Just the three of us

Today was a special day. A hard day. A fun day.

A memorable day.

Yesterday, I was moved by life and love to give my wife something I don't think I've ever fully given; a day to herself. With this came the promise that I'd stay with the kids and everyone would still be alive when she returned. We have a couple of wonderful kids, so this wasn't too hard a promise to make. Just the same, it was a big commitment...on both our parts. While I was promising to care for and entertain our kids totally solo, she sort of had to promise to accept the gift and have a good time. That's easier said than done for my bride. She's a woman about her responsibilities and has been in the mode of mommy long enough for it to fully become her. With either of us, having a solo time out with a couple of friends takes effort. Neither likes to leave the other behind.

But she accepted with a joy and surprise that told me this sort of gift just isn't given often enough. A mental note was made to make this a more regular thing. Still working on that. So off she went after some preparation. A quick Wal-Mart trip had to be made to replenish the rations in the house. We have one car in the family, so there would be no mid-day escape to Zaxby's for Dad and the kids. The food was brought home, sorted and Mommy was sent off for a day of fun.

It was just the three of us.

There were a number of things I wanted to get to today, and surprisingly we did. My daughter, son and I worked together to get the many loads of laundry folded, do some computer maintenance on one of our rebuilds, play kick-dodge ball, draw in my daughter's ongoing storybook, play an Xbox game together, and of course eat. There were a couple minor things that I fantasized getting to that turned out to be unrealistic, but there were far more successes than failures today. Far more.

Managing the day the way I had to, with both recreational and operational obligations to uphold, totally renewed my appreciation for the load my wife bears on a daily basis. I'm not saying I was oblivious to what she does for this family before, but I am duly reminded of the significant difference between sympathy and empathy. I did for a day what at times she would do for an entire week--especially this past week as our daughter was home from school. For five days straight, it was just the three of them. Not an easy stretch of time.

There will be more of these 'day gifts.' There needs to be. My wife is young, beautiful, outgoing, and needs to be reminded that she is not totally defined by motherhood. Then again, she is a pretty hot momma.

And there ain't nothin' wrong with that.

I am the human Segway

Often times I serve a specific purpose for my seven-month-old son, Caleb; transport. This is especially true when picking him up out of his crib. He'll settle himself in my arms then, as if I were a Segway, lean in the direction he wants to travel, which is toward his bedroom door. Sometimes I'll take him from his mommy and he'll twist his little body around until I'm holding him in the 'flying position.' Then he'll have his transport vehicle seek out his sister, Cadence for a game of 'Super Caleb' or 'Dribble Cloud.'

Yes, I am Dad; a human means of transport. And I am okay with that.

Mostly for the benefit of hindsight. Caleb is our second child which means that some of this was experienced six years ago with our daughter. As a first time dad, I can remember being devastated when Cadence seemed to show more love for her mommy than for me. I would be crushed at the sense of self-worthlessness around my daughter. Even though I was a man of logic, I found no comfort in the thought that my daughter was just a baby, wouldn't be like this forever, and had a stronger bond with her mommy because of nursing. None of that mattered at first. I loved her dearly and I wanted reciprocation. But it was rarely had.

Fast forward through the weeks, months and years and things aren't the way the were with my daughter and me. As she got older our relationship saw changes. There were roles that I played different from Mommy's. There were similarities found and forged in our personalities. And somewhere along the timeline, an unbreakable bond was formed between us. In name, deed, love, I became "Daddy" and there was none like me.

So I'll be the human Segway for my son today. I'll pick him up out of his crib and watch in amazement as he searches the common locations where Mommy can be found, or where his sister is excitedly awaiting the start of a new game. I'll read carefully his leaning and twisting as he relays directional commands. We have our one-on-one fun times besides. I know he loves me. And I know that, as with my daughter, the 'because' of his love will one day be made up of an innumerable list of reasons. Today, the list is short and begins with 'Transport.'

And that's okay with me, for all things now great began somehow small.

She is a thing of love

I admire my daughter, Cadence, for a lot of reasons. I don’t do enough to tell her of how inspiring her energy can be sometimes. All too often, I let the challenges of my day get in the way of sharing a little of that youthfulness she exudes without effort.

But we have our good times.

A couple times a week, Cadence and I will retreat to our big, empty living room and engage in a friendly (but competitive) game of kick-dodge ball. It would look like child abuse to anyone peaking in our window. I stand at one end of the room and she at the other, and with our feet and hands we launch rubber spheres of various sizes at one another. These can be anything from those small foam stress balls, to our medium-sized purple cloud Wal-Mart ball, to the grandest of all, Mommy’s full-sized white Polities ball. Oh, yeah! That'll strait knock the focus out of ya. It is a blast of a time, great exercise, and pretty frequently played throughout the week—especially on Saturdays. But we could play it more.

Cadence is great at a number of things. She’s been a computer user since she was about 2-years-old. She completed a ballet class last year and gave a great performance before an audience of about 2,000. She loves to read—and is pretty darn good at it if I do say so myself. And she can draw up a storm on any parchment lying around the house—whether it's meant to be drawn on or not.

Recently, I noticed that she’s also pretty good with an impromptu song. She can make up a song about lots of things while stringing together a fairly cleaver set of rhyming words to tell her story. I tried to explain to her the other day that people actually get paid for doing that. She promptly turned her attention to something of greater interest and I let the matter drop. I just don’t know sometimes what’ll swim and what’ll sink when it comes to her interests and my introduction of new ideas. But I know it’s important that I affirm and encourage her, and that she is aware of that encouragement.

Really, I just love her little heart, spirit, mind and all. I want to sit her still for a minute or two and tell her just how much I admire her. She’s got to be the coolest little kid I’ve ever known. Thinking about it, there’s really nothing stopping me from telling her just that.

So I will. And more often, too.

In the way that she should go

"I don't like Church."

As a Christian and a dad, this wasn't the sort of testimony I wanted to hear a child of mine make. But the dreaded words shot from the mouth of my daughter, Cadence and pierced my heart a couple Sundays ago. I was slightly devastated. Okay, maybe a little more than slightly.

It was a protest Cadence was making to her mom's instruction to ready herself for Church. It took me a while to put things into perspective and admit to myself that it wasn’t the end of the world. Initially, all I could think was that we somehow failed as Christian parents. Our daughter was lost in rebellion against God at age five. Woe was me. But I was wise enough not to confront her about the statement that morning. My wife, patient as usual, corralled the child into her room and into an outfit and off to Church we went.

The statement stayed with me for a while and this morning I was especially reminded of the supposed admission of distaste. I was walking up the steps with Cadence when I informed her that it was time to find something to wear and hit the shower so we can get to service in good time. "Awe," she groaned at the news. I couldn't stifle my reaction. "Hey!" I snapped. She went silent and proceeded to her room to pick out an outfit with the most somber of countenance.

Minutes later, she returned to me with her choice of pink sweater and skirt. But while she was in her room, I was taking a moment to consider her feelings—and my reaction. I decided that it would be a good idea to make an admission of my own.

I told her that there are honestly times when I don't want to go to Church (imagine that). I told her that, at times, I'd rather stay home, watch movies, play videogames and try to scrape some self-time together before returning to work on Monday. I let her understand that I empathized with her feelings this morning.

"But," I continued, "it's important that we do go to Church just as it is important that we get out of our warm, comfy beds and go to school and work." It was an inference that I didn't imagine having to draw for her for another seven or eight years when she might legitimately have a few conflicts of interest in the practice of Sunday worship at Church. But here I was with my five-year-old discussing the sacrificial choice we sometimes have to make of the things we want to do for the things we need to do for the nourishment of our faith.

I didn’t get theological on her though. Instead, through a few simple questions, I brought to her attention that which I have observed of her countless times at Church; she has a great time, every time. I reminded her that she's always glad she went to service. That she always enjoys the singing, playing, laughing and learning she experiences with her friends and the children's ministry staff. Remembering theses facts, the idea of leaving the comforts of home didn't seem so tough and we proceeded to get ready, this time with a rather lifted countenance.

So essentially, I had to relax, relate and release some honest, empathetic feelings to help my (expediently) maturing daughter stay on track with the principals we've always tried to instill. As Christian parents, we decided a long time ago to let one proverb serve as the core of our brand of parenting: Train up a child in the way they should go, and when they are old they will not depart from it (Prov. 22:6).

I understand now that success of the 'training' requires empathy and transparency from the trainer.

Wanting and fearing more children

My wife and I have very common interests when it comes to building a family—which, as I've come to understand it, makes us pretty fortunate. We've heard about married couples struggling to find common ground in conversations around the size of their family. But we agree that we want as many children as God sees fit to bless us with. Taking that for face value sounds as though we're looking to populate a small village.

Let me explain.

Consider the fact that God promised not to give more than we can bear. Knowledge of this promise offers comfort to the frustrations of actually trying to conceive or even adopt a child with no success. We've been there, my wife and I—with both of our kids. Dealing with the disappointment of negative test results meant a constant if even brief recollection of God's promise. More than likely, the time wasn't right, we weren't ready yet, and somehow a child would have been more than we could bear.

Today, seven months after the birth of our son, our second child, I'm in a slightly different place with regards to expanding our family. I want more children, yes, but for the first time I find myself afraid at the thought.

The pregnancy of our son had its mild complications, but it had its complications. He was born healthy and happy, but an alarmingly full five weeks early. There were pains, discomforts and concerns that weren’t present with the carrying of our daughter five years ago. I know that every pregnancy is different, but that offers little comfort when you're a husband watching your wife get poked, pricked and prodded to make sure everything was developing properly. I was afraid for her. I was afraid for him. And I am afraid that going through that again may yield different results.

I am afraid that we may be pushing our luck.

The advent of a person growing in a person is an amazing thing. There are so many details that have to be just right to, without incident, create this little human being to whom you'll be introduced at the end of nine months, give or take. As a pregnant mother, you have to be so careful with your actions and activities so as not to disrupt the process of life cycling within you. After the successful birth of our son, I began to consider it madness to ever try our luck again.

Then I was reminded of a truth that, in my fear, I had nearly forgotten; I don't believe in luck.

I believe in the blessings of God. I believe in the plans and purposes He authors to which I am not always privy. I believe in His promise; that we will not be given more than we can bear. I believe, though emotionally trying, the mild complications of this last pregnancy were no surprise to God and that at no point did my son's development deviate from His plan—even to the point of being born five weeks early. I believe that to our Father in Heaven, he was right on time.

So we'll continue talks of preparing ourselves to welcome another little one to our family. It's in our hearts to have more children and in our minds to be as responsible as possible with the blessing of another life. It doesn't mean that I am suddenly without my fears and concerns for the many possible outcomes of another pregnancy, but they do seem smaller in the presence of a mighty promise.

And what a mighty promise it is.

It ain't all random. Some of it's planned.

Recently, I was changing my son on his changing table and partook in what I think was something rather remarkable. I needed a toy or something to occupy his hands so that I'd have fewer obstacles in my way as I attempted to change his diaper. Finding nothing better nearby, I handed him a fresh diaper saying "hold this for a second." I added: "and don't put it in your mouth."

A feeble request, or so I thought.

Promptly, my 6-month-old son put the double fisted diaper on a slow but deliberate path to his mouth. Offering him a stern eye and tone I said "No. Don't put that in your mouth." Now, I didn't yell at him and there was hardly an inflection to my voice, but amazingly, this kid begins to slowly lower the diaper back toward his chest. I put a poker face on trying my darndest not to look impressed. Did what I think just happened happen?

I'm not the flash like my wife when it comes to changing my son's diaper, so I'm still working on him a few moments later when I began to notice the diaper leave my periphery. Yeah, it was once again headed to that dribble-soaked tool with which my son explores the world and all in it; his mouth. I repeated my command much in the same manner as before and was again surprised by the reaction. The diaper was lowered and this time without a repeat attempt. No way was this random.

There are a number of ways to explain away what actually happened. He may have simply thought the words I was saying were at the moment slightly more interesting than the diaper he was about to sample. Who knows. But the profound thing it reminded me of as a dad was that we as parents should underestimate what our children are really capable of. There is little doubt that he hadn't a clue what exactly I was saying, but I probably wouldn't have thought that he would at this point in life be able to fathom what I was "meaning." I think that's just what he did, twice.

Just today I saw a commercial featuring Magic Johnson. In it he mentions that he was trained as a child to earn his spending money as opposed to being given an allowance. By the age of 10, Mr. Johnson continues, he owned his own business cutting lawns. Fast forward to the business smarts he seems to benefit from today and you can't help but to attribute that to a foundation set in the concept of earning a living. Someone in his family (mother, father or both) saw that this kid was capable of staying on task and working toward a goal, something many adults still can't get right today. And by the age of 10, a little entrepreneur was out there earning his own.

My son's little show of understanding was a clear reminder of the potential kids hold. It was a reminder of the responsibility I have as a parent to help them appropriately measure that potential in attempts to map the innumerable paths of their future.

Indeed, even with an infant, it ain't all random. Some of it's planned.

The guy in the mirror

I look in the mirror sometimes and find myself asking, who are you really? What are you into? Where did you come from?

What are you made of?

Surprisingly, I like that I'm at a point in my life where I'm really trying to find answers to those questions. Surprising because growing up in the Bronx, we kids prided ourselves on "keeping it real" and "staying true to ourselves." Questioning one's own identity was like a sign of weakness. But we had no idea who we were, where we were going, where we even came from. Most of us barely understood where we were in the world; the cultural richness of one of the five boroughs that comprised the famed New York City.

We were just kids trying to make our mark on the tiny piece of land that was our world. Our block. Our 'hood. But I'm not a kid anymore (well, for the most part I'm not).

Today, as a husband and a dad, my wife and daughter have bestowed upon me many flattering labels; wonderful, awesome, fun, so cool, creative, even the occasional 'brilliant.' For a long time it was hard for me to accept those bestowments. Then I began to appreciate the fact that these people undoubtedly know me better than anyone on the plant. Add to that the natural tendency we have to always be openly honest with each other—if I sucked for some reason at some thing, my 6-year-old daughter would politely make me aware. So all things considered, they probably know—and mean what they're talking about.

I believe it true for many people that we really do become the influences with which we surround ourselves. Think about how similar people can sometimes be to their closest friend or relative. Consider the demeanor of a kid that listens to nothing but Hip Hop, Country or Jazz. Whether consciously or subconsciously, be it friends, family, movies, co-workers, or music, like the old adage states, you are the company you keep.

So maybe in trying to figure out the guy in the mirror, I should consider that he's made up of a little of everything else that mirror reflects. My faith, my wife, my daughter, my son, my home, my profession, my Xbox (yeah, definitely my Xbox). I am a bit of all the influences with which I choose to surround myself.

And they are a bit of me.