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

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.

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

I bought my 18-month-old a knife.

That statement sounds outrageous, but it is 100% true.

Legacy and leaving something to be remembered by has been really on my mind since I became a dad nearly four years ago. Those thoughts ramped up in particular this past year as my father-in-law was diagnosed with cancer and I visited my dad’s grave (only the second time in the past 25 years). I didn’t know what to do with these thoughts; I started writing letters to my kids for them to open at a future date. But I was searching for more.

The answer came from a not-so-unusual place. I was at a regular Boy Scouts meeting on a Friday night. A ritual I have kept up since I was only 10½ and has followed me into adulthood. That night our troop’s committee chairman Tom Dowd was running a program about knife safety.

Mr. Dowd, who I will always refer to that way out of respect, brought his collection of knives. Small ones, big ones, plain ones, and very ornate ones as well. The one that stood out to me was a small folding blade knife with a faux wood exterior that he said once belonged to his father. And it clicked. I needed to get a knife that I could pass along to my son when the time was right. I had recently lost a nice, simple locking blade Gerber knife, so it was an opportune time to purchase a new one.

Getting that unintentional advice from Mr. Dowd was exactly what I needed to hear from the male role model of my boyhood. Through the years Mr. Dowd has treated me and a few others who have gone under his wing as surrogate sons, both in the troop and in real life. Over the years our families had gone on vacations together, family weddings, and had many good times. But even in tough times he was there, after I lost my job last summer, I would run into him on the street and we would talk about strategies and ideas. Just brainstorming. He told me about times when he was out of work and that he eventually bounced back. And no matter how my career goes on from here, I know I can bounce ideas off him and that he has my back.

Years ago, when he got a job out of the city and could no longer fulfill his responsibilities with the troop as Scoutmaster, he picked me as his successor. There were older more experienced candidates, but he knew I could take the reigns and be successful.

It goes to show you that “dads” aren’t always related to you. And it’s a title that you have to earn from your kids; whether they are your own, or if they are ones that you find along the way.

So, I found a small knife, similar to the one I had lost. Sharp and true.  This would be the one that gets passed down to my son. I am sure that if he follows my footsteps into scouting he will have his own knives over the years. But even if he doesn’t, one day he will show off a nice modest knife and say, “This was my dad’s knife.”

This article was originally published 2012. Photo by Lum3n via Pexels.

The pilot walked slowly toward us, his face stern. We’d been sitting nervously for 30 minutes. When we arrived at our seats on the plane, my 4-year-old daughter had thrown up.

We’d been on vacation. A magical vacation, until then. A week of princesses, rides, food, and fun. Yet, the pilot didn’t want a kid onboard who’d thrown up. Never mind that she was by then asleep, and just wanted to go home.

“You have to leave the plane,” he told us.

Anger welled in my gut. Maybe, in the post-pandemic world, a 4-year-old spitting up is an act of war.

Things went downhill fast. I asked if our bags could be pulled from the plane. They told me they’d be in the baggage area, so I hurried down. Not our bags. Ours were on the plane, now flying. I asked if our bags could be held at our destination, and was laughed at. I asked if we could book a flight for the next day, and was told the airline doesn’t fly on the weekends. Pulling up Google, I showed them the listing for their flight the next day. The worker said, “Well, I can’t help you.”

Stranded at an airport with two children, no flights to our home airport (which only this tiny, awful airline served) and no clue what to do next.

I am a calm man. As a parent, I’m the silly guy. The guy who loves to do improv theatre with the kids. The guy who makes silly voices and pretends to be a robot or a tree. As a former teacher and occasional substitute, I know how important a thick skin is. I’ve had kids throw things at my face, and managed to keep my cool.

Yet, at that moment, in the Orlando airport, exhausted, and astonished at the poorest service I’d ever experienced, I broke. The pot of water boiled over into a full explosion.

I screamed at the nearest airline worker until I could barely breathe. I don’t even recall what I said. All I wanted was to get my kids home, and at that moment, I felt that I’d failed as a father.

While I essentially threw a tantrum, in a situation completely outside of my control, I saw my 7-year-old son’s face.

He stared at me with these huge, panicked eyes.

And if I wasn’t completely broken before, I was then.

Use an anchor to hold on to better times

Showing emotion in front of your kids is fine. Hell, put on any Pixar movie, and I’ll be crying long before that final scene. But, how could I show him that things would be OK? How could I reassure him, when I had no idea what to do?

There’s no simple answer. But one strategy I’ve used often is what I call the “anchor” approach.

When you’re feeling adrift, search for one, specific “anchor” to ground you.

An anchor is an intensely positive emotional moment. It’s not something nebulous, or imagined, but a memory, preferably something pretty recent. And it’s something that brings immense joy or happiness. In the airport, the anchor was simple, we’d just had an amazing trip to Disney, and focusing on that experience helped us pivot out of despair and into moving forward. I thought specifically about my son’s face after piloting the Millennium Falcon with me on a Star Wars ride. That grin stretched from hemisphere to hemisphere. And as far as my anchor was concerned, the grin was still there, even days later.

An anchor doesn’t need to be a big vacation. I was substitute teaching recently in my daughter’s class. That night, she looked at me with eyes wider than dinner plates and told me I was the best teacher she’d ever had. That love and that intense memory are the types of emotional anchors that can help a parent weather any storm.

No matter what happens in your life, the anchors are there. They’re moments of joy, of pride, of gratitude. The time your spouse gave you an extra kiss for no reason whatsoever, jump-starting your day. The time your boss paid you an unexpected compliment. The student who drew a picture of you with a smiley face.

The anchors are there.

No matter what you’re going through, try as hard as you can to focus on one positive emotional memory. One of my strongest anchors this week was my little girl holding my hand, saying “I love you, Daddy.” Last week, my wife praised me on my new job, and I recall feeling intense pride. Doesn’t matter what the anchor is, hook onto it. Use it. It’s that simple.

Because even when the world is boiling and seething around you, there are anchors.

We did get home from Orlando. A crazy end to an otherwise amazing trip. And I had a long talk with my son, about why Dad lost his temper. About how Dad’s only human, but he’ll try to do better next time.

He responded, with those same big eyes, saying “Yeah … you’re the best, Dad.”

And I added another anchor to my bag.

Photo by Snapwire 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

My family has a lot of stories. Happy, sad and funny stories. Whether they’re true, apocryphal or greatly exaggerated, I’m sure many families have stories that come up when everyone gets together. My Uncle Steve, for example, always used to refer to the “Spaghetti Incident” as something hilarious that happened when my mom was a teenager.

One of my favorite family stories from my childhood is about how my brother and I, along with all our little friends, would easily and regularly climb up on the elementary school roof. There were concrete blocks sticking out about half an inch in intervals that looked like a perfect ladder going up to the top of the one-story building. We would climb it like mountain goats to retrieve basketballs, footballs or just to look around.

In reality, I’d only seen one person ever climb the roof. He was a “big kid,” probably a high schooler who went to retrieve a basketball. I just remember fearing he could get caught and get in trouble. Or worse, fall and hurt himself.

All of us younger kids had the same fears — getting in trouble, getting hurt.

So, the “climbing to the roof of the school” story, while I tell it regularly and back it up whenever my sister also tells it – well, it never happened. But I will argue to the death that we ALL did it. And thatour buddy, Bjorn, ate his lunch up there. The view of the mountains was incredible.

In that same vein, I tell my child family stories about his great-grandparents and other relatives he hasn’t met. I’d like him to take inspiration from his family. It would be wonderful if I could instill pride and dignity into him from just our own, immediate and extended family members.

My son always asks for stories during our bedtime routine, something that can easily stretch into 30-minute ordeals. Some I just make up on the spot. I pick things at random, a purple elephant who went to town, a green koala, and so on. I love him, but it gets tiring.

Family tales of inspiration

One evening when he asked for a story, I started inwardly groaning. So I took a deep breath. Then, I began to spout some nonsense about a character who had four arms – when inspiration struck.

I told him a third-person story of myself as “Young Michael.” A down-and-out 18-year-old:

Young Michael was riding the city bus all around town, collecting paper applications (this was waaaay before the internet, son) and for some reason, Young Michael kept riding the bus past his house to see what was at the end of the bus line. He had never thought about going farther in that direction. What was over there? A minimum-wage job at the mall would be good enough, right?

Then, at the last stop on the line, on the last outbound route of the day, Young Michael got off the bus. He walked around to see what he could see. He turned to take in the view and saw a … car wash!

Long story short – Young Michael got a job at the car wash, at the end of the bus route that wasn’t on his list. It turned out to completely change the trajectory of his life, his family’s life and many others.

The lesson I ended with was to let curiosity be your guide. Remain determined to achieve a goal. Don’t settle for “just OK” when it comes to your life.

If Young Michael hadn’t wondered, “What’s down that way?” Or, had he said, “A job at the T-shirt shop is good enough.” He never would have met the man he considered a second dad who inspired him to get his life together and join the Marines, go on to college, earn an MBA, and become the man – and dad – I am.

This one brain flash has given me the inspiration to lionize my history and my family’s history to pass down to my son. Of course, as he gets older, he’s going to know it’s hyped up. But, hopefully, the lessons will be repeated enough to give him confidence in himself.

I believe all of us have many courageous stories to tell. Stories of yourself, and stories of your family. Why not take some time, think about how to present them, and then give the gift of your experience to your children?

I don’t see it as self-promoting, I see it as motivational speaking.

Family stories photo: ©Africa Studio / Adobe Stock.

My dad has always been the type to give unique gifts for Christmas. For as long as I can remember, a personalized gift from him would be under the tree for every family member. It was his thing, and he enjoyed everyone’s reaction to what was in their special gift bag.

Last year, he gave me a photo album. He filled it with photos of me when I was a boy and some newspaper clippings of my various academic and athletic achievements during my teenage years. While I had seen most of the pictures, I appreciated having them in one location to look at whenever I felt nostalgic.

One of the photos I’ve always treasured is me on my very first day of school. That picture of a young lad back in 1987 is the only recollection I have of that rainy day. But every time I see it, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come in life and lets me know that time waits for no one. It certainly hasn’t for me.

So nearly 36 years later, I recently came back to that photo again. I came back to it because my son, Emory, was getting ready to start his journey in “big school.” While technically he’s “only” starting Pre-K, he will be in a regular school setting with kids all the way up through eighth grade. And here I was looking at that picture, representing the past and present of life. Things were coming full circle.

This dad journey I’ve been on since 2018 has been filled with an ongoing series of “firsts.” New experiences for both parent and child. That’s one of the really cool things about fatherhood. You get to share these exciting moments with your kids. Many of these bring you back to when you experienced them at their age – like the first day of school.

I have to admit I was probably way more excited than my son was leading up to and on his first day. With that excitement also came nerves and uncertainty. Had we picked the right school? Are the teachers good? Will Emory make friends? I realized that the root of my anxiousness and worry was just the desire I had for him to be able to create memories, make friends, and enjoy the experience of school like I did. While that photo of my first day of school is the only memory I have from that day, I do have other vivid memories of kindergarten. I remember my teacher, my classmates and nap time. I can still visualize the playground at the school.

As a dad, my hope is that I’m doing enough to prepare my kids for what they will face when they head out into the real world. Sure, it can be frustrating at times and you question yourself often, but the reward is seeing your children thrive when they step out from underneath your shadow.

For me, that moment came when I dropped my son off on Day Two of school. I watched him, in all his 4-year-old glory, walk confidently up the steps into his school, not even stopping once to turn back around and look.

It was a picture worth a thousand words.

First day of school photo by Jerry Wang on Unsplash

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This Father’s Day recollection comes from 2015.

Until my own first child was born, fatherhood was just what my dad did, and all I had ever done was take it for granted.

My earliest memories are of sitting on his shrinking lap, a slice of jean-covered thigh quickly losing ground between the random growth spurts of a lanky boy and the constant expansion of an ex-smoker’s belly. I sat there for years sharing tickles, snacks and forgotten conversations. There was a montage of facial hair, and I was captivated by its splendor or the sudden lack of it. Everything was long legs and gangly tussles. I nestled happily in the swell of my father’s contentment.

The years stretched and the stories we planted sprouted stories of their own. The days passed, blooming with milestones, lessons, and the fragrant sweetness of life in hindsight. Fond memories wafted down a timeline, always spinning toward what will be and always remembering what has been. The scent was fantastic and the world somewhat dizzy.

We spent days together that grew into weeks, rolled into months, and segued into years as smoothly as you like. I was hanging one arm out the window of a blue and bruised Datsun pickup, home in the welcome give of a worn bench seat, my father popping pistachios in time to an AM radio already out of date. I was bronze and blond, buck-toothed and skinny, and I was glorious against the sinking horizon that we spend our whole lives chasing. My father was a smile in sunglasses, a song on his breath, and he was younger than I ever knew.

The journey also took us through fields of frustration tended with firm hands and cultivated by consequence. There were sidetracks and shortcuts, disappointment, and discipline, but all days ended in sunsets and every morning the sun would rise. There were birds in the distance and a whistle brought them nearer.

At some point, our kisses fell from lips to cheeks to hugs masked as handshakes. The emotions on our sleeves grew heavy and hard to carry. Life has a way of twisting and testing, and it wrings out the innocence with the sweat and the tears, leaving two grown men in the shade of all that we built, awkward with gratitude and loving one another.

I remember the day I called my dad to tell him the news. He was at work in Arizona, and I was states away, sitting in a parking lot with my wife and our giddiness.

“You are going to be a grandfather,” I said into the phone. His joy was instant and electric.

I spent the next nine months trying to examine the examples he had given, preparing to cross to the other side, the fatherhood side of my experience. My wife and I went on long walks through wet, winding woods, and we talked about the things that we would do when the baby came. We were all things but patient, and we walked around again.

“It’s a boy,” I said through more tears than rain. My father had been sleeping with the phone by his side and had answered before the first ring ended. “You have a grandson.”

And then I rambled about the all of it — full of I-had-no-ideas and now-I-sees. I got it, suddenly, like a swift kick to the head I never knew I needed. The road opened wide before me, and the future teased us all with a glimmer, orange and bright, warm with promise and paths untaken. Then I returned to my wife and our new baby boy, him bundled tight and her softly sleeping. The room was already spinning with fatherhood and motion.

Then three years later we did it all again, but this time with dimples.

Now I spend all my days on the dad side of the fence, where the grass is always greener and in desperate need of trimming. It is my lap slowly shrinking and my shadows being cast. We are the stories being written and we are living in our memories.

I don’t see my own father often enough, but I see my boys every day. Their eyes are like time machines, always racing toward tomorrow, taking lessons from the past, and making the most of the now well before it passes. And it turns out, my father is here, in all of that. The next time we meet I will tell him so, and perhaps a small kiss upon the cheek will show him.

Fatherhood isn’t just something my dad did. It is something he taught me, and it is a thing we do together regardless of the miles between us.

And so it goes. The shadows we cast grow longer as the days grow shorter. We wax and we wane. We give love and we take love. That is the way of fatherhood, and I wouldn’t have it any other.

I learned that from my father.

This post first appeared on Honea Express. An earlier version appeared on Safely.com. Main photo: © ivanko80 / Adobe Stock. Other photos: Contributed.