One Thousand Words

It’s a fascinating question I never think to ask, especially on a first date, but tonight I was struck by the obviousness of the wondering. In my twisted brain, the process goes like this:

Isn’t that a presumptuous question?

My first thought on why I hesitate to ask is because of my fear that it could be heard as a vain attempt for affirmation. Is it too early to ask that? Why go straight there… To me it’s far more interesting to begin to see the layers of complexity to understand how paths intersect before assuming that everyone knows their destination, which leads me to my own personal disposition…

Mindfulness

We are where we are in any moment, and hardly ever pay enough attention to now to appreciate it. I’ve done this, I want to do that seem like statements that fail to honor how important each experience is to the richer experience. That’s not to say that we are ignorant of our past, or wandering blind into the future but rushing to an outcome seems contrary to how I’ve chosen to live my life.

Fear and Reality

I am not sure I could answer that question for myself if posed. In fact, the very thought of having to answer does scare me a bit… which also begs the really obvious question: David, why? What’s hard about that question?

It’s that I don’t know what I want. And I realize that answering it will feel and be selfish, and leave me vulnerable, and potentially tidally lock me toward a particular outcome. And then I realize I’m overthinking it — again.

I thought about the question a lot over the last 75 minutes on my drive, and realize that there are answers to the question that are honest and selfish and fearless and hide-under-the-rock embarrassing. But the key to that is HONEST. So here goes (with an apology for all the ‘I’ and first person perspective to come):

• Intellectual
• Challenging
• Adventuresome
• Quiet
• Sensual
• Accepting of the non-us life that will exist
• Decadent
• Real
• Fun
• Accepting

Listen, I am spoiled in my existence. I work hard, and parent with all the energy I can muster. Sometimes (ok, a lot of times) I come home and just want to lay in bed. Or walk down the street and eat, and read some fascinating article, or flip through IG at all the interesting stuff. I can be quiet and probably a bit more of introvert than I’d like and crawling under my bridge to sulk is necessary to keep me balanced from time to time.

I am honestly not sure if I am meant to be alone, in my way, for the rest of my life. But I remain a hopeless romantic who wholeheartedly believes that love is real in a way that many other things that people believe in are not. It’s rare and beautiful, but shouldn’t be like that amazing wine or meal you once had and strive to have it again. In my world, that kind of connection should be like having a favorite restaurant where you like the people and the food, or the worn out quilt that keeps you warm when everything else in life feels like blustery cold wind.

It’s full of communication and acceptance and compromise, but it’s not made of settling.

As I was catching up before beer, the odd sensation came to me about what I want: the greeting hand on my shoulder, the brief touch in talking and connection. The overwhelming power of the look, and the knowing smile. The inside laugh and the momentary flash of frustration. It is passion and comfort, and the not knowing.

The never-ending belief in what is possible instead of the fear of what is not.

I am genetically sentimental — recollections give me to moments of happiness that may otherwise elude me. Often I find my way there through some object — my shelves are covered with objects that each have a story special to me, even though the source is not well discerned upon inspection.

But some memories cannot be captured in an object and require a return to place. This morning, as I sit in the lounge at Manchester airport preparing for my return to the US, a subtle smile sit upon my face and a small tear lies just on the edge of my eyelid.

I’m brought back to the first time I sat here with MK and Drew at the end of our Thanksgiving trip in 2012. I recall that the hours that followed our minutes here would be filled with stress about missed flights and fear about mislocated children. But while here we sat sleepy-eyed in the early morning and fought the small battles of tiredness, dread of flights home and the final battle for food we could all understand.

But this is the time when memories are transformed, becoming hallowed and precious. Every negative moment sanded off, giving the entire experience a mirror finish.

On my third trip here, certain things remain the same: game, hotel. I dread the day when I walk off the elevator at the Deansgate (‘mind the doors’) and be filled by its familiar smell. The scent of a certain kind of home will be lost to renovation or whatever reason “progress” necessitates change.

But there’s something gained each time. A new perspective, a willingness to explore, lists made for next time. Last night after dinner, I walked around the center city and drank in the cold air, enjoyed the small clouds of second-hand smoke and let the place consume me for a few final minutes. I realized I do this often on the last evening — fill in gaps in the mental images that will follow. Say goodbye in some ethereal way in case I am never given the opportunity to return.

I already feel certain words creeping into my lexicon for the next few days. “Cheers” instead of “thank you.” “No worries” replacing the oft-misunderstood “sorry.” Other habits like digging for heavy pound coins instead of whipping out my debit card for each transaction. Trying to remember to look both ways before crossing the street since the cars are coming from a different direction than my right-side-of-the-road brain expects.

But I cannot help but accept the grace given and be thankful for my good fortune. Jeff and I discussed Saturday night how this reality seemed outside the realm of possibility as a teenager or young adult. It is a wonder… escaping for four days to England for something as seemingly irrelevant as a football game and regaining lost hours of sleep from the last two months. It made the minor inconviences of dealing with certain realities of home and work barely even felt.

Richer by experience is true throughout life. I see it better every time I step away from the immediacy of work and life and my racing mind. I can sit by the stream and watch the leaf float out beyond my resting place. I sense its veins and watch as it dances through the eddies to overcome the barriers that prevent its own trip.

Those specifics sustain me, and offer the miracle of weightlessness to my soul as I return to every day. It lets me better appreciate how each day is special in its own way.

I lay in bed Thursday evening, reading a book on my phone when I heard my house security system declare, “Back Door Open.” Next I heard the rumble that accompanied ignition of the 2005 GMC Sierra sitting in my driveway. A brief text exchange followed:

This reality of how much teenagers love their cars has a healthy mix of reasons. Freedom. Ownership. Pride. External reflection of who we wish to be. (I’ve see it upon reflection in my own vehicle decision. Just last week two people told me that my A7 was the most beautiful car they’d ever seen. I just blushed.)

But seeing how completely both fell madly in love with their vehicles… I came to better understand that for both of my kids, the subtle subtext of their cars has been more than these common feelings.

For 10 years, the real world impact of separate has also included their sense of home. While I think the three of us would be unanimous in our belief that apart was better than together, it’s a matter of some guilt that it became so amplified by this exchange with Drew and brought back a number of memories of MK’s reactions. She referred to it as finally having all of her stuff with her. Her little self, sitting high up in the LR3 with the windows down and the stereo blasting. The absolute determination in her driving and spirit as she drove up or away.

For Drew it’s so carefully nuanced (as many things are with him) that it escapes proper description. He just belongs.

Last week, he drove up to my house with the truck covered in mud from end to end. My instant flaming reaction was immediately muted when he emerged from behind the wheel. Those eyebrows, flashing like neon, broadcasting the bright smile beaming from his soul and screaming untethered joy from the experience. What do you say when you see such happiness? As a parent, it’s a goal, not something to complain about… and the need to suggest that cleaning up the mud would be better heard another day.

I guess the guilt I feel is soothed by providing – a terribly male reaction to my role as parent. But the aspect of kicking the baby bird from the nest is not a human trait (at least in 21^st Century America) but a cold reality of their metamorphosis into adults. Many friends have commented on how it seems like just yesterday they were small, toddling, talking, crying miracles and now they are opinionated, educated, confident and capable.

It’s sad to see where it is but a matter of pride to see how it came to be.

Nothing gives better perspective on love and its meaning than to see a muddy truck. Home can be many things, but it’s what how choose to define it that makes the difference in our lives. And I remain the richer from it all.

This week, I was blessed by insight into an important part of my life in the ’10s… my trips with my children.

In 2006, when separation (and later divorce) lead me to be the single parent that I perhaps was meant to be, taking trips with the kids became a good way to have alone time, undistracted time with these two souls whose growth I’ve been entrusted with. It was scary in its own way: Drew was six, MK (then Mary Kathryn) was nine, and traveling to a big city was something totally different.

That first trip was to Chicago, a town I’d been to many times before, and allowed a certain comfort in our adventures. We stayed at the Palmer House downtown, and visited the expected sights like the Shedd and the Museum of Science and Technology. We also went to see the Chicago Cubs, but to me the highlight of that trip will be the huge pool that was in the hotel, and the time that the three of us played in the water.

In 2007 and again in 2008, we travelled to New York City. Blessed with friends who could point us around the city, we saw lots — and enjoyed time throughout Time Square, Fifth Avenue, and saw the distinct differences between September and Thanksgiving in a town that is hard to feel that you’ve even seen a small percentage when you’ve been there many times.

From 2009 through 2011, we took different trips to Florida: once for a shuttle launch, and twice more for visits to Universal. But the real joy came in December 2011 on our first trip to Europe.

Going to London and Paris felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, two days in London, four days in Paris/Versailles. But it was there I realized the peace from such trips. No rushing, lots of experiences, and, as I’ve said before on those posts, the idea that frustrations that existed always got washed away in the real memories. And the phone rarely rang, and I could actually divorce myself from work because of the time and the distance.

MK came to me a couple years ago and commented that she realized that I liked our trips because it was just us, and no other distractions. And it was true.

Last Thanksgiving’s trip to London and Manchester made the transition from singular experience to a great tradition. We spent more time in London, and then to see Man U play at Old Trafford, but the peace was clearer.

As I sit on the precipice of Spain next week, the thought occurred to me this week that the peace is drawing me, but I also realized that I like these trips became my gifts to the kids, since buying things is not that special. It’s moved us from expected some huge Christmas morning to appreciating that the time, the experience, those memories and our stories together. We were not going to see those boxes with paper and bows as gifts… no, it was the fact that we’ll leave excited, return exhausted, and filled with something that cannot get lost, dusty or ignored after a few years of misuse.

Instead, they’ll stay with us forever.

That is the greatest gift of all for all of us. 

Sometimes I find the wanting and need to forgiven almost overwhelming. And it seems to be an elusive objective.

Over the past four years, consistently most people don’t really care about the past mistakes. Those people fall into two very broad categories: friends and family. Yet, it seems to be something that others make into a great big deal for their own gain, and for some reason, I’ve begun to realize that those hurt the most. It’s the duplicity of their actions, and saying one thing and doing another that pushes me between anger, vengefulness and that really dark part of me that seeks the kind of long-lingering revenge that only goes off when no one is looking.

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect is that I allow it to get to me, and affect choices I make. It’s such a small group of the emotionally-vapid, intellectually-challenged, or ideologically-obtuse that getting sucked into their negative vortex is as toxic as anything. While all of my Machiavellian instincts run rapid, I have to bring myself back to normal and note the following:

1. I have found success to be the most effective way to shut people up in the world. I am good at what I do, and I will be damned if I’m going to let somebody define me by something stupid in my past.
2. Let ’em judge. They ain’t that relevant, and anyone who wants to know where I am today can ask me, and make a decision about it without the authority to condemn me because they just don’t have that right.
3. Giving back professionally and personally is a form of penance, but giving up, crawling in a hole and thinking that I can never overcome those things is just simply not who I am. If you think I’ll quit because of your stupid fucking opinion, this is me telling you that you are quite incorrect.
4. I am respected by those that matter, and respect those that feel the way they do for legitimate reasons. When people clearly without the intellectual or emotional depth to appreciate the complexity of situations utter a word, I find a sock fits nicely back in that empty hole.

I’ve come to realize that I will continue to stand tall, push myself forward, and ultimately the past will just be the past. And those petty enough to try to stop me from this, that or the other will find the beartrap is a bitch to get off.

…no one can prepare you. And no one knows what it means to be a father until it’s happened to you… Honestly, it’s the hardest, best job I’ve ever had, and something I struggle with every single day, but the rewards are immeasurable.

I’ve just come back from three days on the road with my favorite two people in the world.

One is sixteen and so ready to have her own car, and to claim the “independence” that comes with self-transportation, that it’s pushing her to frustration. To have the right car, and the right time, and to have the trust and confidence and caution to drive away that first time alone. I see it in the furrowed brow, and in the hungry eyes for the road. The escape, and the ability to just go. And yet, I also see the fear, and uncertainty, and the hint of wanting to make sure that I get that she only wants so much rope (an amount that she will pre-define) and to know she’s safe to return whenever she wants.

The other is so full of funny and knowledge and a lack of seriousness that it gives me joy and frustrates me to no end. The potential right there, and the seeming battle to make sure he can focus and do and be all that he can. To watch in amazement this weekend as he engaged with adults, and talked with seriousness about topics he knows better than any of us, and then the silliness of the next moment. It worries, and thrills me simultaneously. And yet I see this extraordinary connection with him that gives me so much pride that I can hardly describe it.

They are each such totally unique people. I’ve said before that I struggle to remember a time they were not in my life — I know there was a lot of my life before them, but I know that they have always been with me. And I know that they will survive me and that a part of me will carry forth with them and their children, and their children. And I pray that I hold up to that scrutiny and to be worthy of the role of father.

To be honest, being a dad in these days in hard. I disagree about so many things in raising them that it gives me ulcers thinking about it. I’ve heard too many stories of absent dads, biological fathers whose selfish choices kept them out of their children’s lives and struggling financially because they never respected their responsibility. I know people that never knew their father because of death, disappearance or voluntary invisibility. I’ve heard I wasn’t a good father (by people with opinions that didn’t matter, but the words still sowed doubts). Others have reminded me time and time again that I am a good father — which is a great affirmation, but I realize that the only opinions that matter to me are the two who I am proud to be their poparoni by my actions and my love.

There is no owners manual so the advice I hear from some is the opposite of what I hear from others. I’ve followed my gut because it’s rarely steered me wrong, even if others disagree with it.

• I’m the First Amendment dad — their words are their own, so they don’t offend and must be honored for who they are.
• From an early age (and possibly too early), I treated them as adults and gave them the respect that their intelligence and emotional maturity deserved.
• I want to empower them with knowledge and experience and perspective so that they can be who they are, and not who I want them to be.
• Loving them without end requires hard decisions, the occasional no, more money than relevant, and admitting that I am a frail, flawed human too.
• They’ve seen me broken and strong, and struggling and soaring, and I think it’s given them trust that they too can live their lives.

Someone once told me that you can tell how good a parent one is by looking at their grandchildren. I haven’t reached that stage yet (and willing to wait a good while longer, thank you!). But I am the father I am because of the fathers (and mothers) who preceded me. From Otts and Essie, to Jack and Beatrice, and to my own beloved parents — Bonita and DC, I became the parent I am because of their love and example.

A very good friend is spending his last Father’s Day not as a Father. Fortunately the love, and insight, and opportunity to bring love and life and happiness and joy and sorrow and frustration and fear into your life is the greatest gift of all.

I don’t need breakfast in bed, and I am glad that I’m not getting a tie or a tool or a meaningless gift. I have Fathers Day every day — from the calls, the texts, the moments lost in thought of them, and from the smiles, the tears and the shared words that come from having more than a title. It’s given my life a meaning that I am thankful for each and every day.

Thanks to my children, and to my dad for making Father’s Day so meaningful for me.

One of the most difficult aspects of relationships is that we all bring our past into the present. And sadly, it almost always has a negative impact there and into the future. Truth be told, there’s no excuse for it, nor any apology strong enough to make up for an outcome that could have and should have been prevented.

Something came across the wire today that really hammered this point home:

Negative feelings are not true feelings at all; rather, they are your thoughts about something, based always on the previous experience of yourself and others.

You will not find Truth in your past data, only past data that is based on other past data, and so forth. Forget your “past experience” and look directly at the experience you are having Right Here, Right Now.

Those words hit me on the head time and time and time again. So now the lesson to learn is to apologize for letting past hurt create new, and resolve to stop repeating the cycle. Selective amnesia not being an available crutch or easy solution, I am left in the place of accepting my exclusive responsibility to work harder on this aspect of personal growth. I owe it to me, and to anyone else that believes in me enough to choose to spend time with me.

Back to work.

Today is MK’s last day as a fifteen-year-old. I’m struck by how quickly she’s growing up and also how grown up she’s always been.

I recently read a book she’d had me buy for her kindle. ‘You have to read this book!’ she’d said. And she was right…

At this age, as a parent, you wonder what you don’t about your children. There’s no easy way to find out. I guess you could read their texts, or stalk their. Tumblr page, or try to interpret the look you get when you ask how they’re doing.

I started reading a few days ago. I’d finished all I had in queue in our shared kindle account, and remembered this book. The subject matter was hard as a parent, a first-person story of a teenage girl suffering from terminal cancer. So as I absorbed the story, and the inherent emotions, I was particularly surprised when I first found a highlighted sentence in the book.

Immediately, the mind and heart of this remarkable child was exposed. It was perhaps the simplest way to see her and admire the complexity of her emotions. It was a little weird, I’ll grant you to see over her shoulder in this way.

“But it was a privilege to love him, huh?

I nodded into his shirt.

“Gives you an idea how I feel about you,” he said.

Happy Birthday to the most kick-ass woman I know.

I’ve been both a passive and active participant in discussions this week about the need for adults to own their shit. These conversations have left me largely perplexed about why people have such difficulty in admitting their frailties and are so blind to why denial is a symptom of the larger issue.

One mistake too many parents make is trying to let their children believe they are perfect and always right. It’s intimidating and suffocating, and always leads to disappointment. The better course for me has always been to be honest and real with the kids. Explain that we all make mistakes, but don’t let them define you. It’s a simple function of the broader commitment to making better humans, not making ourselves into semi-deities to be blindly obeyed.

It also goes to acknowledging our children’s own frailties. We are not perfect. We can’t live in denial of the things that afflict them, nor can we try to push off responsibility for them either. Children are to be loved unconditionally. Our examples are their road maps for future behavior. Denial causes them to dig in or doubt (neither of which are healthy) and failing to treat the problem leads to long term infection which eventually can never be cured.

Yes, it takes being flexible, patient, afraid and fearless. You can’t defer to another, and must always be vulnerable to the truths that come from their hearts, burned there by things heard, seen and felt.

One of the most difficult decisions of my life came from the realization that I had to provide a different model of living that could only come from being alone than they would receive jointly. It wasn’t an indictment of styles, but instead the need I felt for them to have the diversity of approaches. And the reality that I could not be the parent I wanted to be and should be to them in active partnership.

Has it worked? Don’t know yet.

But I feel comfortable about where they are. I love that they are strong enough to confront me when I don’t see my mistakes, attitude or inconsistencies, and comfortable that I won’t deny it or be angry at their willingness to give me that perspective.

Am I perfect as a parent? No one is, and feel I have something new to learn every day. Listening and trying to comprehend helps. Not being afraid to get an outside perspective has made me see the world outside my narrow view.

Most importantly, my comments are not meant to be an indictment of any other approach. But being open, vulnerable and always understanding has worked for me. Admitting when I’m wrong and my failings have made me see what’s better about this approach than trying to maintain that ‘perfect’ image.

I’m blessed, and being a parent is the best thing I’ll ever do.