The Daddy Diary

There are issues in society that deserve a healthy, intellectual discussion. Religion. Politics. The designated hitter rule. Whether chili should be made with or without beans. Whether Van Halen was better with David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar. I used to love a healthy debate, but now it seems now that society demands that the first move in any debate is to choose a position as far to the edge of either pole as you can go and then put that pole in a bear hug with both arms and never let go. And I hate that. Mainly because I really liked Van Halen with Sammy Hagar. I preferred David Lee Roth, but why do have to choose one? I mean, they were more energetic and fun with Diamond Dave, but they were probably a better band musically with Sammy. But I can’t say that because there is no room for nuance anymore.

With my blog, I’ve avoided polarizing or controversial topics for one reason – I don’t want to lose readers. To get a book published, a writer has to have a huge following. That’s the only thing you need. The writing can be complete crap, but if you have 50,000 readers you will get a book published. I get it. It’s a business and I have to play the game. I thought if I wrote something that could possibly offend someone, I might lose readers and any chance at a book deal. Well, screw it. I don’t have that many followers, and my odds of getting a book deal are about the same as Vladimir Putin winning the Nobel Peace Prize this year. So, if I lose all my readers because of my thoughts on the following topic, no hard feelings. I wish both of you nothing but the best.

The recent Supreme Court decision reminded me of a question I was asked after we learned about Audrey’s diagnosis. I addressed one of the nuances of this topic in my book. I’m not going to solve this problem or change anyone’s mind, and I don’t really want to do either. When you write a memoir, it has to be all or nothing, and this is a decision that every special needs parent has to deal with.

Here’s an excerpt from the book. Note: I wrote this a couple of years ago. As I’ve spent more time with Audrey, my thoughts haven’t changed, they’ve only strengthened.

Think about what you can accomplish in just 10 minutes.

You can dance the Wobble 1.8 times.

You can make ten batches of minute rice.

You could listen to the Macarena twice and still have one minute and forty-two seconds left to wonder how that song reaching #1 didn’t lead to the complete downfall of humanity as we know it.

(Note: If you are really in a hurry, you could make the minute rice while listening to the Macarena.)

You can stop and count all the politicians you truly admire and have ten minutes left to scroll through Twitter.

Or you could foster a relationship.

Every morning we put Audrey in her little kid’s chair on the couch and let her watch TV before we take her to Nana’s house. On her own, she got out of her chair, down off the couch, and did this. No prompting, no encouragement from Mom and Dad. Just did this on her own.

And to think there was a time when we weren’t sure if she would ever walk.

Red from “Shawshank Redemption” was right. “I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged.”

When Audrey was diagnosed with Charge Syndrome, I thought she would probably live with us forever. And I was totally okay with that. Now, I think she might leave the house way before Daddy is ready for her to go.

I turn 50 today. This means two things:

1. I have to write about it.
2. I pulled a muscle somewhere in my body just typing that sentence.

My mind has been wandering to many places the last few days. Some of those places are in the future. Some are in the past. Some make me laugh. Some make me cry. Here are some thoughts, realizations, observations, and lessons I’ve learned in 50 years.

In no particular order with no rhyme, reason, or agenda:

I’m getting older and more nostalgic as I go. It’s probably not healthy to spend so much time thinking about or dwelling on the past, but all it takes is hearing a few notes from a song, hearing someone quote a line from a movie, or driving by a spot where a restaurant used to be and you’ve lost me for the next several minutes, if not longer. My mind constantly takes me to a place where I end up reliving a moment from my past. I think that’s the reason the dial on SiriusXM tends to hang out on the 70’s and 80’s channels. It’s probably not the safest idea to have my mind on Raspberry Berets, wondering whatever happened to Jack and Diane, climbing up on Solsbury Hill, or reminiscing about the Summer of ’69 (even though I wasn’t born yet) while I’m driving, but hey, I’ve got to be me.

I can only hear “Sunday Bloody Sunday” on the record player between the twin beds in the room Scott and I shared growing up. And any tune by the Thompson Twins reminds me of spending the summers at White Water because that seemed to be the only tape (yes, I meant tape) the water park owned. And if I hear “Careless Whisper” by Wham, my mental time machine transports me staight back to the sixth-grade dance and the first time I danced with a girl. Here’s looking at you, Angie Fredd.

Sometimes I can name that memory in just three notes.

And if I’m flipping channels and run across a John Hughes movie, I’m putting down the remote control and spending the next two hours in Saturday detention or cruising around Chicago with Ferris.

Heck, sometimes I watch the Dallas Cowboys play only because it reminds me of the days when they could actually win a playoff game.

I get overly nostalgic every July 9th and November 26th. Those are important dates on my calendar, but ones I don’t have to circle. Those are my Dad’s birthday and the day he passed away. On those days, my mind is occupied with memories and laughs, and then more memories and laughs. I usually write something about him on those days, but I tend to keep my thoughts about him to myself the rest of the year unless I’m talking to my family or a friend who has also lost a parent. It’s tough to describe that bond in words. If you know, you know.

Everybody likes achieving goals, but you typically have to face a challenge to achieve them. Whenever I’m confronted with a challenge, I always have a plan of attack. I run away like a sissy and hope that the situation magically goes away. I didn’t say it was a great plan, but it’s gotten me this far. I plan to start my career as a motivational speaker by launching a series of YouTube videos. Be on the lookout for these instant classics:

“How to Claim Your Stake on the Bottom Rung of the Corporate Ladder”

“How to Gain More Weight While Reading Fewer Books”

“Turning the Other Cheek: How to Show Bullies They are the Boss”

For the single Guys – “How to Avoid Asking Her Out and Keeping her Perfect in Your Dreams Forever”

For the single Girls – “How to Have Fewer Dates and More Cats”

Every time I’ve locked myself securely in my comfort zone, my little girl does something to inspire me. Audrey is getting really good at using the walker. We don’t have long hallways in our house, so instead of making her do 793 laps around the dining room, we take her to the mall every Saturday morning so she can walk long distances. She can do 1.5 miles all on her own. She’s gotten so good at walking, it’s time for the next challenge – climbing stairs.

We had tried to get her to climb stairs (with assistance, of course), but she wasn’t a fan. Climbing stairs is really tough for her. The last time I took her mall walking, I couldn’t get her to even try to climb the stairs.

We brought the walker to church on Sunday, and she was walking outside the auditorium when she spotted a staircase. She wheeled the walker straight to the staircase by herself and looked back at mommy with an expression on her face that said, “We’re doing this.”

I’ve decided that I want to be more like Audrey. I don’t know what my next challenge will be. But when it comes, all I know is “We’re doing this.”

Everybody knows the story of the prodigal son. I always felt bad for the older brother in the prodigal son story. The prodigal son is the main character in one of the most famous stories ever told, but the older son didn’t even get a nomination for best supporting actor. I get why he resented his younger brother and his dad. He didn’t do anything wrong, but his screw-up brother got the fattened calf party. And everybody loves a fattened calf party.

I understand why the story is about the prodigal son and not the older brother. Struggles make for compelling stories. Audrey’s story was a struggle, and I find myself writing more stories about Audrey than Ella. I’ve always worried that Ella will resent Audrey because of that. Audrey didn’t do anything wrong like the prodigal son, and Audrey’s journey has been a much bigger struggle than Ella’s.

There is a list of questions that I just cannot say “no” to:

Would you like another beer?

Do you want to Whatasize that?

Were you aiming for that tree with your driver?

Have you been working out?

And now I have to add another:

“Daddy, will you play with me?”

When I was single, I remember thinking that having kids would just keep me away from happy hour.  Why would I want to drink fake tea when I can drink real beer?  Why would I want to watch a dance recital when I can watch a ball game?  Here’s the thing, I can’t remember a single conversation that I had from a decade of happy hours. And outside of a few exceptions, I cannot remember the details of any ball game that I’ve ever watched.  But I will never forget the look on Ella’s face when she was in dance class and smiled at me as she waved at me through the glass.  And I will never forget the time during a pretend tea party when out of the blue, Ella looked up at me and said, “I love you, Daddy.”  Both times I could feel my soul smile.  That has never happened to me in a bar.  

The reason I thought that tea parties and dance recitals would be boring was simple – I had not met Ella yet.  

Super Bowl Sunday. I remember watching the game with my dad every year. To some, football is just a game. On some level that is true, but having grown up in a generation where men weren’t as open emotionally, sports was a way for little boys to bond with their dads.

We never missed a Cowboy game, and if they were playing in the Super Bowl? That was practically a religious holiday in our house. I still watch the Super Bowl every year, but I don’t have the same reverence for Super Bowl Sunday as I did when I was younger. That is partly because the Cowboys have sucked for 26 straight years, but mostly because I can’t watch the game with my dad anymore. He’s been gone for almost six years now. Sometimes it seems like he’s been gone forever. Sometimes it seems like he passed away yesterday.

Memories of my dad came poring back as I was preparing to have people over to watch the Super Bowl. My preparations for having people over entailed watching my smoker while drinking beer on my patio. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

As I was “preparing,” I read an article by Sean Dietrich morning titled “Lost and Found” and more memories came pouring back. Sean reminisced about playing catch with his dad. I remember cleaning out my dad’s armoire when we were moving Mom out of the house I grew up in. My dad collected so much useless crap, and the armoire was his national archive. We found about forty pocket knives, which is 39 more than anyone would ever need. We also found several golf balls. Golf balls? I don’t know that the man ever played a round of golf in his life. But I remember the first thing I saw when I opened the door. Right at eye level, there was my little league baseball glove. I hadn’t thought about that glove for over 39 years. Mom said, “That was one of the first things he saw when he opened his armoire every morning.

A couple of weeks ago, after hearing Ella say that she wanted a drink to make herself feel better, I began to examine my parenting practices more closely to see how else I was messing up (and sometimes corrupting) my daughter. If I ever get my first book published, I’m already working on a sequel, “The Complete Guide to Screwing Up Your Children.” I have so much material from my own experience, that by the time my kids go off to college, this book will have more volumes than the Encyclopedia Britannica.

I read a book on child development that said you can give your child two things to help prevent tantrums – attention and control. Attention is not a problem. I can hang out with my kids all day and never get bored. I can never give them too much attention. I’ve learned that is not true with control. I let Ella pick out her outfit and dress herself for school now. One morning, she picked out her outfit and got dressed, so I assumed everything was fine. She obviously didn’t need Daddy’s help, or so I thought. When I came back from dropping her off at school, I saw her panties lying on the floor of her room. Ella decided to go commando to school that day. I immediately got down on my knees and thanked God that she chose to wear pants instead of a dress that day. That might be the only time in my life that 50/50 odds worked out in my favor.

Also, while performing our after-Christmas toy inventory, I came across this item. It was included in a box labeled, “Children’s Science Set.”

Yep, I bought my daughter her first beer bong. I could start my own line of children’s toys labeled, “Children’s Frat Party starter kit.” Each box will include a bong, a recipe for trash can punch, and a bottle of Boone’s Farm for those kids who prefer wine. The rest of the box will contain bad decisions and semi-permanent regret.

Then, at a family holiday gathering, we let Ella drink sparkling grape juice from a wine flute so that she could fit in. I’m trying to teach her the valuable lesson that if everybody else is doing something then it must be cool so you should do it too. I will include this photo in another book, “The Power of Yes: How to be Popular by Caving to Peer Pressure.”

It takes a village to corrupt a child. Since we don’t do anything halfway in our house, I brought in a professional, Aunt Amy. We let Ella enjoy a day at Camp Evans where Aunt Amy took her to get her first mani/pedi. She was so proud of her nails and new toy ring, that she proudly displayed them to the world.

Aunt Amy drops the mic and walks off.