Faithful readers know that on Sunday we make blueberry muffins for breakfast. That almost didn’t happen today.
First a little backstory. Yesterday (Saturday) my wife’s sister hosted a couple’s shower for my oldest son and his fiancee. It was a good day of fellowship with family and friends. And there was a fantastic brunch; two types of breakfast casserole, biscuits and gravy, homemade cinnamon rolls, and a variety of fruit. One of the trays was decorated with pieces of pineapple and watermelon hearts on skewers.
Of course there were leftovers. We came home with a small pan of breakfast casserole, biscuits and gravy, and a dozen cinnamon rolls. (My wife’s family always makes enough that you take home some leftovers!)
Last night as my wife and I talked about the day and the plan for breakfast on Sunday, the idea of just using the leftovers was a tempting option. But in my head I thought, ‘but it is Sunday, we make muffins and scrambled eggs and sausage.’ Plus, all our children would be at breakfast. That hasn’t happened in a long time.
I said that we should make our traditional blueberry muffin breakfast. My wife agreed. So, we got up early to make the muffins, but we still warmed up the breakfast casserole. A few of the kids added a cinnamon roll to their plates. And the morning was filled with laughter and conversation. We were a full family at the table.
Now, I understand that offering just the leftovers would have been fine. But blueberry muffins are a tradition. And sometimes, you have to work at keeping traditions. It is one of the ironies of life, how easy it is to do the easy thing and break traditions, or good habits you have fostered.
Our daily life is filled with moments that challenge us to choose an easy option, or an option that takes a little more work or energy, but has a better payoff and builds stronger bonds. Or, in our case continue a tradition that is central to our family. Blueberry muffins on Sunday morning.
Dadlife… it is amazing to look back at these moments knowing how my children have grown. But also how the lessons from these moments still hold true… Original post is from April 2010.
“Communicate”
It was 1:10 in the morning and my 4-month-old daughter is antsy. I get up and find the pacifier. No go. She spits it out. I try again. She settles down. I creep back to my bed. Pull the blanket over me and feel the quiet darkness of sleep fill my mind.
“Augghrrr, Augghrrr, whaaaa,” she cries.
With a sigh only a frustrate parent knows, I head back to the crib. I try the pacifier again, but she is not settling down. OK, diaper? I set her down and get a clean diaper on her. Lay her down, repeat the bed, cover, darkness of sleep and she repeats her audible noise of discontent.
My wife groggily suggests a 4-ounce bottle. So, I head upstairs. I am actually waking up by this time. My wife feeds her, I fall back asleep.
In a blur of slumber and frustration, my daughter wakes me up. It is now 1:36. I go for the pacifier, again. We fall into a pacifier, spit it out, pacifier; spit it out routine with a few of those frustrated sighs thrown in for fun.
I pick her up. In the darkness, I can see her looking at me. Then her eyes close. For the next five minutes, I rock her in my arms. Victory. I lay her down, check the pacifier and head to my pillow.
1:52. My frustration level is now high. But I squash it. Let out a good 30-second sigh and head to the crib. Next trick is laying her on her belly. This time it works. With a last little sigh, from her, the night continues.
As a fall asleep, I think about how much easier it would be if she could only tell me what she wants, or what is bugging her. My mind wanders about that idea, about how many of life’s hardships are based on this premise. The ability to communicate. To communicate truthfully. To simply express what is bugging us. To tell the people around us what we need. Many times, we are afraid of what will happen if we do. What will the other person think? Does this make me look weak? Do I have the words to actually express what I am feeling?
I see the negative consequences of not communicating in the classroom and in life. I see people just continue to be “antsy” and live everyday in a constant agitated state, simply because they will not or cannot communicate what they need.
I hear my little girl sleeping soundly, I had figured out what she wanted. But, I cannot wait until she can tell me in her own words.
4:50 a.m. It is the alarm clock this time. I restrain from telling the clock what I feel this morning….
Looking back on these older posts have been a personal challenge. This post from Feb 4, 2008, is an interesting look back on my teaching career and the challenges of being a father.
“Happiness”
Lately in class, Happiness is a sub-theme of some of the literature I am teaching. Gretchen Rubin is doing a Happiness project that she will present in a book this year. Recently, I filled out a 25 Fact Note project on Facebook, one of my posts was that I was not as happy as people think. There is a long story that goes with that post, but this entry is not about my past. It is about Happiness and the destruction of it.
I experienced unadulterated happiness this morning. My littlest girl is about three months old. She smiles and coos regularly now. She loves to have her feet rubbed. It sends her into a rush of smiles and flaying arms and legs. When I get close to her and start to speak, she searches for me with her eyes. When she finds me, she unleashes a smile and tries to sit up to get closer to me. Happiness rushes through me as a father. I can see the outward expression on her face that she is happy.
My oldest child is now eight. He is smart as a whip. So much that I have to be careful of what I say because he can argue a point by using my words against me. Lately, he has not been happy. Most of the reason for that is me. My expectations I have for him. My wife says we are too alike. She is correct. I have been working on my side of the relationship. However, what hit home was a picture on my desk.
A couple of nights ago as I was paying bills, I looked up as I was doing math in my head and glanced up to a picture of me reading to my oldest son when he was about a year old. He is outright laughing, pure happiness. What happen?
What happen to my students? Many days I stand in front of the class and look out to a sea of faces that show no joy. Pure happiness is a rare occasion. Even when they are engaged in the lesson, I hear hollowness to the laughter, a slight downward tint to their smiles. What happen?
I know that the answer is only visible through each student’s life. But as a father and as a teacher I think I know my role in the destruction of their happiness. Pressure. All kinds of pressure.
With my youngest happiness is based on two things.
One: I see you.
Two: Interactions.
As I look at my relationship as a father with my oldest, I see two things.
One: I see you, usually in a critical way.
Two: Interaction, mostly, do what I say, or hurry up, or some other form of pressure based on my expectations of how I want my children to act.
You think I would learn. When I am at my best as a dad I interact with my oldest on the simple level of happiness.
One: I see you and love you.
Two: Interact by showing that.
Then we both experience happiness (not to mention we get weird looks at K-mart because of our laughter).
As a teacher it is more complicated. I have pressure from all kinds of sources. I know that I pass that on to the class. I don’t mean to, but it happens. Yet, if we look inside the classroom, why do students raise their hands? They want to be seen and interacted with. Why do they show us their work as we walk around the room? They want to been seen and interacted with. Can I bring real happiness to my classroom, I don’t know. But I will see and try. One student at a time.
Friday afternoon my youngest daughter and I played “How Close to the Ceiling Can You Throw the Ball?” A childhood classic!
As we dealt with errant throws and bad attempts at catching the ball when it ricocheted off the ceiling, we made up a crazy theory game, “Theory has it…”
“Theory has it you already missed the catch.”
“Theory has it that you are an elephant on another planet.”
“Theory has it you met Taylor Swift in elementary school.” (She’s a Swifty.)
The theory game got super silly, there were a few good throws at the ceiling, but we spent a lot of time getting up from the floor to retrieve the purple Pizza Ranch ball. There were no phones or screens (we would play Minecraft later). We wasted a lot of time that afternoon. Wasted time on us. Wasted time feeling joy.
This is an essay I wrote. It was not accepted for publication but I still wanted to share it.
“Meeting Death”
I finally met death in June of 2023.
OK, I didn’t meet death personally, but I knew he was outside my mother’s hospital room. I could feel him standing there, like a cowboy. Leaning against the wall, one leg up, bent with his foot against the wall. Hood draped over his head, hand casually holding his scythe, just waiting.
Over the years, Death has taken some important people from my life. My grandmother when I was in high school. A beloved principal I worked with for almost a decade. Maybe the most gut wrenching was the death of a former student. She was killed by a drunk driver who had a suspended license because of seven DUIs. It was her freshman year in college.
So I knew the heartache death brings to us, but I had never met him. Until my mother was admitted to the hospital, fighting colon cancer that had taken over almost every part of her body. I rushed 500 miles to see her. A trip I knew well because I had traveled that route home since April of 2023 every couple of weeks. Yes, you counted correctly, three months.
When my wife and I arrived at the hospital, I felt the difference in the air. The hallways seemed darker on the edges. As we hugged family members in the waiting room there was a silent moment when we broke the embrace. A lingering hand on the shoulder. A simple nod. Death had removed his name from our mind, but we knew…I knew Death was there.
So did my mom. I am still haunted by the way her eyes turned back time when we said good night. I saw her as a child afraid of the dark. She gripped my sister’s hand like a child crossing the street for the first time. Of course she said she would be fine alone. But her eyes pleaded for us not to go. The hospital was quiet. Visiting hours had ended, but the nurses didn’t rush us off. My wife and I had not checked into our hotel yet. My brother had taken my dad home so he could get some rest. My sister’s family was supposed to arrive soon. The nurses would be there if she needed anything.
I was torn. And to this day I feel like I should have stayed, even though Death did not visit her that night. At the time I didn’t think he would, I didn’t feel him waiting in the hallway, and that influenced my decision to leave and get checked into our hotel.
The next morning the sun was shining bright as I walked into my mom’s room. But it only created dark shadows in the corners. I caught my breath as I thought I saw the blade of Death’s scythe catch a ray of the sun, but it was only the metal part of my mom’s IV. I spent most of the day by mom’s side. Holding her hand, talking to her when she was awake.
I am a poet. And poetry helps me understand the world. As the day turned to night, I had a refrain play in my head, “while death waits.” Which became a poem and the title of my latest collection of poetry. But at the time I was emotionally trying to keep Death in the hallway. He could lean against the wall all he wanted. I was going to be a son for as long as I could.
And Death did wait. He waited until I was back home to take my mom. Death waited until she was home.
My mom was released Sunday afternoon from the hospital. Her body had found a state of being that allowed her to go home. Hospice care was arranged, a new bed was being delivered to the house later in the week. That Wednesday she had a good report from the doctor. The chemo seemed to be working, in the sense of allowing her to have more time. Death does not believe in time.
My dad called Friday morning. I remember the sky was so blue as he shared that mom had passed away earlier that morning as he sat by her bedside. I wanted to ask if he had seen Death in the shadows, but there were too many tears between us.
In September of 2023, my wife lost her mom. My mother-in-law was at home with her husband by her side. They live in the same town as us. That last month, my wife spent many nights with her mom and dad. I’ve never had the courage to ask my wife if she felt Death waiting in the house.
Because I know now that Death doesn’t actually wait.
I have had three moments recently that reinforced the power of choosing my reactions to situations. Did I make the right choice? Overall I think so, but let me share these three dots…
First situation was a few days ago. It was time for dinner but our youngest daughter was not home. She is 10 years old. We knew where she was, she had ridden her bike to a friend’s house about eight blocks away. Frustration started to boil in my chest as the food was almost ready to serve and there was no sign of my daughter.
I decided to take the car to go get her. In my head I was mad because she should know to come home around 6 p.m. because we usually eat at that time. But then I thought of the fact that she does not have a phone or even a watch. Also, the weather is getting nice, she is a kid playing with a friend… time has no influence on her, just me.
I saw them on the driveway playing some kind of ball game. I rolled down the window. The moment had come to decide how I was going to handle the moment. Yell at her? Lecture her about being responsible?
“Time for dinner!” I said.
“OK,” she replied, smiling. She hugged her friend then got on her bike. She peddled next to me as I told her how fast she was going.
As we sat down to dinner she told me that she had asked her friend’s dad to let her know when it was 6:15 so that she would come home in time for dinner.
Second moment was yesterday at track practice.
I chose to yell. OK, more like raised my voice and brought out my frustrated energy.
Now, I did not yell at a single athlete or put anyone down. But I stood in the middle of the discus ring while the throwers stood around me. Their attitude and focus was shabby as they did some power throws. No left arm. Not smashing the bug (turning the right foot). Being smooth with their release… discuses were wobbly or 90 degrees. I was frustrated that the fundamentals were lacking, especially since this was the seventh week of the season. I let them know.
I am not a coach that yells. I stay pretty level, even when good things happen. I needed their attention. I got it. Practice afterwards was much better regarding focus and execution of the fundamentals.
The last moment was just this morning. My third daughter (age 14) came to my room before school started. She was obviously in a bad mood. As a dad I asked about it. (I know all you parents are already reacting… wrong move.) She replied that the question was annoying and put her earbuds back in.
My first reaction was to match her energy back at her. But I pushed the frustration down. I told her I was asking because I cared. She didn’t respond back. I continued to get ready for the day. My chest was still a little warm, but reminded myself that she was a teen, it was the morning. (I swear I didn’t say a single word to my second son in the morning all through high school.)
I went to get a ladder because I had to put up some posters my students made, when I returned my daughter asked if she could help. She wanted to climb the ladder. She took some funny pictures and helped me put up the posters.
Our emotions rise quickly in any situation, positive or negative. And there is nothing wrong with the emotions, but how we react to the situation and to the emotion dictates the outcome. My relationship with my daughters could have been bruised if I had yelled at them. My athletes needed a wake up call.
We do have a choice on how we react. It makes all the difference in some of the most important moments of our lives.
We finally got out of the house today. It was late morning, we had our traditional Sunday morning breakfast, but we were running low on milk and other supplies because we stayed home for two and a half days as another snow storm hit our area.
During the last three days, I adventured out a handful of times to clear a path on the driveway. I battled new drifts each time. And of course had to deal with the pile of snow the plows leave at the end of the driveway every time they clear our cul-de-sac.
It was cold! No, we do not own a snow blower, so I cleared the driveway (four times) with a shovel. Besides taking a lot of time, it was peaceful work. Scoop, fling, repeat. I watched the drifts fall and found my way to the street. Of course I had to repeat the process because of the storm, but it was good work.
After muffins this morning, I had to tackle a new drift. The wind had died down during the night and this drift was a piece of cake compared to the first round. I had our driveway cleared in less than 20 minutes.
But what struck me this morning was how fast a new routine was developed. Of course the storm lasted for two days, but in fact I have the routine of clearing the driveway whenever there is a storm. And I scoop, fling and repeat.
Routines get a bad rap sometimes. I understand that, especially when a routine feels never ending. I was tired of seeing new drifts form on the driveway, yet as I cleared the snow I saw the street get closer. Some routines are never ending… washing dishes, laundry, just life in general can feel mundane.
But, if we hold to that thought, the routine will feel heavy and joyless. I enjoyed shoveling the snow. I enjoy making muffins every Sunday, and tonight I washed dishes while listening to music. I stopped to dance to one of my favorite songs, “Remind Me” by Tom Grennan. My daughters laughed, my wife gave me ‘the look’ but I was enjoying the moment. (Of course I was wearing headphones and I can’t sing very well!)
Because without the routines, what would happen to our everyday life? If I don’t shovel the driveway, we are running out of food. Let alone the dishes or laundry. Routines are small moments that help make life run smoothly, but more importantly, opportunities to feel everyday joy.
In 2021 Kevin Garnett wrote a cool book, KG: A to Z: An Uncensored Encyclopedia of Life, Basketball, and Everything in Between. Instead of a traditional narrative structure, KG told his story by creating a personalized encyclopedia. The reader could look up a topic or word to read his insight or his story connected to that word like an encyclopedia. It was a cool book to read.
The past 10 months have been challenging. My perspective has been challenged on many different levels. Certain words or ideas have been the focus of some of those challenges. I thought it would be useful to use the same organization KG did for his book for this blog post. So, here is my Life Encyclopedia.
Art: The expression of the heart. See also, music, poetry, writing.
Blogging: See writing.
Death: The natural end of our time here. Everybody knows that death awaits for us all. Yet, we do not actually live like we know this truth. We waste time on petty issues, or involved with our screens in some mindless activity. We tend to live like tomorrow will always be there, so we feel like we can let today slide. I wonder what life would look like if we actually lived like we knew our time here ends.
Dreams: I debated on whether to use ‘dreams’ or ‘goals’ for this section. I decided on ‘dreams’ for two reasons. First, it sounds more poetic. Second, I feel that a dream can be accomplished, but even then a dream can still pull at your heart. And chasing our dreams should be part of our everyday existence. The pursuit of making our dreams a reality is what fills our spirit. Makes the hard days easier to endure. Our dreams are our purpose for being here. Some dreams change, some become reality, while we chase others our whole life. That is the beauty of having a dream.
Family: This is the most complex life topic I’ve been dealing with over the last year. Family has been a central issue all of my life. From living separately with both biological parents, to walking away from most of my bloodline, that allowed me to start my own family.
There is the crutch of the idea of family. As a dad I have a saying (OK, I have a handful of sayings), “Family gets your best behavior.” The heart of this is to remind everyone that the most important people should not be treated better than strangers. Yes, there are disagreements and challenges to work through, but they are handled with love. Our home is the safest place in this world for everyone.
I never felt safe or truly loved growing up. I knew that, at different times, that alcohol and other people mattered more than me. Even as I’ve learned more about who my biological father was after his passing, I still wonder why I didn’t matter. Why their son was not worth their time or love.
Blood doesn’t define family. I mattered to Wayne and Janine (for new readers, Janine is my mom that passed away last summer). I found a home that was filled with love that showed me what a family could be like. No, it wasn’t perfect. This household isn’t perfect, but the foundation is love and acceptance. That is how a family is built.
Friends: Yes, a friend can be seen as family, but I think real friendship is its own unique relationship that allows it to be a separate component of life. I don’t have a lot of real friends. Oh, I have many friends and acquaintances, but honestly, I have one best friend. We have been friends since junior high. Yes, we have had some rough spots, and yes, it was over a girl, but what makes our friendship strong is knowing that we have each other’s back. We share our dreams and hardships. Even though we are miles apart, we do fun things, like right now we are sharing our top 100 songs of all time, but doing it one day at a time. We have been there for the big moments; we both were each other’s best man for our weddings. A friend is part of your foundation that brings a different kind of joy and support.
Learn: The act of becoming who you are through different means; such as reading, living, questioning and other experiences.
Life: This moment right now, which is a mix of the past, dreams for the future, and the current emotion to create a unique experience for all of us.
Love: The center of life.
Music: One of the many artistic elements that build bridges between people. For me it is a sanctuary. I always had the radio to accompany me when I changed houses, changed parents, changed my life. There is nothing like sharing a song with someone, finding common ground in lyrics and music.
Poetry: The way I understand this life. The artist way I can make sense of my emotions while processing the questions I have about how life unfolds. By writing poetry I understand myself more. By studying the art form I become better at writing, but also thinking, which allows me to come to terms with both the joys and sorrows of this life. Poetry also allows me to build connections with other people, other artists, other poets. I do not trust many people, but I trust poetry.
Real: My word for this year. This might be the hardest word for me because I do not show the real me to too many people besides in my poetry and other writings. The reason for this blog post is me trying to live by my word. At the moment I am skeptical that I can live up to it in this world that is quick to destroy anyone that tries to be real.
Writing: Poetry is my first love, but I wrote my first short story in fifth grade. I have been blogging for decades now. Writing, in all forms, gives me a sense of being. In a way it allows me to be the real me. Writing is like praying for me, even at this moment I have my “Writing” playlist going, I am pondering questions of the past, considering a few future opportunities I have and feeling some strong emotions that encompass a broad range – I am living.
If you are a faithful reader of my blog you know I write a lot about being a father, but this blog post will be written as a son. And I have no idea where it will go. All I know is that I need to write something to help deal with finding out today that my biological father has passed away.
There are so many emotional elements that I am processing right now.
The first is dealing with the third death in less than a year. The harsh reality that our time here is limited and unknown. But I’m going to leave this topic for another day.
This post is about me as a son. Of spending most of my life dealing with the question of why I was never important enough for either of my parents to love me, to raise me, to guide me in this life. And now I won’t have the chance to ask my father… or as any son deeply desires, to know if he was proud of me.
A blog post is not enough space to tell my whole story. To bring forth the pain his absence created in my life and does still to this day. And I am scared of the feelings I will have tomorrow.
He never saw me play football in high school or in college. He has never seen his six grandchildren. I never had my father to ask advice from. He lived his life as if I wasn’t here.
And yes, I know that some of you are asking why I didn’t reach out to repair the relationship. First, a single blog post can not cover the craziness of my younger years. The alcohol and drug use my parents partook in, living with them with their new wife or husbands, moving from city to city. As I grew older, I understood how I was seen as a burden at times or other times simply forgotten by both of my parents.
And as I started a family, worked at being a good dad, I became even more angry at both of my parents because I did a good job of being a dad. Yes, it was hard at times, I have sacrificed for them, but I am proud of my kids. And that deep rooted question grew even more in my heart.
Why couldn’t my parents love me? Why wasn’t I worth their time?
There was a moment when my father and I reconnected for a brief second. We saw each other in person (a crazy story) and a few letters were sent back and forth but in the end it was clear that nothing had changed. I wasn’t a son he wanted to be a father to (he had another family). So I went on living my life, never having the question answered.
But I am his son. And it hurts to even think about what could have been, maybe what should have been.
I believe all children, but especially sons, just want to know that their father is proud of them. Sadly, now, I will never know. I am left believing he didn’t care… and that hurts the most.
I have had a small phrase tumbling in my head for a few weeks. I’ve wanted to write about it the day I heard it, but life has been pretty busy, and I think it wanted me to experience some dots connected to the phrase before I wrote about it.
This post will center more on the phrase and the thoughts I have about it in our lives. The moments I experienced (the dots) may be mentioned, but sometimes the lessons are for me, not the blog.
At church, a couple of weeks ago, during the sermon, Father said a simple sentence that just woke me up. It was one of those moments when a truth hits hard because you hear it in a new way or from someone different. If you are a constant reader of my blog you might be surprised why this phrase hit me so hard because you’ve read posts that align with what Father said…
He said, “We are free to love.”
I’m not even sure what the homily was about, my mind and heart just took off with understanding and agreement. Then questions on why we don’t live this…
Let that sit for a moment. Feel the liberating sense of joy bubbling deep inside your chest. Knowing that you can smile, tell someone to have a good day. You can dance to your favorite song. Hug your kids. Hug your parents. Write a poem (or a blog post). Walk under the stars and let the knowledge that you are standing under a million stars. That you were given this moment to love… to love life, to love others, to love yourself.
Why don’t we live this way?
In answering this question let me share just a little bit about one of the dots life gave me, my mother’s memorial. It was a graveside ceremony that my dad presided over. I read two poems at different times during the ceremony. When my dad brought up the moment I became part of the family, I broke down a little. See, my parents did not have to include me. My siblings did not have to include me. It’s a long story, but they chose to love me as a son, as a brother, as family.
The first part of why we don’t live with the ‘freedom to love’ is choice. Now I’ve written about this in a number of past posts. But there is something different about the mindset to the idea of ‘the freedom to love.’ The choice to love is more of a gift of ourselves than a responsibility we check off of our to do list. And I love giving gifts!
But giving a gift has its risks, which is also why we don’t live such joyful lives. REJECTION and all the complicated emotions and pain that come from someone rejecting our gift, in this case our love.
Not going to sugar coat this. It hurts. It can break us when we love someone with every space available in our hearts, and they walk away.
I don’t have a magical potion that will take that pain away. I’ve been there, I still deal with the effects of some devastating moments. What I know is that giving my love to people that accept my gift is one way to heal. I also know love may be the only thing that grows the more you give it away. we are free to love as much as we want.
We are free.
We are free to love.
To love others, to love life, to love ourselves.
I hope you accept this blog as my gift to you, with love.
It is all Connected 