Nailing It & Failing It & Fumbling It

Garren and Katy's wedding. May 14, 2021.

Somehow, almost poetically, Katie is out of town over Father’s Day. Leaving me to get a very clear and accurate sense of my fatherhood prowess. 

Is there a way to measure your dad-ness? 

Like, as an employee, at work, you get a raise or a promotion. Or fired. In a relationship, you love spending time together, even doing mundane things – or you even have that more visceral “gaze factor,” where you are looking at each other and you know you’re seeing your whole world. Or you get fired. 

But parenting? 

Unofficially, somewhere in my mind, I keep undocumented notes of three areas: 1. Have I done what I can to make sure my kids know I love them? 2. Have I done what I can to create memories with them? 3. Have I done what I can to apologize when I get it wrong? 

I can tell you that for me, like most of life, these things are measured in the small, little moments (cue Rob Thomas’s Little Wonders). Not that you can total them up and if your ledger is in the black then you’re a good dad. “Oh, look, I am 51% nailing it – my kids are so fortunate.” Each moment stands on its own, and I suppose I take stock in the times when I sense that my kids feel loved. I certainly notice when I feel loved, too. 

I feel loved when Abbie walks into a room I’m in and no matter what else is going on, she comes over and rests her head on my chest and hugs me. Or like when Garren invites me to come play racquetball with him and his friends, knowing (or hoping?) that I won’t embarrass him. Or like when Connor was neck-deep in the doctrine and principles of all things Marvel Universe and he left a note for me on my bed that said, “Dear Dad, you are my favorite superhero.” Like when I come home from anywhere and Hillary (age 7 and keeping me young), will scream, “Dad!” and come running to hug me. And like every time one of my children says, “Dad, can I talk to you?” because they know I’m on their side, in their corner, and love them so ridiculously much that their problems are my problems. And that I’ll even usually put my phone down to talk to them! Those are all moments of success to me. 

I don’t think I need to assure you that I have a bumper crop of Parenting Fails, as well. Like the time somebody called our home and one of my little kids answered it and just put the phone down without telling Katie or I, so my friend on the line could overhear me lecturing one of my kids for a world-record amount of time. The time one of my kids was in tremendous pain and crying about their stomach so persistently that I began to wonder if it was appendicitis and took them to the ER to find out that it was absolutely nothing – and instead of being relieved, I thought to myself, “Well, you little punk, your little tummy-ache just cost me $1,500.” Or the time my daughter went through a major break up and I thought she might enjoy watching 500 Days of Summer together. Or every time I buy Little Caesar’s Pizza, which is for sure slowly killing all of us, slice by slice. 

For the sake of time – and so that you can get to your Father’s Day Nap – I’m going to share three moments on my mind today: A time I nailed it, a time I completely failed, and a time it could have gone either way. I’m a little embarrassed to share these, as they are close to my heart and not exactly flattering. I realize nobody is forcing my hand, here. I guess I just feel like sharing, if you feel like listening. 

Nailed It

In May 2017, U2 was touring in support of their 30th anniversary of The Joshua Tree album. The album of my youth … and pretty much every year since my youth. I had raised my children on this album, and they knew every song. This was “our band.” The closest concert to us was in San Francisco, at Levi’s Stadium. And with the help of my brother, we secured general admission tickets and were standing directly in the action for one of the most incredible concert-going experiences of my life and theirs. There were literal tears. This was logistically complicated, financially irresponsible, and an incredibly difficult feat to pull off. It was effort-full. But it was amazing and absolutely worth it. It was a memory that my older kids will always keep. 

Failed It

Years ago, when Becca was 3 years old, we piled into our 12-passenger van and drove to the other side of Las Vegas for an event. It was a hectic day and we were scrambling and actually arrived to our event late. I started hollering out commands before we even parked – to “grab your things” and “make sure you are fully dressed” (summer in Las Vegas leads to various levels of undress when you’re in a car). We parked and climbed out of the car like we were firemen running to a fire. We sped into the event, found our seats, and began to catch our breaths … when after a while, an internal alarm went off, and I did a headcount. We were down a child. After a moment, I realized Becca wasn’t with us. I made eye-contact with Katie and with my shoulders shrugged, mouthed, “Where’s Becca?” Katie’s face immediately matched mine, and my stomach sunk. 

It is generally a group effort when we go anywhere – to grab the necessary props and to help younger kids get unbuckled from their car seats and get shoes on, etc. But in the bustle of not being any later than we were, it had become an “every man for himself” situation, and it dawned on me that of course Katie would be attached to the baby (Lucy) and it was assumed by the rest of us that “someone else” would help Becca. It should have been me. Whenever there’s a baby, Katie is attached to the baby, and I am assigned Former Baby duty, watching over the next youngest who still wants to be attached to Mom, but it’s now somebody else’s turn. 

I sprinted from the building to the van faster than any human has ever run anywhere. I ripped open the side-door of the van, frantic. Becca’s head whipped around to meet my eyes. The sound of the door being yanked open had startled her. She had fluids running from every orifice of her face, but she had passed the point of crying and was now doing that thing you do when you’ve finally stopped crying and your entire body is hiccuping. (This memory pains me so much, I am sincerely crying again as I write this, and it’s been 10 years.) She started crying again and in this apologetic tone, said, “I had an accident. I wet my pants. I was crying and crying for you, Dad. But you didn’t hear me.” Is there anything more painful than a child – at any age – telling you that they needed you – that they cried for you – but you didn’t hear them? There. Is. Not. 

Fumbled but Stuck the Landing [My apologies for mixing sports metaphors]

Some years ago, when Tanner was 10 years old, there was a morning when he was particularly pushing my buttons. Our neighbors, an elderly couple, had called and asked Katie if we could send a couple of our kids over to help in their garden for an hour or so. No, we don’t live in Mayberry, but isn’t that the sweetest thing? Doesn’t that take you back to a simpler, gentler time? Well, 10-year-old Tanner was unmoved by the request. Katie had asked Tanner and a couple of his sisters to go help. Tanner flippantly said, “I’m not doing that,” and walked off. Katie let Tanner know that yes, in fact, he was going to do that. He still refused. I firmly told Tanner, “Look, your mom has given you ‘an instruction,’ and you don’t have a good excuse for why you can’t help – so you’re going over to help.” He walked off. A few minutes later, the girls were on their way out the door and called back, “We’re going over to the neighbors to help in the garden.” “Is Tanner with you?” I yelled back. “No,” said Roxanna, “He’s in his room. He said he wasn’t coming to help.” This blew my mind. What, in the name of all that grows in a garden, did he think he was doing? And on a morning when I was already out of sorts? He picked the wrong day to draw this line in the garden sand. 

I marched up to his room, making the loudest footsteps I could to communicate my disbelief and fury, and kicked open his door as I raised my voice. “Get your shoes on and get over to the neighbors – NOW.” He didn’t jump up and with the speed of a cartoon character to run past me and out the door to the neighbors … but he didn’t roll his eyes either. He moved reluctantly, but he moved. This didn’t temper me. I watched him walk out the door and I updated Katie and told her, “When he gets back, he and I are going for a little drive so I can talk to him more about this.” 

I know this entire scenario seems like the smallest of infractions. He hadn’t lied or hurt anyone or stolen something or anything like that. He just copped a huge attitude and he seemed pugnacious about the entire situation. And oh, you guys, I was cooking up a Grade A lecture for him. When he got back from helping the neighbors, I was going to give him the business. 

Tanner walked in the door with his sisters, came right up to me, hugged me, and said, “I’m sorry I had a bad attitude earlier, Dad. I’m glad I went. I feel really good about helping.” Isn’t that exactly what you’d want to hear? Oh, but it was too, too late for my sweet boy. I was not about to let my lecture go unused. “Go get in the car and let’s go for a drive,” I told him. 

We drove down the road a bit and I pulled into Ripples, for ice cream shakes – because maybe I needed to teach my son a lesson, but I’m not a monster, you guys. Everything goes smoother with ice cream. We sat down on a bench outside, across from each other. I was seconds from launching into my tirade when I heard a voice so clearly and so directly, I will never forget it. It said, “Praise your son. Praise your son right now … or he will lose confidence in you.” I didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but I knew it wasn’t good and it wasn’t what I wanted. 

“Tanner,” I started, “I want you to know how much I love you. And I want you to know how important and valuable you are to our family. Your influence in our family is part of what makes us who we are.” And I watched tears suddenly stream down my little boy’s face. Tanner is the fifth of eight children. Maybe he needed to feel seen or understood in that moment – or more often. Maybe he needed to know that apologizing for a bad morning is easily met with forgiveness. Maybe he needed to know his dad thought he was pretty amazing and important. Maybe his dad needed to recognize how blessed he was to be Tanner’s dad. 

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there who are nailing it, failing it, and fumbling along the way. What a gift, to be a dad. What a wonderful, heavy, hilarious, exhausting, beautiful, inspiring, heart-wrenching gift. 

Yes. I took a photo of the moment. I didn't want to forget it. 

Faith, Fatherhood & Food

Dear Friends, Family, Loved Ones, Loyal Blog Readers & Other Riffraff:

I am incredibly happy to announce that I’ve written a book! Just for you! Just in time for Christmas!

My debut book – Faith, Fatherhood & Food – is now available on Amazon. You can find it right here.

I am truly grateful for all of you who have offered words of encouragement over the years. From “If you wrote a book, I would probably read it” to “You’re an idiot if you don’t write a book” – all of these flattering words have landed right on my heart and inspired me.

This is a book of personal essays - comprised of many of these very blog posts found here, over the years - plus a handful of new ones written specifically for this publication. I really am excited to share them.

I have self-published on Amazon – which means that people will only know about it if you or I tell them about it. So, if you like it – or think you will like it – here’s what you can do:

1. Tell your friends about it!
2. Buy a copy for all your friends!
3. Leave a glowing review on Amazon!
4. … that about it, I guess.

If you don’t like it, here’s what you can do:

1. Go pound sand.

If you've read my blog and enjoyed these stories or meandering thoughts over the last decade or more, then you will absolutely enjoy the book. In fact, you'll have read most of it already! Think of it! Cracking open a book and being able to tell people, "I've read most of it already." They will think you are a speed-reader and super cosmopolitan!

Thank you, again. For reading, for visiting, for checking in from time to time. I haven't decided yet if I will shut down my blog entirely, or leave it up. I don't write as often as I used to - but it's nice to have a place to do it if I do feel like it. It is a privilege to write for an audience who gives you the benefit of the doubt.

I love you all.

A Father Is Born

I became a father on August 8, 1997, 8:42 a.m.

Katie and I had been married [just shy of] two years, and I felt comfortable and confident in my role as an adoring husband. I was less sure of myself in the role of a dad.

I don't remember this photo being taken, but I precisely remember sitting in that chair, holding Abbie. I remember feeling still. Present in the moment, and by the same measure, caught up in this sense of eternity. It was an instant when I felt like I should have the most profound observations and declarations to make; but for the life of me, I could not find a single, coherent word. I don't think I'm an exceptional writer or orator, but I had thought I was at least good enough to express what it's like to hold your newborn child. The words never came.  I felt them. I just couldn't say them. They seemed somehow deficient.

I remember the distinct impression that Abbie's spirit was older than mine. I don't know how doctrinally accurate that is, but it was a clear thought, in a sea of sleep-deprived thoughts.

I felt inadequate, underqualified, and flawed. But I also felt completely motivated by love. And I think that calmed me. I think love magnifies efforts, covers mistakes, and corrects foolishness. I hadn't left that hospital room yet when I felt like a dad for the first time, because I felt propelled by an undeniable love for this beautiful, heavenly-scented infant that was mine.

Your Life is An Occasion

We occasionally have Movie Night around our house. I kind of like to consider this one of my parenting contributions. Katie has her things; what, with the encouraging morals and values and preparing our children to be valiant, contributing members of society. But when it comes to introducing superheroes, Hobbits, Indiana Jones (with the face melting edited out), or the comical genius of Steve Martin and Martin Short singing “My Little Buttercup"...it's best to just leave that in my hands. 

Recently Abbie, my fifteen year old, asked if we could watch Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. I remember when it came out in theaters; which is saying something, because I don’t think it was there for very long. She had already seen it at somebody else’s house while babysitting. She’d even asked if we could watch it on a previous Movie Night, but I dismissed it because we needed to watch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs for a third time, instead.

Our lovely Abbie (on the right) and our cute Becca.

Having no real defense for not watching it, and recognizing that she had been patient when I turned my nose up at it the first time, I agreed. I was also interested to see why it was that Abbie loved it so. I was hoping maybe it would tell me something about her.

Now, please recognize that I am not recommending this movie to you. I don’t know your tastes; and this is a quirky movie that is certainly not everyone’s cup of Postum. But I will admit that this movie affected me, though in a way that I won’t suggest would or should affect everybody. But the stars kind of aligned for me, I guess, and it was a perfect storm.

In a nutshell, here is the story. Natalie Portman plays a 23 year-old musical prodigy, and works for Dustin Hoffman, the Mr. Magorium of said Wonder Emporium, which is essentially a magical wonderland. Now, when Natalie was younger, everyone told her she was a musical genius, a brilliant pianist. That she was special. And she believed them. But now she has grown up, and isn’t so sure.

There is no mention of Natalie’s parents, but Mr. Magorium is somewhat of a father figure to her. And she clearly cares for him, as if she were a daughter. So she is shocked the day that Mr. Magorium tells her that he is “leaving this life.” He is not depressed, and this is not about suicide. He has magically lived for more than a hundred years, and it’s simply “time to go.” He is not upset by this. But whoa-nelly, Natalie sure is! And she is not flattered that he wants to leave the store to her. On the contrary, she believes nobody can or should run the store but him; least of all, her. But before he goes, he gives her this wonderful, inspiring speech you can see below in this clip from the movie. He also tells her that she has this something in her. This sparkle. This uniqueness that makes her divine.

But Natalie still doesn’t feel it. 

After Mr. M is gone, there’s a scene where Natalie and Jason Bateman (who plays the no-nonsense accountant that Mr. Magorium hires to figure out what the store is worth) are in the store, after-hours, alone. It’s quiet, and she stands before Jason and asks him, “When you look at me, what do you see?”

“Really pretty eyes?” he guesses.

And she timidly asks back, “Do you see a sparkle?”

He’s confused.

She tries again. “Something reflective of something bigger, trying to get out.”

And that’s when I felt the lump in my throat.

I’m not exactly sure what that was about, but I believe it had something to do with my daughter. Maybe it’s because I could see similarities between Abbie and Natalie’s physical features, so I projected Abbie into that situation. Maybe it was because I thought of how Abbie was probably seeing herself in Natalie. Maybe it’s because I felt I was watching the story of a father, lovingly wanting to instill this confidence in his daughter, of how incredible and lovely and talented and capable and sparkly and delightful she is…and then to no longer be the prominent male figure in her life, because he is not there and she has grown up…and now she stands before this other man, and in complete vulnerability, asks him if he sees greatness in her. If he recognizes a sparkle. Asking him to validate the feelings and truths that were planted there years before.

And then my favorite part, at the end of the movie (spoiler alert), when Natalie has experienced the needed opportunities to prove to herself that she is all that Mr. Magorium promised her she was, and then – then, Jason Bateman sees the sparkle. Once she believed in herself, the sparkle was evident.

This is what the movie left me quietly reflecting on: I hope that despite my flaws and massive imperfections, my children believe me when I tell them there is greatness in them; that they sparkle. I hope they will remember their childhood and youth as a time they marinated in love. I hope that I am providing the opportunities they need to face experiences that require them to look up, rise up, and walk up; and that when they rise to the occasion, they recognize it. And that whomever they decide to spend their life and eternity with will see the sparkle and enhance it.

Do you have a comment? A quirky movie that affected you when you simply thought you were about to be bored for 80 minutes? Visit Part Time Authors, where this was posted this morning, and let me know.