The Daddy Diary

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.

“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart” – Winnie the Pooh

I’ve taken a lot of tests in my life. Sometimes I had to pass to get into graduate school or to keep my job. That’s a lot of pressure. Failure is never an option. Except on the COVID test. I gladly fail that one every time. No matter how much I study and how prepared I am, I always get unreasonably nervous before an exam.

Two nights ago, I sat at the kitchen table and watched Audrey pick up a Ritz cracker with peanut butter and take a bite. I got a little teary because my mind rewound to a memory about the time I was the most nervous (heck, downright scared) before an exam.

A little over a year ago we drove to Cook’s Children’s in Fort Worth so the doctors could give Audrey a swallow test. When Audrey was six weeks old, the doctors sewed a feeding tube to her stomach so we could feed her. A lot of kids with CHARGE Syndrome are tube-fed, some of them for their entire lives. The results of the test would show us if she was able to swallow. If you think you’ve ever had a lot riding on an exam, give that one a try. One test to show if you would ever be able to eat by mouth. Only one parent was allowed inside the hospital due to COVID, so I sat outside on a park bench by myself during the test. I brought a book and my phone, but I couldn’t focus or concentrate on anything but that exam.

A little trip to Scottish Rite hospital last week completed our tour of North Texas Children’s Hospitals. Nothing major this time, but more on that in a later post. Shortly after Audrey was born and learning about her condition, I was hoping we could get a hospital punch card and rack up some points. I wasn’t asking for much. Maybe just a free MRI with every 10 visits. I’ve since learned that there is no frequent flyer program among the area children’s hospitals. Such a shame. Audrey would have hit Super Executive Platinum Chairman status by the end of 2019.

Our most recent trip reminded me of something I realized when we were in the hospital with Audrey. There are some locations that just feel magical – Disneyworld, Radio City Music Hall, a church sanctuary during Advent, and any participating McDonald’s after the McRib has been reintroduced.

For me, the most magical place of all is inside a children’s hospital. I hope your only experience with a children’s hospital is reading this blog or volunteering. It’s a place you don’t want to be because your child is sick. I know that my opinion is guided by the fact that my baby survived, and we got to bring her home. I saw families that were not so lucky. They probably hold a different view of childrens’ hospitals, and I don’t blame them.

It’s hard for an outsider to understand. After all, it is a building full of sick children, which feels a little bit like hell. But children’s hospitals are equal parts heaven and hell on earth. The buildings themselves are designed and decorated to put smiles on faces that have very few reasons to smile.  The elevators are not labeled “A,B, or C”, rather,  they have names like “Butterfly elevator” or “Airplane elevator.”  It just takes a little edge off the pain when the attendant at the admission desk says, “Take the butterfly elevator to radiology” instead of saying, “Take elevator B to radiology.”

We spent over three months at Children’s Medical  Center of Dallas after Audrey was born and I found what little peace I could muster in two places, the chapel, and the electric train display. I would sit by myself and stare at the trains with a childlike grin sweeping over my face. The trains didn’t change the status of my daughter’s health, but I appreciated the intentional attempt the hospital was making to bring joy to struggling families.

The chapel is still there, but the trains are gone. They removed the display to build the only thing that could make children smile more than 5500 square feet of electric trains – a Starbucks. I heard that the administration decided to relocate the display because the staff and patients revolted when the news broke that they were removing it. I’m not sure what the official economic system is in heaven, but I’m not so sure that it’s capitalism. I’ll try to answer that question in a future blog post. My guess is that the person who made the decision to remove the trains only worked in the hospital, they were never a guest.  If they had been there with their child, they would have understood that you can’t measure the impact of joy on a spreadsheet. But I digress.

As magical as the building is, it can’t hold a candle to the people who work in the hospital.  This is a group of people who walk straight into hell every day bringing hope and putting smiles on the faces of sick children, some of whom will not see their next birthday. Is there a harder job than that? Imagine what it would be like knowing that every day you go to work, you might see a child die.  I don’t have expertise in many areas, but being a guest in a children’s hospital is one of them.  I can honestly say I do not remember meeting anyone who worked in the hospital that was not a genuinely nice person.  Now, I know that this is not a universally correct statement.  In modern society, there is at least one a—hole for every setting and occasion, but I never met that person during our many trips.

The nurses work 12-hour shifts and they cannot relax or mail it in while they are working. If they did, their patient would probably die. That stresses me out just thinking about it. Despite that pressure, every nurse that worked with us was nothing but kind and cheerful. Maybe people that dedicate their lives to working with children just have a bigger heart.  I don’t know, but I do know that even the person who served me Thanksgiving dinner from the cafeteria did it with a friendly greeting and a smile even though she had to work on Thanksgiving Day.

I do not know what is worse for the doctors and nurses – dealing with their patients’ physical pain or the family’s emotional pain.  I know how awful it is to see your child in intense pain, but I can’t imagine going through that and then hearing that I would never get to take my baby home. Every time the hospital admin comes to you and says, “The doctor would like to meet with you in a consultation room” your heart sinks. The surgeons have to have those conversations every day.

Some of the people working in the hospital don’t make a lot of money, but they are storing up treasures in heaven. During this holiday season, if you run into someone who works at a children’s hospital, thank them and give them the gift that represents the true meaning of Christmas – Bitcoin.

Last week, I had one of the best days that I can remember. It had nothing to do with Thanksgiving or the holidays which might leave you wondering what happened to make that day so great. Even if you aren’t wondering, you are about to find out.

I went to the grocery store, and I raked the leaves.

I’m one of those weird people that enjoy going to the grocery store. I sometimes get jealous of my Instacart shopper when I’m too busy to get to the store and have to use their service. I wish I was the one squeezing the mangos, examing the bell peppers, and standing at the butcher counter like a kid peering through the glass at the ice cream shop. Even though I enjoy it, there is no activity more ordinary than going to the grocery store. I do it every week, but my enjoyment got kicked up into the stratosphere when Ella said that she wanted to go with me.

She had been to the store before, but she was too young to participate or even remember her experience. She didn’t want to ride in the cart, and she asked (Well, she’s a toddler, she demanded) that she push the cart. When she started picking things off the shelves herself, I began to think that my services might not be needed on this trip. She must have gotten my grocery-loving gene because she was asking questions about what was on each aisle, what we were going to get next, and of course, how many boxes of cookies we were going to buy. I could see the joy in her face as she would pick something off the shelf and put it in the cart. Despite her enthusiasm, her skills of edible discernment need a little work. She picked an avocado that was so mushy, it practically oozed through my fingers when I placed it in the bag. She will learn.

Also, I told her that she could pick out one box of cookies. She chose the box of vegan oatmeal raisin cookies. They were stacked between some non-vegan, or legitimate, chocolate chip cookies and snickerdoodles, but she still chose the vegan cookies. Rookie mistake. Not in this house little girl. If that’s your choice when you live on your own, that’s fine, but in this house, we eat cookies with all the milk and butter and any other animal products you can throw in the dough. So, I asked her to reconsider her choice, and like a typical toddler, she dug in on her first choice. So, we went home with vegan cookies.

I saw tons of potential in her grocery ability. She’s raw now, but with my guidance, she might be one of the greats when it’s all said and done.

As much as I enjoy grocery shopping, I’ve never had more fun in a grocery store than I had that day.

My love of grocery shopping is matched by my hatred of raking leaves. My hatred stems from the fact that the house I grew up in had a .22 acre lot and just north of 9,000 trees. Scott and I spent more time raking leaves than sleeping during the winters when we were kids. One year after Scott had gone off to college, my dad paid my friend Mark Gribble and me 25 cents for every bag of leaves that we raked. By the end of the winter, it turns out he could have taken the amount of money he paid us and purchased Ecuador instead.

I hate raking leaves even more now because, in our current house, I rake and bag about forty bags of leaves every year. And we don’t have any trees. It is the ultimate insult for a leave-raking hater. All those leaves come from my neighbor’s trees. This is why I don’t feel guilty when I’m chipping dog turds in the back yard and I accidentally launch one over the fence into their back yard. Anyone who has seen me play golf knows that act is not intentional. I have a terrible short game.

Last week, I was in my backyard raking my neighbor’s leaves and Ella came out and said she wanted to help me. She has a little toy set of garden tools that are more decorative than useful, but she grabbed her little rake, put on her gardening gloves, and went to work. And we stood side-by-side and raked. And raked. And she could not have been more excited about raking leaves. By the end of the day, she probably only raked a total of three leaves, but she helped me more than she will ever know. It was the first time in my life that I enjoyed raking the leaves. I’m finding more and more pleasure in the most mundane places as long as my girls are in those same places.

You know you are a part of something special when someone likes you so much that they want to rake leaves just to spend time with you. If you want to have the best day ever, just find someone who wants to rake leaves with you and spend the day with them.