Father as caregiver
Father as Caregiver
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
I love Mondays. Racing through breakfast, I am out the door before the kids have finished spilling cereal and juice on the kitchen floor.
Meeting with clients and working on my laptop in a quiet coffee shop engages parts of my brain that are mostly dormant on days I am with the kids.
Tuesdays are different. My wife, Lori, starts her workweek, leaving before the rest of us finish breakfast and arriving home for dinner.
Daughter Zoe expresses dissatisfaction with the end of Mama’s three-day weekend by becoming more fickle about eating breakfast, getting dressed and brushing her hair. Her brother, Adam, spends more time clinging to my leg, sitting in my lap and letting me know, in a host of creative ways, that he wants more attention. And together, the two of them find countless ways of pushing buttons, theirs and mine.
On a recent Tuesday morning, unsettled by Lori’s departure, Zoe asked: “How come you don’t have a job, Daddy?”
Taking a breath, I said, “I do have a job, Sweetie. My job is to be with you and Adam when Mama works.” To which she replied: “How come you don’t go to work?”
Sometimes I ask myself this second question.
While a welcome blessing, this role – father as caregiver – does not come easy to me.
It baffles me how something as simple as caring for the basic needs of two young children, who I love dearly, can at times be so maddening. By simple, I don’t mean easy or unimportant. To the contrary, it is sacred. But it’s not rocket science. And besides, people have been doing it forever. Right? Yes, people, but not fathers.
As a young man, I imagined one day being a father, but not a caregiver. Yet soon after her birth, when Lori’s maternity leave ended, I became Zoe’s primary caregiver, two days a week for an eight-month stretch. Had the college where I was teaching not offered such a progressive paternity policy, I might not have experienced the tremendous joys and challenges of at-home parenting.
Two years later I was laid off. My unemployed status, Lori’s earning potential and our shared desire to co-parent made the decision for me to be the primary caregiver three to four days a week a no-brainer.
Still, the learning curve has been steep. After years of developing professional competence, I discovered that caregiving requires a level of domestic competence that was foreign to me. So, when readers of this column recently shared fatherhood stories and the dominant theme was father as role model, I found comfort in the realization that whether a caregiver, provider or both, I am always a role model to our kids.
A sample of inspiring stories offered by readers includes a wife sharing appreciation for the way her husband models for their son the belief that women are equal partners; a mother appreciating the value of earth stewardship that was first modeled to her by her father; a father modeling unconditional love for a son who has demonstrated great courage while overcoming challenges, and a woman appreciating the mere comfort and stability modeled through her father’s physical presence.
While Zoe and Adam might be too young to fully appreciate the benefits of Daddy as caregiver, I believe they are served well by our family’s arrangement. Still, I wonder what fatherhood stories they will share in years to come.
For now, when Lori arrives home on Fridays, spirits lighten for all of us. Zoe and Adam will have three days filled with lots of Mama-love, Lori will cherish her time as caregiver, and on Saturday morning I will head to the coffee shop with my laptop.
Invitation to Submit Fatherhood Stories
Call to readers:
I am inviting readers to share brief accounts of lessons learned from fatherhood.
Accounts can come from:
- Fathers, highlighting lessons learned from the experience of being a father
- Sons and daughters, about being fathered
- Friends, sharing observations of fathers
Submissions must be between 50 and 100 words. Selected elements of the accounts will be highlighted in the June 12 Fatherhood Journey column.
Submissions may be sent to fatherhoodjourney@gmail.com.
For parents, everyday beings with an ‘alpine start’
For parents, every day begins with an ‘alpine start’
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Saturday arrives and I am awakened by an irresistible, little voice, “I want cereal.”
The clock glows 5:47 a.m. and Adam stands next to the bed in his fuzzy “monkey suit” pajamas, clinging to his silky giraffe blanket.
He has learned the value of persistence from his older sister, Zoe, and I realize, in my foggy state, that I have about 39 seconds to act before his request escalates into a full-blown demand to end world hunger.
As I slowly emerge from the warm bed, he zooms down the hall. Soon he is seated at the kids’ table, stuffing fistfuls of Gorilla Munch into his mouth, the familiar sound of collateral cereal sprinkling the floor.
I sit down with a strong cup of tea and the morning paper, just in time for Adam to remind me that Gorilla Munch goes best with a cup of orange juice.
Approaching the table to serve the young prince his drink, the sound of cereal being crushed under my sandal leaves me mumbling choice words.
Soon Lori greets me with a morning kiss. I offer her a hot cup of tea, as Adam wiggles onto her lap and our daughter Zoe, sleepy-eyed and sporting serious bedhead, wanders into the kitchen.
Our spirits awaken as the rising sun brightens our kitchen. We muse about weekends before kids, when we lived, worked and played in the mountain mecca of Boulder, Colo.
In those days, Saturdays were for wilderness adventure. Running trails in the foothills, climbing 1,000-foot rock formations, hiking along the continental divide, and hitting the slopes to carve turns in fresh powder are now treasured memories.
To stay ahead of hot temperatures, lightning storms or avalanche conditions, those journeys often started in the wee morning hours; “alpine starts” in mountain lore. No matter how tired, the spirit of adventure would crank the body out of bed.
Zoe announces she, too, is ready for a cup of juice, and Adam cheerfully says, “More munch, please!”
An inventory of my gear tells the story of transition from pre-kid mountain life to domesticity.
My trusty headlamp, once a key tool in my 10 essentials wilderness kit, is now a daily staple, which I don every night, to read bedtime stories with the kids.
My coveted red, Gortex parka, purchased 11 years ago at an outdoor-gear swap, keeps me warm and dry on my sleek, hybrid commuter, kid trailer in tow, which replaced my rugged, mountain bike.
I recently strapped on my climbing harness, ascended a neighbor’s dying sugar maple tree, wielding a chainsaw, and trimmed it to the ground, while others guided the fall of the main trunk with my oldest climbing rope, purchased years ago during a trip to the picturesque Swiss Alps.
The kids routinely use my one-person backpacking tent as a basement fort. This same tent sheltered me from the elements during countless wilderness trips, including a four-week trek in Nepal that culminated with near sleepless nights in the thin air and cold, glacial ice of a remote 20,000-foot peak.
Fittingly, when night time temperatures recently dipped into the low 20s, I built a tripod of maple tree branches over our newly planted apple tree, and draped my tent’s rain fly over the tender flowering branches.
As Lori serves our morning oatmeal, we console each other with promises of more wilderness outings, when the kids are a bit older. Talk turns to plans for our weekend adventures. I agree to load our gear: diaper bag, snacks and water bottles, so that we can stomp around in the woods and return in time for lunch and naps. We both agree that for parents of young children, every day begins with an alpine start.
Creating traditions that connect us to the sacredness of life
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
When parents come from different faith traditions, finding meaningful ways to celebrate religious holidays as a family can be a particular challenge.
While the Seder and Easter celebrations, which marked our respective childhoods, are rich in symbolism and meaning, including the universal themes of freedom and new life, there are beliefs and practices from each tradition that my wife, Lori, and I, choose not to embrace.
So as parents, hiding the Afikoman and coloring eggs aside, we tend to use religious holidays as an opportunity to revisit our shared values and do our best to figure out how to honor the traditions of our ancestors and create new traditions that hold special meaning for our family.
Lori does this with both ease and grace. I, on the other hand, tend to mull, at great lengths, needlessly twisting my thoughts and emotions in knots, trying to make sense of the great mystery of life, religion and a long list of things that have insignificant consequence.
Venturing into wild spaces has long been a way to feed my soul, to renew my sense of the sacred, especially when I find life a bit unclear. So on a recent weekend, bookended by Passover and Easter, exploring the natural wonders of a nearby conservation area served as a welcome adventure.
Unlike the Jews of ancient Egypt, we had plenty of time to prepare for our journey traipsing through the wilderness. We gathered fig bars, water and extra clothing to sustain our bodies, and a field guide, two nets and a collection box with nifty magnifying lenses, to study the critters we hoped to find. We left the Matzos and Easter eggs at home.
Arriving at the trailhead, my 5½-year-old Zoe, aka “Nature Girl,” and I, were both surprised to see nearly 30 people gathered for the vernal pool nature walk.
A local biologist served as an amiable guide, directing the group to two vernal pools, each no bigger than our house, and teaching us many lessons about the creatures, which are unique to these habitats.
We learned, among other things, these fishless pools serve as protective environments where certain species of frogs and salamanders prefer to meet and reproduce, in early spring. With the recent wave of unseasonably warm weather, the only evidence of these annual courting rituals, were masses of floating amphibian eggs, the parents of which had moved along to thrive in the surrounding woods and nearby lake.
While we were greatly disappointed that the critters we most hoped to net were absent from these pools, the egg masses were fascinating. These floating gelatinous globs, each about softball-size and containing hundreds of eggs, dotted the pools, clinging precariously to partially submerged sticks, and hovering above the watery bottoms that were lined with fallen leaves from the surrounding oaks.
A white, opaque, salamander egg cluster, broke loose from its mooring, despite the careful approach of the wading biologist. Holding the mass in his cupped hands, he placed it in an observation tray, where Zoe and I were able to look closely and gently touch the soft, mushy blob.
Across the pool, a cluster of translucent frog eggs floated near the surface, hundreds of black dots, each a developing life form in its own separate egg, were clearly visible.
But as the scientific talk continued, our enthusiasm for adventure pulled us away from the group and toward the nearby lake, where Zoe collected fists-full of algae – “gack,” as her brother, Adam, likes to call it.
I managed to net a frog and Zoe, with a firm but gentle grasp, held its slippery body in her little hands, just long enough for us to marvel at its pulsing body.
As we hiked back to our bike and trailer, we wondered, together, how many frogs and salamanders we might find when we return this summer. Zoe assured me there would be “lots of them.”
While pedaling home, I felt reconnected to the sacredness of life. A humble depression in the earth’s surface, rejuvenated year after year by rain and snowmelt, made visible, to all ages, the cycle of new life. And, a little girl, kneeling at the water’s edge, opening her hands to release her catch, made visible to me, the importance of granting freedom to all life.
Appreciating the gifts of illness
Appreciating the Gifts of Illness
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
It’s Friday, 2:55 p.m., and my cell phone vibrates. When I see it’s the director of Zoe’s preschool calling, a pit forms in my stomach.
In the past month, half the town has been sick with one malady or another. Just two weeks ago we weathered a weeklong respiratory virus that knocked out three members of our family. We considered ourselves fortunate since the bodily fluids involved only required a few boxes of tissues. Just this past weekend, we had all returned to 100 percent.
But this morning, by the time I returned from dropping off our high-spirited Zoe at school, my wife, Lori, had hit the deck with gastro-intestinal symptoms, a burst of chills, dizziness and a fever.
So when I answer the call, it is no surprise to learn that our little Zoe had just tossed her lunch.
As I enter the building, I pass one of Zoe’s teachers, who having just mopped up, is on his way to the Dumpster. In the hallway outside of her classroom sit two knotted trash bags: one containing her clothes, the other her naptime bedding. Inside, Zoe is pale and nursing a bucket. On our way out, Zoe leaves one more special deposit in the parking lot. At least we weren’t in the car, I think to myself.
At home, after Zoe purges a few more times, and with no sign of a quick recovery for Lori, I snap into super-domestic-hero mode. “I will not get sick,” is my mantra. I set the washing machine to heavy-duty and mix a cocktail of bleach, vinegar and soap for six consecutive jumbo loads of laundry. I spin from room to room like a mad man, a bandana covering my face and rubber gloves up to my elbows, washing and sanitizing sinks, floors, beds and anything else that cannot be thrown in the trash, dishwasher or washing machine.
By dinner time, Adam, who has spent the afternoon running back and forth checking on his mama, who was still horizontal in our bed, and his big sister, who is stretched out on a camping pad on the living room, is the only one with an appetite. He is delighted to know that since I have no energy for whipping up a wholesome meal he is going to eat frozen waffles. He pumps both fists in the air and yelled: “Yeah baby!”
Waiting for the inevitable
It’s Saturday morning; Zoe and Lori still have the “run over by a truck” look. Making up for the rest of us, Adam knocks back six bowls of cereal, and he’s starting to get a bit cagey. A trip to the transfer station, where he is beside himself with the presence of all things heavy-duty: Snowplows, dump trucks, diggers, etc., is the perfect outlet. By evening, Lori is starting to turn the corner and – despite hours of spooning his sick mama and slugging drinks from his sick sister’s water bottle – Adam shows no signs of illness. I decided that my persistent queasiness is a figment of my imagination. Just to be sure, I adopt a no eat, no throw-up policy.
Sunday arrives, and with the girls clearly on the mend, super-domestic-hero blood still coursing through my veins, I decide, like any sensible father would, to finish painting the master bathroom. This proves useful in three ways. One, I am able to check off a major item on the honey-do list. Two, I have ample time to obsess about the list of work deadlines that have started piling up while I have been operating a home-based urgent care clinic. Three, I can effectively distract myself from my increasing sense of malaise.
Before the paint dries, I go down, hard. Claiming the bed, which Lori has vacated, I wallow in misery, all through the night. Time slows to a glacial pace. At first, I tell myself, “I won’t get sick.” When things don’t improve, clinging to hope, I think, “Yeah, I might get sick, but maybe not.” From the moment I accept the inevitability of my situation, until it actually happens, seems like eternity.
Monday afternoon, feeling like I just might live, Zoe climbs up onto the bed and sits next to me. Just as I had done for her on Saturday, she sings to me “You Are My Sunshine,” and then leans over and kisses my forehead. In that moment, I realize that nothing feels as precious as a father’s love for his sick little girl – except a little girl’s love for her sick Daddy.
What a father needs – friends, family and…Google?
What a father needs- friends, family…Google? as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
At 11:15 p.m. I am rocked out of bed by our Jetta wagon’s blaring security alarm.
I stumble into the kitchen, my wife and kids apparently oblivious to the noise. I know the locked car in the locked attached garage is in no danger of theft. I grab the key, switch off the alarm and return to bed.
But before midnight, this scene replays a half dozen times. At first I am annoyed, then amused, then I begin muttering words I don’t speak in front of my kids.
Begrudgingly, I don my problem-solver hat. While mothers wear problem-solver hats, too, car maintenance and repair often lands on the Daddy-Do List – especially when the alarm is going off, repeatedly, and mother is sound asleep.
As a 21st-century father and problem-solver, I open my trusted toolbox and type Google. I see I am not the first person to have this nocturnal experience with a Jetta wagon anti-theft device.
One blog post was time-stamped 3:10 a.m. A mid-morning response to that post offered a decisively simple solution. It was no doubt written by someone who was clear-minded from an undisturbed night of rest.
In my boxers, T-shirt and wool hat, I shuffle into the chilly garage and dig out my old-fashioned toolbox. With socket wrench in hand, I disconnect the positive lead to the battery. Problem solved – for tonight – and with a modest sense of accomplishment, I return to a warm bed.
Cars aside, father-as-problem-solver emerged as a theme when I recently hosted a conversation with a handful of men at the Northampton Senior Center. These men, roughly 60 to 80 years old, had each fathered between two and six children. Collectively, they had a gaggle of grandchildren.
They brimmed with pride about their family roles as problem-solvers. One gentleman summed it up nicely: “It’s something where you get up every morning and try to solve the problems of that day and tomorrow the problems will be different and you still won’t know what you’re doing.”
Picking up the thread, I asked if others could relate. Yes, indeed, they could.
“I did not know anything about being a father,” said one man.
Another lamented that he had gone to school, taken courses and read books, but was never trained for his most important role: fatherhood.
A man who characterized his younger self as a tough military sergeant and competitor in chain-saw-wielding events, said “Fatherhood was really scary … I was scared to death of my baby; wondering, what do I do?”
The take-away message: Fathers need emotional support, and in greater doses than they have traditionally sought or received.
These men did not enjoy the benefits of Web surfing or insights gleaned from a growing collection of daddy blogs. Today, Google or YouTube searches on fatherhood and parenting tips churn up a dizzying array of resources.
Still, even most of the tech-savvy fathers I know report feelings of inadequacy – the same feelings expressed by men of their parents’ generation. My experience with the elder fathers suggests that gathering dads to talk about fatherhood could ease these concerns.
Whatever insights about fatherhood my generation may offer in our later years, I doubt Google will be mentioned as an essential tool. Technology can be helpful – particularly in the middle of the night – but it can’t replace a father’s need for the support of family, friends and neighbors.
It takes a village to raise a father
The Fatherhood Journey: It takes a village to raise a father as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
It was a hectic week – nothing catastrophic, a few work deadlines for me, a few wrinkles at work for Lori, four tired bodies, three runny noses and two coughing kids.
And, at last, the promise of one restful weekend.
With the kids in their beds, we pop a rare library movie in the DVD player. The movie is not rare, nor is the library. It’s simply rare that we are watching the movie before returning it. The weekend is shaping up nicely.
Morning arrives with a chill, but the kids are pumped up: Tomorrow is finally Halloween. Weeks ago, Zoe, 5, informed us that she will be a peacock, proudly wearing all of her wildest-colored clothing at the same time, the ensemble accented by a feathery Mardi Gras mask.
Adam, 2, tells us, daily, “I’m gonna be an owl.” Lori fancies her witch’s hat. I’m ambivalent about costumes. As the father of a peacock and an owl, I consider dressing as an ornithologist, or maybe a novice bird watcher. The thought passes.
Breakfast is typical: bowls of steaming oatmeal, hot tea, homemade muffins. The sun warms the dining area. Lori and I chat about the morning news and our plans for the day. Meanwhile, the kids climb in and out of their seats – 11 times. Adam accidentally spills dry cereal all over the floor, then purposely stomps on it. Zoe spills a cup of milk while reaching across the table. They fight over one of their three red markers. Remnants of three activities are scattered on the kitchen floor. Lori and I smile at each other. Word of a nor’easter comes over the radio.
Come afternoon, we dig out our camping gear, round up some supplies and prepare to hunker down. We are skeptical about all of the hoopla. By nightfall, heavy, wet snow covers the lawn. The lights flicker repeatedly. Leafy tree limbs creak and groan. In the wee hours of the morning the familiar glow of the clock radio and the sound of the thermostat switching on the boiler are absent.
On Sunday morning we awake to a haunting wintry wonderland. The biggest challenge of the day is convincing the kids to come in from playing in the snow for lunch, and later, supper.
By Monday morning it’s a chilly 57 degrees in the house. The power outage has canceled school and the kids are restless. The thought of three to seven days without power hangs heavy over us. We happily accept an invitation to visit our neighbors in their warm, gas-heated home.
Later that afternoon we are relieved when our power and heat return. We know others are far less fortunate.
By Tuesday morning the excitement of the extended weekend has faded. A second day of school closings, Lori’s return to work and the thought of another day at home with the kids, who are growing more fitful, leaves me feeling drained.
I love being a father. I would not trade it for anything. Yet there are moments, sometimes days, when my tank is empty. These times do not coincide with my finest fathering. And this could be one of those days. At 9:45 a.m. I receive an unexpected text: The Parent Center is open today.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I load the kids into the bike trailer and head to town. The bike path proves to be a tough slog, with my wheels failing to cut through the crusty snow and ice. Undeterred, I take to the streets. And soon I’m strolling into my favorite “watering hole,” The Parent Center. The room is packed. The crowd looks weary. After I peel boots and coats off the kids they merrily scatter. I work my way to the back in search of a strong drink.
Emerging with a steaming cup of tea, my tension melts as I spot the regulars.
Jim catches my eye from across the room. Since retiring from the local VA, he comes here four days a week with his grandson, Zachy. Once a month he goes to Mohegan Sun, where he trades in his mug of coffee for a few Keystone Lights and a shot at big winnings.
Paul, a unionized foreman, recently working construction on the new law school library at Harvard, watches his son, Owen, scoot across the floor.
Stan, who has returned to professional sailboat racing, scoops up his daughter, Arden.
Dave, a former Brooklyn assistant district attorney, greets me as his son, Luca, and my Adam roll around on the mats, laughing and drooling.
Joel, a former high school physics teacher currently working as a part-time youth minister, arrives with his two daughters.
These fathers and many others, along with a host of mothers, help me remember that I am not alone on this fatherhood journey.
Before fatherhood I was more self-sufficient, or I pretended to be. In truth, my self-determination often left me disconnected from those who matter most. As a man who has logged many miles as a runner, including a few marathons, part of me wants to “Just do it” when it comes to fatherhood. Sometimes this approach is useful. Often it does not work for anyone.
I now accept the ancient wisdom that it takes a village to raise a child. I am still learning, with great humility, that it takes a village to support a father.
Before having children, I could not imagine that spending a morning in a church basement, teeming with a dozen or so dads, a few dozen moms, a mob of kids, a sea of toys and lots of caffeinated drinks, would constitute an emotional oasis. In this village called the Northampton Parent Center, which celebrated 25 years of family service last week, my spirits lifted. And in my heart of self-determined hearts, I know this place and the people here help me be the father I want to be, the one my kids deserve.
Lessons harvested from a summer beach
The Fatherhood Journey: Lessons harvested from a summer beach
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
EDITOR’S NOTE: Today we introduce a new monthly column on fatherhood by John P. Engel of Florence, MA.
The morning sun sparkles on the smooth sound. Gulls circle overhead, swooping to pluck minnows from the clear water. The worn, wooden jetty, draped with barnacles and poppers, emerges from the retreating tide. I imagine my wife, and her tanned clan of brothers and cousins, jumping off this edifice countless times many years ago.
In his mother’s footsteps, our almost 2-year-old son, Adam, confidently traces his feet along the slippery deck. Then, in a blink, just beyond my reach, he’s down face first in wet sand, next to a beached jellyfish. His wail pierces the morning calm. After being held in my arms and having his face de-sanded, he rushes to the dry side of the jetty and begins walking the plank, again, reassuring me, in his toddler voice, “Careful, no fall down!” After a few minutes of reclaiming his pride on the balance beam, I coax him toward our encampment, where a small collection of sand toys are littered on the beach, awaiting his wildest imagination.
I plop myself in a chair, stretch my arms and take in the view. I exhale and feel a moment of relaxation. This lasts for almost 30 seconds, when my son grabs my hand, and in a way that cannot be denied, says, “Come Dad, dig big hole.”
As much as any Dad on vacation can dream of kicking back and reading a few pages, or catching a few winks, the little boy within me, along with my son, conspire to engage me in the boyhood ritual of digging a big hole.
I recall when I was about 8 or so digging big holes in my backyard. Big meant a hole that would reach through the earth and pop out in China. Lucky for me, Adam does not yet know about the spherical nature of the earth, or about China, and so big simply means big enough to jump into, and climb back out of, repeatedly, until someone gets hurt.
The day before, I learned that a hole roughly 3 feet in diameter and 2 feet deep is about perfect. With a sense of profound purpose and reckless abandon, I with my 2-foot shovel and Adam with his bucket-size shovel share this glorious moment, digging in the sand. Just as we near completion, my nearly 5-year-old daughter, Zoe, decides she wants in on the action and jumps in the hole first.
Indignant, Adam screams, “No, my hole, my hole, my hole.” After my failed attempt at mediating a peaceable solution, I realize the only course of action, if I am ever to return to my chair, is to dig a second big hole. With Zoe’s consent and in her preferred location, right next to her brother’s hole, I begin digging. Soon, they are both proudly jumping in and out of their respective big holes.
As I return to my chair, Zoe says “Let’s connect them with a tunnel.” Already in action, as she announces her idea, Adam is quick to counter her creativity with his well-rehearsed refrain, “No, my hole, my hole, my hole.” In my chair, a smile registers; our daughter is clearly in touch with her feelings, and, then, my brow wrinkles; I fret we are creating a cave boy.
The space-connection conundrum
Recently, while hosting a gathering for fathers, two themes familiar to fathers (and mothers) emerged from our conversations: The seemingly contradictory need for both more personal space and more connection to others. On the one hand, these fathers lamented feelings of father isolation – a type of aloneness that includes feeling disconnected from one’s spouse or partner, children, childless friends and other fathers.
They (we) spoke, with angst, about the hectic nature our action-packed lives and the simple ease of days gone by, before parenthood, when dinner was a pleasant mix of food and uninterrupted, fulfilling conversation with our wife or partner that lasted well into the evening.
Listening to their stories, and my own, we yearn for deeper connection with those we hold most dear … to dig tunnels in the sand.
On the other hand, these same fathers craved more personal space: alone time when they (and me) are beholden to no one, left to engage in lofty endeavors, such as reading the newspaper, while sipping a cup of coffee or tea, without the need to change a diaper or fix the garbage disposal.
To dig a big hole in the sand.
The midday sun warms my helmeted head. My legs pump, slow and steady, up a half-mile stretch. Sweat drips from my brow. Adam and Zoe take in the scenery, water bottles in hand, as they sit wedged in the double-seated chariot I pull behind my bike.
Halfway up the climb, screams erupt from the 80-pound cargo that trails behind me. “Stop touching me, Adam.” In the bouncing of my rear-view mirror, I see lots of touching, pulling and pushing, as more screaming echoes throughout the entire time zone.
I’ve learned, the hard way, that defusing these moments is best accomplished by stopping the train, turning to my passengers, and inquiring about the situation, with a gentle, nonjudgmental tone, even in the middle of a hill, on the side of the street, in the August sun.
Poised, in a rare and elusive moment of groundedness, I notice that Adam is merely trying to hold his sister’s hand. Returning from Zoe’s first day at a new preschool, Adam has reunited with his beloved big sister and full-time summer playmate. He simply wants more connection; he is digging a tunnel.
My spirited, high-energy Zoe, who is known to wilt in group-settings, is clearly over-stimulated by her morning experience. She wants more personal space; she is digging a hole. The tension melts away when Adam says, “I missed you sister.”
Slowly, I turn and continue cranking up the hill, stuck in high-gear, sweat dripping. My mind wanders to the precious moments that lie ahead, when, following lunch, Adam and I will snuggle with a book; then, lying next to Zoe, I will hear stories about her new school. After quietly closing the doors to each of their rooms, I will dig my own big hole in the sand.
Fatherhood Journey 