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.

+ + +

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)

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

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.

+ + +

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.

I love football. Setting my fantasy football lineup and cheering on my teams are among my favorite fall traditions. As a father, I try to share my love of the game with my kids. Watching football together is becoming a tradition with my boys and, in addition to it being fun entertainment, I am finding great life lessons that can be learned as we watch together. Here are seven of the best that I have found:

1. Even with talent, you need to work hard

Talent is not enough to succeed. You need to practice and condition your body so your talent shines. Every level of the sport has a weeding-out process. Just because you are talented in high school doesn’t mean you’ll shine at college football or even have the chance to play. What separates those who excel is the work and effort players put in to use their talents. Our kids need to know that as they discover their abilities they need hard work and practice to develop them. Talent may get their foot in the door, but their work ethic gets them a seat at the table.

2. Don’t give up

Most of the time, in football someone is trying very hard to knock you down, to make you fail. Many times they will succeed. But you have to get back up, go back to the huddle and try again. The lesson for our kids: you stand a better chance of winning by getting up and trying again.

3. Success comes through setting goals

Football is a game of inches. You are always scrambling for every inch of the field you can get. Trying to come up with one play that will get you the 100 yards you need for a touchdown is tough. So since you get a brand new set of four downs every 10 yards you need to break it down into 10-yard goals. Each play should get you closer to that first-down line. If you keep making that goal you’ll be in position to score before you know it. When our kids are faced with big tasks or problems we need to teach them how to break them down into manageable goals so they can be successful.

4. You win through teamwork

Football is a team sport. Every player needs to do their job and do it well for the team to succeed. The quarterback needs to be able to count on his backs and receivers to move the ball down the field when he gives it to them. The quarterback, running backs and receivers count on the offensive line to make time for a play to develop and make gaps in the other team’s defensive line. Every player on the field has a job that the other players rely on him to do well so that their work is successful. It is a great way to illustrate to kids how teamwork actually works and how everyone’s role affects everyone else.

5. Sometimes you lose

You are going to lose sometimes, it is an unavoidable fact. An undefeated season is a rare feat. The most successful teams usually have at least a few losses. They don’t let those losses set the tone for the rest of the season. They accept them, learn from them and prepare for the next game, intent on winning. Learning to accept defeat and failure and move on with a positive attitude is one of the most valuable lessons kids can learn.

6. Great things happen when you put in great effort

It could be that the effort was put in at practice or at the gym. It could be extra effort they used during a play. Whatever the case, it is the extra effort that they put in that the other players didn’t that allows them to make or receive incredible passes, break off for big runs, stop other players from getting the ball or getting to the ball. Big plays are always the result of someone putting extra effort to do their job well. This translates so very well off the field. Effort is the key to big successes in life. The sooner our kids learn to put effort into what they want to be successful at, the sooner they will realize those successes.

7. Nothing lasts forever …

As soon as a team finishes one play, be it successful or disastrous, it needs to start preparing for the next one. When a game ends, win or lose, the team needs to prepare for the next one. The moment the season ends the team starts preparing for the next one. Not everyone will be back. That play, that game, that season may have been a player’s last one. Planning for the future and remembering the past are important skills to have. You also have to be able to do your best in the moment you are in. In football and in life, it is the moment you are in that matters. Enjoy it, do your best in it—live it fully. Your success is determined in that moment, which will soon be gone.

+ + +

This football lessons post, which first appeared on our Chicago Dads Group blog in 2018, 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.

Science and religion are on a collision course in my household.

Religion. Science. Are they independent or intertwined? How exactly do you explain the confluence of the two subjects to three children under age 6, especially when they’re the ones who bring it up?

Naturally, I explained the evolution/creation issue as well as I could, thoroughly confusing my kids in the process. The screenplay goes thusly:

Scene: A father and his three kids are driving to a park in a late-model SUV

SIX-YEAR-OLD: Hey Dad, I have a question. Who were the first people?

DAD: Well, that’s a good question, babe. So, if you read the Bible, it says that the first two people were a man named Adam and a woman named Eve. God made them first.

But, if you talk to a scientist, he or she might tell you that the first people came from monkeys. That’s known as evolution.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Wait. Monkeys are people?!

DAD: No, but long, long, long ago, monkeys started to kind of change into people.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: So when I was born I was a monkey?! Cool!

SIX-YEAR-OLD: Ugh. You were never a monkey.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Dad just said …

DAD: Well, bud, that’s not exactly what I said. See, with evolution there’s this thing called genetic mutation and it takes years and years and years to happen …

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: [Confidently] The sun is old.

DAD: Yes, the sun is old. So, kind of like as many years old as the sun. It takes thousands and thousands and millions of years. Imagine if a monkey had a baby and that baby had a baby and that baby had a baby…after that happens for years and years, monkeys could become people.

Now, some people say that just the Bible is right and others say that just science is right about evolution.

SIX-YEAR-OLD: I think it’s probably the Bible. Right, Dad?

DAD: Well, what if they’re both right? The Bible says God took six days to make the Earth. But who knows how long a day in God’s mind is? I don’t. And I can’t act like I have a clue about that. Maybe a day for God is like a day for us. Or maybe a day for God is like a million years for us. I have no idea. But I think it’s possible that God set in motion the science that made monkeys become people over a very long period of time.

SIX-YEAR-OLD: [Semi-satisfied grunt of approval.]

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Hmm … [10 seconds pass by] … Yeah, but why doesn’t Curious George have a tail?

DAD: I think we’ve had enough hard truths for one day. I’ll explain how PBS and the publishing industry lie to you another time.

About the author

Matt Norman, an at-home dad of three, is a former organizer of our Austin Dads Group chapter. A version of “Debating Evolution, Creation” first appeared on his blog, And So It Has Come To This, and then here in 2018.

+ + +

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 Lewis Roberts on Unsplash

My son’s impending entry into kindergarten this fall is causing problems in my life. Not the least of which will be his eventual ability to read the channel guide as I try to quickly scroll past the names of his garbage programs.

I need to make all sorts of schedules now. Schedules mean planning, and I don’t like planning. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing six months in advance? I don’t even know what I did two days ago, and that was two days! Ago! (I went on a bar crawl, so what did you expect? I’m surprised I’m awake right now.)

But I’m a parent. Of a soon-to-be kindergartener. Planning has become an unavoidable part of my life. I mean, it’s even part of “planning” an escape.

It’s like I’m being mocked.

Unfortunately, planning and scheduling and budgeting are a major part of being a parent. It’s totally lame. But planning is what separates man from the animals. It’s what makes you an adult. It’s when you are forced to constantly look ahead and consider the future. And not just the future of your own life, but the future of other people’s lives. Endless potential trajectories require countless contingencies. Once you start factoring other people into your life, it becomes a logistical nightmare – times infinity when you have kids!

I have enough stress without having to try to predict it.

His schedule is my schedule — ripoff!

Over-planned parenthood is your everyday reality when you become a parent. In the early years, it was not such a big deal. When your kids aren’t yet in school, they don’t have tons of extracurricular activities unless you count doctor’s visits and the occasional play date. They are still pretty easy, relatively speaking. That changes fast.

So right now, let’s focus on the most important thing: vacation!

We won’t find out what school he’ll be attending for another few weeks, but already we’re faced with planning our summer and our fall. We want to go somewhere, but since the kid will be in the real deal school system in September, we are beholden to that system’s calendar. This means planning is a lot more difficult. It’s no longer about getting time off of work; it’s also about making sure the kid doesn’t miss learning about consonants and vowels or whatever the hell goes on in kindergarten these days.

(He’s been in preschool since the past September but that hardly counts; we’ve never worried about pulling him out of preschool if need be. But kindergarten is the real deal. Kindergarten is important. Kindergarten has a German name! You don’t fuck with kindergarten.)

It’s also about making sure we don’t get screwed.

Kindergarten has an actual schedule to adhere to so we have to take our vacations at the same time as everyone else. If we don’t book something now (read: two months ago), we’ll be paying through the nose for the world’s last remaining hotel room. Which means we have to plan ahead. By the time we’re done, I’m going to need a vacation just from planning my vacation.

I certainly never planned for this! I just wanted the tax break.

+ + +

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

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.

Baseball begins this weekend for my son and me, his coach. This is his last year in the league, and he made his goals clear.

Me: What are you thinking about for the upcoming season?

Son: We have to win a championship.

Me: Well, every team wants to win, and only one will. I mean I want to and everything, but to say we have to…

Son: No. If we don’t win, it’s a fail. It’s our final year, and we haven’t won yet. So, it has to be this year.

So baseball wasn’t about the time we spent together. It wasn’t about him getting better as a player. It wasn’t about him getting exercise. It wasn’t about him getting to be part of a team.

I’ll be honest. The answer stung a little bit. My son is obsessed with winning, and nothing else matters. What kind of child are my wife and I raising?

But then I thought about it.

Was I that competitive?

Ummm, well, yeah. I am or at least I was that competitive. (Maybe I still am in some ways but that’s another story.) When I was in Little League, all I wanted was to play and win the championship.

When I was playing ball, I was on one championship team. I was 10 years old, and I didn’t get to play much that year. The coach played his son and his son’s friends more than the rest of us.

I played outfield primarily, and the ball only got out there a few times a game. Once during practice, I had a rock catch with a friend of mine, a fellow outfielder. No one noticed.

Despite my relative inactivity, I still have a few memories of that team. We were the Giants, and we wore purple jerseys. The friend I had a catch with was named Mike. We rarely talked after the season ended.

When I was 12, my basketball team made it to the finals. We started the year poorly – losing our first few games. Then, there was a long strike involving the schools, and the league was halted.

When the league started up again after the strike, only seven of our 11 players returned. Those of us who returned got to play a lot. And we started winning and laughing.

I could give you a breakdown of the championship game – go all Charles Barkley, Kenny Smith and TNT on you – but I’ll spare you the details.

While I can’t remember the name of the team or the color of our shirts (I might have a picture somewhere), the memory of that team and how we bonded still makes me smile.

Sure, I want my son and his teammates to be competitive and experience a championship. Having such an experience is special. So, along with my fellow coaches, we’ll try to put the players in the best position to succeed.

However, it will be the same balancing act as past years, one between winning and helping the boys improve their skills.  When the only focus is winning, something is lost.

I hope my son can appreciate that as much fun as winning is, coming together as a team is even more special.

Maybe, this kind of thinking only happens with time, perspective and maturity. Either way, I hope my son and the rest of the team enjoy the season and, one day, will look back upon it fondly.

+ + +

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 Me, Myself and Kids. It first ran here in 2017 and has since been updated. “Competitive children” photo by Eduardo Balderas on Unsplash.

The drive home from preschool is a highlight in the day-to-day work schedule of this daddy, and it usually goes like this:

• Take 20 minutes to walk up or down half a flight of stairs, depending on which exit we take.
• Wander semi-aimlessly down the sidewalk adjacent to an extremely busy downtown street.
• Stop to look at “treasures” along the way — stuff like acorns and rocks and the occasional bug or cigarette butt.
• Coax children into the truck and buckle them into their seats.
• Slip into the driver’s seat and drive off [after checking email, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram].
• Halfway through our 15-minute drive home, The Boy falls asleep. The Girl complains I’m not playing enough “girl songs” on the radio before nearly falling asleep.

And that’s it. We rarely dig into deep conversations. The kids each refuse to discuss what they learned at school. The drive simply is what it is — a ride from Point A to Point B.

But not today.

The Girl [calling out over Robert Earl Keen’s “New Life in Old Mexico.”]: Daddy.

Me: Yeah, babe?

Her: DADDY.

Me [turning radio down and glancing in the rearview mirror]: Yes?

Her: I have a question.

Me: OK.

Her: Hey, Daddy, why don’t you go to work?

Me: Umm … Hmmm … Well, uh … [Quick! Think of something, dumbass!]

Not many adults ask why I am an at-home daddy, but when they do I usually give them some line about how it wouldn’t have made financial sense to send the kids to daycare if most or all of my work salary would go to pay for it. Truth is, the money I was making editing and doing a minimal amount of freelance writing work wouldn’t have paid for daycare anyway. Plus, The Wife’s income is head and shoulders and probably another whole person’s body above what I would ever make writing and editing.

Add in that I’ve never had a career in the true sense of the word, and the decision for me to stay home was a no-brainer for us. That last point may complicate things once the kids are all in grade school, but that’s a blog post for another day. A day far, far in the future.

Me: Well, I stay home with y’all instead of going to work because Mom and I decided it was important for one of us to be home to take care of you and your brother. We agreed that Mom would go to work.

Her: But I think Mommy should stay home. I wish she would stay home and you would go to work, Daddy.

Me: I know. Having Mom at home would be nice, but that’s not the deal we made.

[Silence]

The answer was as simple as I could make it without replying, “Just because.” I don’t know if The Girl was satisfied with my answer, but that was the end of it. She didn’t ask any follow-up questions. She didn’t whine about the way things are. It was almost as if she had a question, got an answer, and was satisfied — which is definitely a first for my 3-year-old Li’l Miss Asks A Lot.

The drive home today was a reminder that tough questions are coming soon … about everything. The questions probably will never stop coming, and I’d better have answers as often as possible. I want my kids to know they can ask me about anything at any time.

I put The Boy, who had slept through the whole conversation, in his crib and walked to the living room. The Girl was sitting quietly on the couch.

Me [nearly whispering so as to not wake The Boy]: Hey, that was a really good question you asked in the truck. You know you can ask me questions anytime you want, right?

Her [loud kid-style whispering]: Yeah. Can I have a snack and watch TV?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Norman, co-founder of the Austin Dads Group, explains to his children his role as a stay-at-home dad. A version of this first appeared on his blog And So It Has Come to This. It was first published here in 2017 and has since been updated.

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.

“Dude, you can live with us if you need to!”

My childhood buddy, Tim, blurted these words when I told him my parents were divorcing. I was 17 years old at the time, and to this day I appreciate his dramatic concern for me.

But I had to smile and remind him: “I’m not becoming an orphan. But thanks for the offer.”

Tim’s offer was tempting. His parents, Jerry and Ann, had been like a “second Dad and Mom” to me for years. Although I enjoyed a healthy upbringing and loved my parents, Tim’s house became the neighborhood “hub” or hangout, especially for boys, during my childhood. The main reason? He had three brothers—Cary, Bryan and Brendan—who loved to play pick-up sports.

The brothers and a group of neighborhood buddies would play street hockey out front, ping pong in the basement, and/or card games in the kitchen nearly every day. During a few of those early years we even played ice hockey on a backyard rink, and Jerry would help me tie my skates. Even before we knew we were hungry, Ann would provide a vat of chili or a pan full of bacon to be devoured by growing boys.

My Second Mom — the “boy whisperer”

Looking back, Ann was especially gifted as the mother of four boys. Somehow she navigated all that roughhousing and trash-talking (along with all that equipment) with grace. And her skills as a nurse helped with all the minor injuries compiled along the way.

You could say Ann was a “boy whisperer.” She often used humor to cope with the chaos surrounding her. For example, she hung an attractive sign above the toilet in the basement bathroom that read: “My aim is to keep this bathroom clean. Your aim will help.”

One of her favorite stories about raising four boys involved her son Bryan when he was young. On a particularly frustrating day as a tired mother buried in childcare, she lamented aloud that she always thought her life would be filled with fame and fortune. Then she heard Bryan’s little voice try to encourage her.

“Guess you have to go to Plan B, Mom!” he said.

Ann would always cackle at that punchline, displaying just how much she loved her boys—a different kind of family wealth.

Ann was not all food and games, however. Whenever we stepped out of line, she would gently nudge us to be better people by saying “hear—hear.” That was her way of getting our attention. What she was really saying was “Have a conscience at the base of all that goofing around.”

No doubt my childhood friends and I didn’t thank Ann enough back then. But that is what made her well-attended 80^th birthday party so special several years ago. Because Ann had “showed up” for them as boys, many of those neighborhood buddies “showed up” for her decades later. I have never seen so many grown men (including myself) proclaiming their gratitude to one woman for positively impacting their boyhoods.

During our many toasts to Ann, it was as if she had created a “Fifth Son” Olympics in which we were all competing. Of course, she had already won the gold medal in the “Second Mom” event. One guy even called Ann his “Second Mom” in front of his “First Mom,” who looked on approvingly because she was Ann’s friend and former neighbor.

Appreciate “Second Moms and Dads”

Sadly, Jerry passed away many years ago, and Ann passed more recently. Perhaps the most poignant image from Ann’s memorial service featured many of those same grown men “showing up” again to carry her casket. That is the power of a “Second Mom.”

Although “second Moms and Dads” don’t get a national day of recognition, maybe they should. So be sure to think about the people who may have acted as “second parents” in your childhood. Try to thank them, if possible. Hopefully, you can also serve as a second parent to some of your children’s friends. Be a host, coach, teach, carpool, tell stories or just plain show up and listen to them.

Tim’s offer for me to join his family back in a moment of crisis when I was 17 made me realize I would always have both a first and a second home in this world. Many decades later, I visited Ann in a nursing home, shortly before her passing. When she saw me, her eyes lit up and she whispered: “Vin-Man.” That was one of my nicknames in childhood, and hearing her say it made me feel like a superhero. 

In essence, that’s what “second parents” do. They make children feel special and show them they have a second home if needed. Hence, “Second Moms and Dads” are like Plan B. So here’s to Plan B!