defect photo by Olga Guryanova on Unsplash

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This one about a dad explaining the tragedy of the Boston Marathon bombing to his children comes from 2013.

I was leaving Target, the kids fast asleep in their car seats when I got a cell phone alert about the explosions. I quickly tuned into the local news radio station, figuring it would have the most up-to-date information.

As the day’s events unfolded, traditional media and social media had a hard time keeping up with the news. Confirmed reports. Unconfirmed reports. It was very hard to decipher what was true. I looked back at my two young children, soundlessly napping, and was glad that I wouldn’t have to explain this horror to them. Their preschool teacher certainly wouldn’t be bringing the subject up.

Unfortunately, it’s very likely that this will not be the last act of violence our country and children will see. So one day, my little ones will ask me what’s happening … and I don’t know exactly the best way of explaining tragedy to children. I believe I would try to provide as many hard facts gleaned from reputable sources without confusing or scaring them with hyperbole.

During this day, I spoke with other parents. Opinions on how to handle speaking with kids varied by the age of their child.

Many recommended talking about the brave men and women who ran toward the explosion to save other people.

“I think it’s best to shelter them from it,” said Mike, a father of a 5-year-old son in Northern Virginia. “It will just make them scared to go into public places.”

My wife worried our kids might overhear teachers or older kids at school talking about the attack. She said she would try to reassure them that we are safe and gently explain that “people were hurt but the police, firemen, and hospital people helped them” This would teach them to always remember that the “good guys” such as policemen, firemen, and EMT are there to protect them. They are the real superheroes!

Parents of older children felt they needed to be more direct.

“I simplify the facts to her level of comprehension and allow her to ask as many questions as she likes,” said Christine, a mother of an 8-year-old daughter and an infant son.

“We tell our daughter the truth,” said Suzanne, the mother of a 10-year-old who lives just outside of Philadelphia. She said it’s sad that it is becoming more commonplace to talk to her daughter about violence. However, she uses these teachable moments as a time to talk about being compassionate and empathetic toward others.

These kinds of tragic events stick with children for a long time. Especially, children with big imaginations. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood was watching the Challenger explode. They had wheeled TVs into the classrooms so we could watch the launch. Then, “IT” happened. I don’t remember exactly how it was explained to us, but I do remember being told not to be scared, to wait for the facts, and to pray for the families of the people who died.

While there are some really bad people in this world, I think if we focus on reassuring our kids that there are also many really good people then they will be all right.

Explaining tragedy to child photo: ©  Satjawat / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: City Dads Group blog contributor Gidon Ben-Zvi, a resident of Jerusalem, asked us to reprint this piece he originally wrote for The Algemeiner. “I think your readership would benefit from gaining a glimpse into the lives of average Israeli parents coping with difficult questions as war descends upon them,” he wrote in his note. We agree.

Teaching Your Children About War: An Israeli Father Struggles to Get It Right

It’s 3:36 a.m., on Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2023. I’m tossing and turning right now. Our little country is in a fight for its life. Yes, we’ll prevail. But the cost will be terribly high, almost unbearable.

We keep hearing fighter planes as they jet south. The Lebanon-based Iranian proxy, Hezbollah, is saber rattling. They have launched a couple of dozen rockets into northern Israel. In a skirmish just inside the Israeli border with Lebanon, three Israeli Defense Forces soldiers were killed in a battle with Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists.

The Israeli Air Force has started to hit terrorist targets in Lebanon and Syria, and is increasing its bombing runs over Gaza.

My wife and I continue to work, or at least go through the motions, at home. Our children are home as well since all schools have been closed since the Hamas invasion began.

To maintain some semblance of sanity, my wife and I continue to get in our morning jogs. In our neighborhood, folks continue to walk along the Louis Promenade, buses continue to run on Hanassi Boulevard, and street cleaners make their daily rounds. But people’s faces have gone pale, and no one seems to stay out for long.

For the sake of our children, we’re fighting not to be overcome with grief. To keep our children feeling safe, we’re trying our level best to explain what this war’s about. We tell them it’s OK to be nervous and scared. Yes, Hamas is out there. We remind them, however, that the fighter planes — and all those soldiers down south — will protect our little family and all of Israel’s families.

It’s a fine line, acknowledging to your kids the sheer evil that has been perpetrated while encouraging them to try and live through this longest, darkest of days with a sense of hope.

A good father’s job is to be a role model, to establish a set of values for his children to live their lives by. What values am I imparting to my kids right now? What lessons am I trying to teach them to make some kind of sense out of the greatest national tragedy to befall the Jewish people since the Holocaust? How on earth can the murder of babies, entire families, young people, and the rape of women be turned into a teachable moment?

To the best of my ability, I’ve been trying to teach my kids that the big life comes at a big price.

I left a different kind of life in the United States. Had I stayed, I eventually would have started to earn well, saved up some money, padded my 401(k), and become a homeowner — no doubt moving to a well-manicured, secure suburb.

Maybe I should have stayed in Los Angeles.

On second thought, there’s no place else I’d rather be. In life, there are observers and participants. I chose to throw my lot in with the latter, come what may.

Why? Well, this is part of what I try to convey to my young children: you only get one shot at this thing called life. So why not live it gloriously? A life with a sense of mission, a sense of purpose, and — most importantly — joy.

We Jews have managed to create a free society that promotes human dignity and thriving out of malaria-infested swamps. In a part of the world widely mired in ignorance, intolerance, and persecution, Israel shines bright as a beacon of hope, an outpost of enlightenment, a country where all its citizens are limited only by their innate talent and ambition.

When my wife told our neighbor living in the new apartment next to ours that we have no built-in safe room since our building was constructed pre-1990s, she opened her home to our family.

“Come to our place whenever you need to. We’re all in the same boat.”

Our neighbor is an educated, successful, warm-hearted, Muslim woman.

The lesson I’m trying to teach our four little children is that what you believe in is worth fighting for. Israel is worth fighting for. All we can do in response to the savagery is fight the good fight, emboldened by the knowledge that — ultimately — right makes might.

Originally published Oct. 13, 2023, on The Algemeiner. Photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.

About the author

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

Editor’s Note: If you are having a mental health crisis, call or text 988 to get in touch with the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

I’m a big fan of the 2000s TV show Gilmore Girls, a show about as manly as the title suggests. It follows a single mother and her daughter living in a small Connecticut town. In this town, there is a diner owner named Luke, a surly guy who seems angry about everything and annoyed by everyone. We eventually learn he is a big softy. His gruff outer demeanor is a façade to protect himself from a world constantly threatening to hurt him. Basically, he’s my spirit animal.

In the Gilmore Girls episode, “But Not as Cute as Pushkin” (season 5, episode 10), Luke has a “dark day.” Once a year, Luke disappears. He flees town. He is cryptic as to why he behaves this way. No one knows where he goes, but everyone in town knows about Luke’s Dark Day (except his girlfriend, which is ridiculous, but never mind). This is an accepted part of Luke’s existence. Without dropping any spoilers (18 years later), Luke uses this day to go off and feel his feelings.

Recently, without me being fully aware of what was happening, my well-managed (or ignored?) feelings had begun to break free from my toxically masculine bulwark of denial. The week prior, I had slowly become a bit of an asshole. Everything made me grumpy. I was short with everyone. I had no patience for my children, and as a stay-at-home dad, I let my daily chores slip. The house was a mess, our diet was garbage, and everything was off.

All because I was resisting my own Dark Day.

Death, aging leads to depression

I know the main source of my emotional descent. About a year ago, my brother died. My relationship with him was complicated. His passing, while not shocking, hit me far harder than I had anticipated. As the anniversary of his death approached, those feelings came back. All the good. All the bad. I thought I was finished with the pain and trauma, but grief is an insatiable ambush predator.

A few months before the anniversary of my brother’s passing, I visited my parents. They both have serious health issues and live in a nursing home several states away. My dad’s mind is slipping away. Talking with him was tricky, and the view of his diminished body was particularly traumatic. My mom’s mind remains sharp, but she can no longer walk and has lost use of most of her limbs. The nursing home, while seemingly filled with nice people, is gloomy and old. The environment is sad, and so is seeing my parents in that place, but with their increasingly complicated medical requirements, there’s not much else we can do.

After I had spent the day with my parents, my wife asked how I was doing.

I replied earnestly and honestly, “I can’t really deal with it right now. I’ll feel my feelings when we get home.” We were in the middle of a family vacation, and I couldn’t really afford an emotional breakdown. I genuinely had every intention of dealing with the feelings when I got home. I’d cry it out in the shower. That’s what we all do, right?

I could list all the things that happened when we got home. All the excuses to keep avoiding my feelings. I promise I had some good ones. In fact, I deleted a very self-indulgent list from my rough draft. But the reasons don’t matter. I have mine. Other dads will have theirs. There’s always an excuse. Instead, I let my depression and darkness seep out slowly and cloud our home for weeks.

Healthy, right?

When the fire passes, healing begins

Look, I’m not here as a writer because I have all the answers. I’m here because I’m willing to admit I’ve screwed up.

I should have gone from my parents’ place back to the hotel and told my wife I needed 20 minutes. Then, I could have collapsed on the shower floor and had a good cry. I would’ve felt better (secretly I don’t feel I deserve to feel better, but that’s a whole other story). I would’ve saved myself weeks of inner turmoil and spared my family weeks of torture.

It’s true most men want to be seen as strong. Emotions make us feel weak, but it’s weak to pretend to be strong when you’re not. It’s weak to hide from your feelings. If you need your Dark Day, go off and have a Dark Day. Have the strength to face your emotions. Let the emotional fires consume you, knowing that when the fire passes, healing begins.

Everyone reading this has something they aren’t dealing with. I’m the hypocrite typing this with a truckload of my own baggage, but I’ve been making a very real effort to feel the feelings when I need to feel them. I’d encourage you to do the same. Yeah, it sucks, but you’ll feel better, and it’s a really great way to justify an excessively long, hot shower.

Feel the feelings photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.