DaddyisBest

Daddy, what is love?

And so it begins. My seven year-old-twin boys, Archibald (not his real name) and Mortimer (not his real name, either), begin their exploration into the world. Ok, they actually started their wild and crazy adventure in the world as soon as they were born.

It was simple enough back then. Toes, fingers, crib, mommy, daddy, smart phone, electric toothbrush, toaster, cordless screwdriver, etc. It was the discovery phase of all things physical.

Next came the entry into the world of people with enrollment in daycare and then pre-K. They never played Doctor with anybody, at least that we know about. They did question the class lizard and why its cage was lined with shredded pink paper. The lizard was named Lizzie. We tried to explain that even though pink is a traditional girl color, the lizard picked that color personally because she liked it. When a different color of paper was put in the terrarium, Lizzie stayed in the corner and only ate candy.

The little buggers graduated from toddlerhood into First Grade and immediately started questioning their existence, or more appropriately, how homework aids them in their existential awareness of the universe. I questioned how come there is more homework now than when I was in school? But then, I never did my homework on the computer which uploaded into the school system so the teachers could see it. My calculator was my fingers.

Also in First Grade, they discovered girls. One girl in particular piqued their interest, Chelsea (not her real name). She could outrun, outjump, outplay and outshout the little buggers. It was like at first tag.

Their journey together continued into Second Grade, their current grade of residence. But, something changed. My little buggers, the guys who grew up in front of my very eyes discovered that people are really different. Specifically, boys and girls were different and that there was this mysterious force known only as love.

They weren’t sure what it is. I tried to explain that I wasn’t sure what it is, either. But, it’s a good thing. It’s like playing tag while flying and nobody gets hurt. Well, in tag nobody would get hurt. In love, everybody gets hurt at some point. Maybe, I’ll save that part of the discussion till later.

It’s always the small things. It’s the time Archibald (not his real name) made a joke which actually made sense. I turned my head instantly to acknowledge that fact and looked at him and he had the biggest smile on his face. I don’t know who was happier, me or him. I don’t even know if that is grammatically correct, but my spell checker didn’t highlight it. So that’s another point in my favor, it’s the small things.

It’s the time I called a customer to let him know that I had processed a $20 refund for him. He was so happy, he was euphoric. He went on for over 15 minutes telling me how great the company and I was/is.

I don’t talk about my job or my company very much. I’m pretty confident you know why. I’m sure a large majority feel about their job the way I feel. Also, I don’t want to leave a digital footprint, not to be confused with a carbon footprint that could somehow be traced back to me and used against me, just in case I need to join the Witness Protection Program.

Every time I ask the boys to clean the room, they disappear, as if they are already in the Witness Protection Program.   How come I’m always the last one to know?

It’s the time Mortimer (not his real name either) went to bed and noticed that he had clean sheets. For the record, I do most of the laundry in the house and he has clean sheets regularly. But, on this particular occasion, I didn’t tell him before he laid down and when he did, he sort of cocked his head while on his pillow and said very quietly, thank you, Daddy.

It’s the time SMM (Sergeant Major Mommy) and I went on a “date.” It was Valentine’s Day, just a few weeks ago. We’ve been married for 15 years and for the last seven and a half, we have gone out for dinner together, maybe twice. So, it was a pretty major small thing. C’mon, it was dinner. It wasn’t at a super high-class ritzy place, but it also wasn’t at a fast food joint. It was romantic. It was alone, just the two of us. It was an Italian restaurant with real Italian food and hospitality.

It’s always the small things that seem to make or break us. A series of small things, not in our favor, and our mind will connect the dots and make it into a big thing and suddenly we’re in crisis mode.   I don’t know at what point in adulthood that crisis mode seems more normal and expected than, heck, I don’t even know what to call it, non-crisis mode, happy mode, joyful mode or pie ala mode.

Being an adult is not the way cool thing I thought it would be.   Or maybe, it’s just me. You reach a certain age and surprises are fewer, pleasantries are scarcer and memories keep getting longer and farther away.   It’s good to have the boys going through such an exciting time in their lives. It gives me something exciting, too.

There are a lot of challenges with daddy-hood. One of the biggest is learning how to let go. When the little buggers were in their Tae Kwon Do class tonight, as a matter of fact, their attention was waning from the master. He quickly summoned the boys to attention and corralled their energy into doing quick physical exercises to train them on maintaining their focus on him. I’m glad he did it. He did it in a very authoritative way, too. But, with respect so as not to crush the buggers’ spirits. He looked at me and I nodded my head slightly to him. He nodded back and we both knew it was the right thing to do.

I have had to learn to let the buggers live their own lives and learn their own ways. They may be the center of my world, but I am not entirely the center of theirs. That’s ok. I get it. Sometimes the small things are enough to remind me that life is really just made up of small things. That, in the middle of the day, when I least expect it, a small thing will reach out and shake me up and say, hey wake up, this is life calling. And instead of asking me to ‘do’ anything, life will just say, see this is how it’s supposed to be, joyful, happy and with pie ala mode.

Mark Greene takes the subject of changing and evolving masculinity out of any academic classroom and puts it squarely into the laps of those in the trenches of the evolution. He uses his own damaged childhood and adolescence as prime reflectors of what masculinity used to be and how it shaped him and many others. But, Mark doesn’t stop there. How can he? Why should he?

Masculinity is a multi-faceted diamond. Looking at one aspect of it for too long, one could lose the overall brilliance of the gem. Mark writes about the loss of touch and intimacy for boys and men, painful initiations and rituals into manhood, shame and its consequences on men, the presence and future of raising boys, men as providers, sensitivity for men and boys, the suppression of male issues and more.

Women are not forgotten either as Mark addresses the failing of some women’s perceptions of men. I have read some of these chapters as articles on the Good Men Project and I have come to highly respect Mark and I can identify with his writing. Mark is not only reflecting on masculinity, he is urgently calling for a discussion on its future.

Here is the link to his FaceBook page: https://www.facebook.com/remakingmanhood

Here is the link to his own webpage for his book:

http://thinkplaypartners.com/support-remaking-manhood/

The book is also available on Amazon.

Sometimes it seems all the days run together. I know at work, one day looks just like the rest. At home, the only difference is when there are special occasions, like taking the little buggers to Tae Kwon Do, that indicate what day it might be.

Get up early. Drink 18 cups of coffee to wake up. Get SMM (Sergeant Major Mommy) up. Get the little buggers, Archibald and Mortimer (not their real names), up. Prepare breakfast for them. Drink 6 more cups of coffee.

Every day.

At such time as SMM comes out of shower, I have complete control over the little buggers. Who am I kidding? I NEVER have complete control. I’m lucky if I can get a word in edgewise over their screams and shouts. (You know, that’s an interesting expression – edgewise. Where did that come from? I think it came from ancient mathematics, probably invented by Pythagoras, referring to how to insert feta cheese into a Greek salad and then divided by Pi, spinach pi.)

On those days when I go to work early, I turn over the preparations of the little hooligans for school to SMM as I escape to work.

Every day. It’s the same routine. I get up early. I wake up everyone. EVERY DAY!!!

Every day, the little buggers seem to NOT understand that we do the SAME THING every day. How can they not get this? What don’t they understand about doing the SAME THING EVERY DAY??? Do they think this is fun? That we can have a good time getting up every day doing the same routine to get ready for school or work and to do essentially the same thing almost EVERY DAY for the rest of our lives and that the only real changes are when we change residences or having something special to do (which happens once in a blue moon?)?

(You know that’s an interesting expression – blue moon. Where did that come from? I think it came from middle England about a thousand years ago when they noticed that 13 full moons came in a calendar year, instead of 12.   When they noticed this amid their constant bickering and soccer riots, Ian said something like, Hey that 13^th moon was on the blue-ish side, which just happened to be the color of the opposing team’s jerseys, so it became a really odd thing. Hence the expression, once in a blue moon became translated to mean something which did not happen very often because it was so odd and then you had to hit the person next to you.)

Therefore, getting ready every day is pretty much the same thing every day for the rest of your lives, except for those (here, it comes) once in a blue moon occasions.

So, this day was no exception. Everything happened according to plan which means that SMM and daddy (me, moi, numero uno, big dog daddy, head honcho) get the little buggers onto the bus and off to school. Then, SMM and I made it to our job locations. And then after working 27 hours a day, we return home to attend to the other side of the daily equation: Homework (otherwise known as the Spanish Inquisition meets elementary school.)

Well, on this particular day, it became a blue moon day when I get a frantic call from SMM on my dinner hour. I was in my car driving back to work when the phone rang. I usually ignore it when I’m driving because I don’t want to get into an accident, especially when somebody cuts me off and I have to engage in physical and emotional retaliation.

But, this was different because it was SMM’s music.   I have a special song picked out for her for her/my ringtone, We’ve Only Just Begun, by the Carpenters. I was gonna pick out a head-banging music song for her (since that is the kind of music she listens to), but I didn’t wanna hear it every time she calls. Or I coulda picked out Fur Elise by Beethoven, which I’m probably going to end up doing cause everytime I hear the Carpenters I think of poor Karen Carpenter.

SMM calls and immediately begins speaking in the Frantic language. “Must go home. Boys in trouble. Grandma locked herself upstairs. Cat missing.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“GO HOME!!!”

I immediately turn a 180 in the parking lot and head straight home at 100 mph. I was going to text my boss that I may be late in returning to work, actually I did text him. I just didn’t actually touch the letters. On my smartphone, I turned on the speaker which I talked into and the phone typed out the letters and words for me. How cool is that? How come that wasn’t around 50 years ago instead of those stupid rotary phones??? (Which I never actually used, but I saw them on YouTube, I think).

I screech into my driveway, trying to notice everything the way it was so that IF the police ever showed up and asked me the question, “Didn’t you notice anything unusual when you came home?” I would be able to answer the question truthfully.   Actually, nothing looked unusual from the outside.

BUT, as soon as I entered, I took molecular notice of everything. Grandma’s door open. The TV was on FULL BLAST, but the little buggers were not watching it. They were in their bedroom destroying the room. It looked like Hurricanes Archie and Morty had taken EVERY SINGLE TOY out their respective boxes and dumped them on the floor. Of course, the ONLY difference between this day and every other day is that on this day there was a blue moon and every toy was on the floor in a totally random place.

I quickly assessed that I could no longer be NICE DADDY and had to be DADDY IN CHARGE. I ran upstairs to make sure that Gma was ok. She was NOT tied to a chair, she was cooking her dinner.

I asked her, Are you ok?

She said the buggers are not listening to her.

Yeah, and? They don’t listen to me either!

I ran downstairs and gave the little buggers a “good talking to.” I didn’t raise my voice because they definitely would not listen then. I explained that they had to listen to Gma while SMM and daddy were not there. They looked at me, real innocent like, and said ok.

Gma came downstairs and proceeded to make the little buggers dinner. I decided that I had brought peace and quiet to my little corner of the world and that my services were no longer needed at home.

Time to go back to work. I’m sorry, what day is this again?

Hi gang,

Please check out my latest published article:

http://www.encouragingdads.com/2015/12/i-dont-know-what-im-doing/

Thanks to John Finch and www.EncouragingDads.com

Please read and comment on the website!

Thanks,

Jeff

This is not one of my “usual” posts. Not that anything about my posts are “usual”. All of these events occurred last week, just a few days before Christmas.   See if you can see the common theme.

Greg

As some of you know, I am a salesman. Retail salesman at that. Everything you heard about it is true. One of the best parts is meeting a lot of diverse people. The other night I met Greg, not his real name. He is an older gentlemen, early to mid-seventies I would guess. He came in to buy a gas range. As my usual modus operandi, I start talking and asking questions about him. Well, Greg, was a NYPD detective. He started out as a patrolman, which means he beat the streets, and worked his way up to detective. He said he became quite a well-known name as a detective. He told me of standing up to street thugs and gunfights and out of control criminals. I stood there, fascinated and deeply enthralled by his stories. Greg must’ve gone on for over twenty minutes with me as his obedient audience in the middle of the store.

Finally, I realize where I am (and my closeted existence compared to his) and I ask him for the sale. He turns to me and says that he is now fighting his toughest fight. I can’t even begin to imagine what that might be – social security lockdown, knee and hip replacement or maybe even selling his house and downsizing. He says that his wife for 50 years now has Alzheimer’s and she does not even recognize him.

Jim

Shortly after I moved to NYC, I worked for a very large and well-known company. You would all know the name of it. I worked in accounting for their R&D division. In fact, I was the accounting department for this particular R&D division. My boss, Jim (not his real name), was located about a hundred miles away in another state in another division of this company. But, he was a Finance manager and was assigned to manage the department I accounted for.

Well, things went very well. He would call me every month and tell me how much he liked my work and he had only heard good things about me. I went to his location once on a day trip. I don’t remember why except I think it was just to become acclimated to the big picture of the company and I could see how my accounting affected the rest of the business. Jim was always extremely nice.

Occasionally, he would tell me about his home life. His family just moved from one area to another to be closer to work and his beautiful wife was expecting their third child. Their other two kids were under the age of five.

I was working as a temp at this company and one of the requirements was that a temp position would only last a year. Jim was trying to get me hired permanently with this company. (The company ultimately made me three job offers). As my time was coming to a close, Jim came down to the city and took me out to a lunch at a very swank restaurant. I thought they must’ve really liked me. We said our good byes and keep in touches and off we went.

I’ve thought about Jim through the years, like I suppose I think about a lot of the people I’ve met and worked with.   I decided to look him up on the internet last week.

Within a couple of years after I left that company, Jim’s wife got cancer. Apparently she fought a very brave battle even up until the very end.   Three years to the day that she died, Jim took his own life at her grave. His obituary said he died of a broken heart.

Archie

Archie and Morty (not their real names) are great kids and the lights of my life. On this particular day, I was getting ready to go to work as the little buggers are getting ready for school. SMM (Sergeant Major Mommy) comes to me not five minutes before I was going to leave and tells me that Archie has to go to school early and get some special help.

Archie was diagnosed with a learning disability last year. SMM and I worked with the school to set up a program for this year where he would get extra attention. Nevertheless, I completely forgot about the day and time for his extra help. I like to keep an orderly schedule, so when SMM broke the news to me, I was thrown off balance.   I quickly recovered and accepted the task at hand, getting Archie to school.

Well, Archie, is seven and he has his own dis-orderly schedule. I was trying to get him ready and as politely as possible urging him to hurry up. But, Archie didn’t quite feel the sense of urgency I did. So, I perhaps got a little short with him and raised my voice. We somehow got ready and out the door and to school.

But, I felt bad all day because I could’ve probably been a little more considerate of Archie. Archie doesn’t always understand the why’s of doing things according to schedule. Anyway, I obsessed over how bad of a day Archie was going to have because his daddy, me, moi, big dog, numero uno, superhero daddy, got him dressed rather abruptly and carted him off to school. I had a bad day, so I decided I would own up to my shortcomings as a daddy and confront him when I got home and tell him how sorry I was I dressed him and urged him so strongly to move quickly. How could I have been so thoughtless about the feelings of a seven year old? He was gonna hate me. If not now, ok probably now, but definitely when he wrote his expose on being the son of DaddyisBest-for-nothing.

I get home after work and the little buggers are sitting at the table finishing dinner. I ask Archie if I could have a word with him. We go into his bedroom and sit on the bed and I begin a long, drawn out tale of how I was only trying to do the right thing and take care of him and I still love him and please don’t hate me for the way I acted this morning. Archie looks at me and says sweetly, I don’t remember.

So, there you have it, three very different stories. The common theme for me is that life is bigger than me. As much as I love to solve the world’s mysteries and problems inside my own little head, and live my life there also, life is bigger than me and you. And as much as I think I have problems, other people may have even bigger ones, real or perceived, than me.   Maybe that’s the real meaning of Christmas.

First things first, I did not marry a Zombie.  I mean I dated a few and there were certainly some good times, though I did grow tired of role-playing Zombie and Screaming Human so much.  If I said they were insatiable it’s because they seemed to be always hungry – for me!  But, not in a good way, if you know what I mean.  But, I digress.

The day of my anniversary came and I was ill-prepared for it.  The anniversary I was prepared for, the day itself I was not.

As fate, destiny, providence, luck, chance and synchronicity conspired to have that day be the same day as the boys’, Archibald (not his real name) and Mortimer (not his real name, either) picture day at school.  The boys love the attention of getting their picture taken.  Archie has learned to give the big cheesy smile and Morty, who loves the attention, can’t quite seem to grasp that a picture is literally a reflection of him.  So, he tries to “ham it up” by making goofy (technical term) faces.

Nevertheless, the day started off innocently enough.  Sort of.  I awaken at approximately 6 am like I do every morning, even on my days off.  I did not have to be in to work until noon.  But, I awaken early to get my coffee and watch a few minutes of the news and weather before I get the little buggers up.  However, on this day, as I stumble out of the bedroom into the kitchen, I notice some “movement” on the couch in the living room.  I can’t quite see what is making movement, but I do notice that all the seat cushions are piled, or arranged, on the couch.

The “arrangement” is like a seat cushion pyramid.  Odd, I thought, at such an early hour.  Did aliens invade our home during the wee hours of the morning and decide to build a replica of the pyramids on the couch?  Are the aliens friendly enough not to disturb the people living there and bypass all the treats in the refrigerator and go straight toward the couch just to exhibit their master building skills?  What if it isn’t aliens, but ZOMBIES, who are building a sanctuary from humans so that they can then use it as a home base and terrorize all civilization from OUR COUCH?

I check on the boys’ room and Morty seems to be snoring, er sleeping, comfortably.  But, Archie’s bed is empty.  The plot thickens.

As I move into the living room, I hear a faint giggling sound.  Not even aliens, and especially NOT ZOMBIES, would giggle.  They might snicker or even chuckle a little, but definitely not giggle.   I start poking and prodding the cushions to determine if there is indeed intelligent life habitating there.  More movement.  More giggles.  And then when I remove one of the cushions, the life form springs to, well, life.  “Daddy, this is my fort.  Don’t disturb my fort.  I’m officially declaring this my primary residence and have notified the Post Office, the local police and the closest Domino’s, that I now live here.”

I have been forewarned.

“Um, ok, do you want cereal or waffles for breakfast?”

“Waffles.”

But, wait a minute.  I haven’t even had my coffee for breakfast.  First things first.  Plus, it’s 6:15am.  The little bugger/alien/zombie on the couch should STILL BE IN BED.

“Go back to bed for half an hour.  It’s way too early for you.  The early bird might get the worm, but you don’t want worms for breakfast, do you?”

“NO, I WANT TO STAY HERE IN MY REFUGE, MY SANCTUARY, MY ABODE, MY HOME.  Just don’t call me Quasimodo.”

“Back to bed, Quasi.  Oops, I meant Alien.”

“Don’t call me alien too.  I AM A ZOMBIE!”

“Go zombie.”

The zombie, formerly known as Archie, reluctantly trudges back to his room and I proceed to make my coffee and wake up.   But, today is my fourteenth wedding anniversary and SMM (Sergeant Major Mommy) is still in bed which mean I can prepare my card and gifts for her to surprise her when she wakens.

In the meantime, I hear giggles coming out of the boys’ room.  I figure, it’s not very loud, so MAYBE everything is ok, Archie is just amusing himself in a seven-year-old way.

I drink my coffee and relish a few moments in front of the TV.  The clock keeps ticking until approximately 6:45 when it becomes the time to officially wake the little buggers and wake SMM up.  I have heard random giggles, but still not very loud.

I check on the little buggers and Archie is underneath Morty’s covers.  Morty is still underneath his covers, too.  Morty knows that Archie is a rabble rouser, but Morty chooses not to let his rabble be roused cause he would like to stay in bed.

I ask what you would like for breakfast, cereal or waffles, and they both repeat in unison, WAFFLES!  At least, now I know.

My surprise is ready to spring on SMM and I enter the bedroom and she is still sleeping until I say, Happy Anniversary, honey and she springs to life.  Well, that’s a relative term, she turns over and mumbles happy anniversary to me, leans up to give me a kiss and then turns over again.

I trek to the kitchen and discover that the waffles have inconveniently left the building.   Oh no. I have to break the news to the little buggers as gently as possible if I am to remain alive.

Morty takes the news in stride.  He likes his cereal and it is usually not a big disappointment not to have waffles and have cereal.  Archie erupts like a Zombie on fire and explodes out into the kitchen to discover if I am, in fact, lying or if he will HAVE TO EAT something else.  He rips open every cabinet door and almost tears the doors off the refrigerator looking for his waffles.  In a frenzy, when he can’t find them, he turns to me screaming and crying, “WHERE’S MY WAFFLES?”

You would think I just told him that he would have to be in school every day for the remainder of his life!  Which, of course, he will, but he doesn’t know that yet.

In a moment of clarity and enlightenment, I offer an alternative solution, Dinosaur Eggs, which are oatmeal and real Tyrannosaurus Rex’ dinosaur eggs.  I don’t even know how they got the dinosaur to lay the eggs or how they saved them for 65 million years.  But, I don’t care.  All I care about is feeding my Archie.

Breakfast is served.  SMM eventually gets out of bed and begins preparing the lunches.  She discovers my surprises I left for her, we kiss, and then get back to the task at hand, getting the boys ready for school.  After all, we have all day to celebrate our anniversary, but only thirty more minutes for the boys to brush their teeth and get dressed.  Don’t forget, today is picture day, she smilingly reminds me.

The teeth get brushed and lunches made and packed.  It’s time for getting dressed.  I get the underwear, socks and pants out of the drawers.  I usually let the boys pick out their own shirt.  Ok, I could let them pick out everything, but they wouldn’t get to school AT ALL if we waited for that.  SMM gets the shirts and hands them to me saying, “You need to iron these first.”  The shirts are a baby blue, denim-type of material that really need the ironing thing.  I mean, even I can see that.  The bad news is that I am the “iron-er” in my family.  SMM, has not only never done any yard work, she has never ironed anything ever.  What can I say, I still love her.

I iron the shirts and bring to the boys to put on.  SMM tells them that these are their “picture taking” shirts.

The Zombie Apocalypse begins.

The zombie, formerly known as Archie, explodes and starts running around the house daring us to catch him.  The zombie, formerly known as Morty, starts crying and screaming at us, “How do you expect me to wear THIS?  The other kids will laugh at me.  The teachers will laugh.  The janitor will laugh.  Do you not love me anymore?  Have you not considered the emotional damage a careless act of perverse consumerism could affect my whole life?”

SMM and daddy (me, moi, numero uno, big daddy, Mr. Right) spend the next 15 minutes chasing, consoling, calming, comforting, pleading, begging, lying, promising anything to get the little buggers/zombies to wear these nice shirts so they will look nice when they get their pictures taken.

7:58am.  Time to get coats on and head out to catch the bus.  Archie is still complaining.  Morty is still crying.  Archie walks out with daddy right behind.  I stoop to one knee and tell him how proud I am of him and that his shining personality will certainly shine through to the pictures today.  He replies, “Not with this shirt.”

Morty comes out, still vocalizing his disapproval of the shirt.  He threatens to boycott law school if he has to wear this shirt.  I say, that’s nice, but law school is still a couple of years away and, in the meantime, he will look nice in the shirt when he does get his picture taken.

In a moment of Divine intervention, the bus comes before Morty files a civil claim against his parents for malfeasance.

The boys get on the bus.  Daddy retires to the house to find SMM and begin the anniversary festivities.   We’ve survived the Zombie Apocalypse.