Sunday, February 7, 2016

Valentine to a Little Brother

Finding the right Valentine's Day card has to be one of my least favorite annual chores. People expect so much when you claim to be a "writer." But most cards are so cheesy they give me goose bumps -- the bad kind of goose bumps.

The truth is, I usually buy the first card that doesn't make me vomit in my mouth. I know, very romantic.

Our 7-year-old daughter solved this yearly problem by writing her own Valentine note to her 5-year-old little brother. Granted, she was made to do this at school, but she nailed it.

For those who don't read second-grader well, here it is again (translated):

Dear Drew,

You might bite me, or hit me, or pinch me but I still love you because you are my brother, you are my family. Oh and by the way, did I mention that you are a awesome artist and a awesome runner. I love you so so so so much.



Honest. Heartfelt. Filled with complements. Valetine's perfection. I just hope her mom doesn't ask her to write one for me.

Happy Valentine's Day.

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Sunday, January 31, 2016

Alexander, My Daughter and Me

My 12-year-old daughter has become obsessed with Alexander Hamilton, and I can’t take it anymore.

That’s one sentence I never imagined I’d write. Really didn’t see this one coming. But it’s true. Alex, as she calls him, permeates her every waking thought.
You’d think a typical dad like myself would be pleased that his precocious and energetic child was focusing her young intellect on the life and philosophy of one of the greatest minds in American history. But no.
I fondly miss her past days of being singularly pre-occupied with a certain insufferable British YouTube duo, named Dan and Phil, which she still is when not talking, singing, or reciting random facts about Alex.
What's next, a musical about math?
Or cumulus clouds? Or cats?
... Oh wait, never mind. 
(I also just noticed the "Parental Advisory"
label -- wish I saw that earlier).
And what ever happened to the happier days of her youth when she would endlessly belt Fall Out Boy lyrics, or wistfully engage in a game of name that obscure Disney tune with her siblings. Ever heard your kid sing “Great Spirits” from Brother Bear? I have. Or at least, I used to.
Now, she’s more likely to rap the preamble to the Constitution, or shake her shoulders and sing, “I’m not throwing away my … shot.”
Not to mention, she knows more random facts about Alexander Hamilton than any 12-year-old should. Heck, I have a graduate degree in political science – which I’m still paying for, by the way – and she has more Hamiltonian and revolutionary facts stored in her young brain then I was ever exposed to in all of college, and I had a whole grad-level class on Alexander Hamilton and the constitutional convention, taught by a renowned expert on Hamilton.
Sure, that was a while ago. But I didn’t recall that Hamilton wrote 50 of the 85 Federalist Papers.
“Actually, he wrote 51, dad.”
“The plan was to write 25. John Jay got sick after writing 5. James Madison wrote 29. Hamilton wrote the other … 51.”
Oh. Thanks.
“He also wrote an 80 page essay to a supporter of King George III named Sam Seabury about how colonial England was a tyrannical government.”
See what I mean. She just knows more about Alexander Hamilton than any kid her age needs to. It’s not that I have anything against Hamilton, though truthfully I always considered myself more of a Jefferson guy. It’s just kind of weird to have my days filled with all these random facts from American history.  You know, I mean, political philosophy and the fundamental questions about democratic principles have their place. But do we really have to talk about Hamilton’s design of our national financial system at the dinner table. Can’t we just talk about how school went today?
I’m sure many people reading this know the root cause of my problem. It’s her mother. She’s the one who studied theater in college, and turned my daughter on to classics like Les Miserable, years ago. The soundtrack to Les Mis was actually the first album she put on her first MP3 player when she was little. (Yes, that was her first electronic gadget – a true gateway electronic, if you ask me).
She used to sing “On My Own” ad nauseam when she was a spritely 7 years old. Which, in hindsight, was kind of cute.
Which gets us to the actual cause of my Hamilton-obsessed-child problem: Theater.
For those who don’t know, and I counted myself among you until recently, there is a new “smash hit” on Broadway about the life and times of, get this, Alexander Hamilton. Apparently, it’s a cross-genre, hip-hop and classic, historically accurate, tear-jerker of a musical that follows this founding father through the revolution and early years of our great democratic experiment. It sounds like a total flop, right? But the aptly-titled Hamilton, which began off-Broadway last January, made the move to the bigger stage in August and is now sold out for the foreseeable future and, good-money has it, it’s a shoo-in to win a bunch of Tony Awards. I heard that last part.
About a month and a half ago, my daughter was introduced to the soundtrack by one of her theater friends (a reminder how important it is to make sure you kid hangs out with the right crowd).
Anyway, flash forward to now, and she’s singing, dancing and rapping about the founding of our country and one of its chief architects.
Worse yet,  she forced me to start listening to the darn thing as prerequisite to writing this – I’ve gotten through the first act, so far -- and now I’m hooked, as well. It’s amazing, on so many bizarre levels. Genius, really. Who would’ve thought the subject I studied in boring grad school classes had the makings of a Broadway classic. Not me, for sure.
And now I’m learning random facts about Hamilton that I never knew, or completely forgot.
For instance, I did not even recall that he and Aaron Burr were actually friends going way back.
“They were quite close. Their rift had to do with Alex’s belief that Burr was unprincipled and an opportunist, and that’s what led to …”
Stop. Don’t give away a spoiler.
“I can’t spoil it, dad. It’s actual history.”
Oh. Right.
Anyway. This is our latest obsession. And maybe sometime in the not too distant future, we’ll feed this obsession with a trip to New York and a visit to Broadway. If we can ever get any tickets.
In the meantime, I’ve got a soundtrack to finish.
I wonder how it’s going to end.

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Elf You and Your Elfing Elf on the Shelf

Like the Christmas season wasn’t elfing stressful enough. Now, there’s a magical elf in the house that supposedly reports to Santa every gosh darn night in December – or at least most nights -- and changes places upon its return.

What an elfing awesome idea! Thanks so much to the magical creators from the North Pole who came up with this challenging addition to our holiday routine. We really needed this wakeup call, this extra check on our attentiveness, this daily reminder that we are far from the parents we set out to be each day.

For the record, our family resisted this elfing movement for many years. We did. Then last year, as the kiddos exchanged their traditional Christmas Eve secret Santa gifts, one sibling got the other a brand spanking new Elf on the Shelf. So, our introduction into elf-on-the-shelfdom officially happened on December 24, 2014. The elf’s arrival initially set off a bit of family squabbling over whether to name him Abraham or Stanley. Why either name was the choice, I have no idea. A compromise was reached, and he was promptly named “Abraham Stanley.”

Our boring Elf on the Shelf, boringly sitting on a
boring shelf, where he'll likely be for more than
one morning in a row.
That very night, Santa came to our house and picked up Abraham Stanley and took him back to the North Pole, as the legend goes, until the next holiday season. (And by legend I mean the instructions in box he came in).

From last Christmas until this December, Abraham Stanley hasn’t caused us any trouble, spending the better part of the year with his friends and colleagues at Santa’s Workshop. Then, on December 1st of this year, he magically arrived on a shelf in our once happy home. Now each morning begins with a frantic kid-led search for our little yuletide spy. That search is often preceded by a frantic parent moment where one of us asks the other, did the elf move? It's amazing how this little question, which I had never asked before this year, can now shake me to my parental core.

Despite our united focus on this nightly task, and the google calendar alert set to 5:00 a.m. each day that simply reads, “Elf,” our little Abraham Stanley doesn’t always move. He’s a bit of a slacker, really. And that has left the kids a bit perplexed.

Apparently, he’s also not the most creative elf in the world. The kids regularly come home from school with stories of how other elves in the neighborhood always do funny things, having tea with dinosaurs and toilet papering the doll house. Ours just sits on shelves and atop rather predictable book cases.

“Why is Abraham Stanley so boring?” one of them asked me the other morning. Dagger.

Like I said, the only thing our elf does consistently is serve as a daily reminder that we are just hanging on as parents.

Not to deflect the criticism, but I think I know why he’s such a slacker. Let’s face it, any elf worth their salt spends December working on a serious toy production deadline. This whole Elf of the Shelf mass arrival is really just Santa’s – or someone else’s – plan to clean out the elf riff-raff. Personally, I’d like to send all these little red interlopers back where they came from.

Oh no. I think my frustration with Abraham Stanley has led me to go full Trump on these holiday helpers.

But honestly, we really don’t need their help. The mere threat that “Santa is watching” has worked to keep our kids on the straight and narrow – a few weeks a year, anyway – for as long as we’ve had kids. Having a physical presence on the premises only moves the good behavior needle a fraction, while causing more grief than anything. Our Elf on the Shelf is just not elfing worth the hassle.

I know darn well there are many parents who’ve complained about these magical little additions to the Christmas rigmarole before. And maybe we can’t just deport all the elfs currently in homes across the nation. But something needs to be done.

Because we simply don’t need more elfing stress this time of year. So, here’s my message to all the parents who have yet to go down the Elf on the Shelf rabbit hole: resist it. This is one new tradition that just isn't sustainable. To the parents who go over the top with your elf-written poems and hilarious antics: please tone it down a bit. I shouldn't have to resort to Pinterest to figure out which crazy predicament Abraham Stanley is going to be found in tomorrow morning.

And, to all the Elves on Shelves and the institutions pushing them on overstressed families everywhere: “Elf Off!”

I sure hope Abraham Stanley doesn’t read this.  

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Saturday, November 14, 2015

Luna and the Chipmunks

“I think it pooped everywhere!” My wife exclaimed, aghast, looking at scores of tiny black pellets strewn about our foyer and staircase. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear on a relaxing fall weekend morning.

“No … those are nuts,” I responded, based on reason and the sound made when the shower of tiny particles exploded a few steps up the stairs from our front door.


“You know, like sunflower seeds.”

Our 12-year-old, wise in the ways of animal culture, added, “They gather nuts in their cheeks for winter, mom.”


Yes. Nuts. That’s the only way to describe a recent morning in our usually quiet home, on our quiet street, in our quiet little village -- absolutely nuts.

To explain, I should probably back up a bit.

If you’d visited our street just an hour earlier, you would’ve found our front door and screen wide open,  with our big, cushy over-sized and over-priced armchair in the front yard on its side with me poised above it with my eyes bulging out and a fishing net in hand ready to pounce.

Maybe we should back up even more. Let’s start with the cat: Luna. You may remember her from such classics as the cat that climbed the 40 foot pine and the pet poo mystery.

Our family adopted Luna about two years ago. Since then she’s asserted herself as an outdoor cat, and she’s also grown into quite the able hunter. Her prey of choice: chipmunks. If I could catch fish as efficiently as she catches chipmunks I’d get sponsors and join the professional fly fishing tour. She often returns after a brief stint outside with a chipmunk, mouse or mole in her clutches, pawing at the door to show us her kill. Though, ironically, she doesn’t always kill them – at least, not at first. And I often intervene before she finishes the job. When I see her in the yard with a creature in her mouth, I’ll chase her and, when I can catch her, pick her up. She’ll drop her new toy and, though sometimes they land with a thud, nine times out of ten the rodent will hit the ground and scamper off into the nearest underbrush. She always looks at me like, “What’d you go and do that for?!”
Chipmunk, with cheeks full of nuts and seeds, rubs
his hand together while doing an evil laugh.
It’s not like I’m a chipmunk pacifist, I just find it easier and cleaner to break things up at that point than to be stuck getting rid of the body later, which I have to do often. Trust me; there’s a small stack of formerly cute little carcasses behind the stone wall in our back yard. So, I try to step in early when possible.
On this particular morning, I was in the garage preparing to do still more yard work. My wife and eldest daughter were out shopping for something critically important, I’m sure. As I came out of the garage with a rake, or shovel, or something yardy in hand, I saw Luna jog by me with a little furry ball hanging from her teeth.
I sprang into action.
Unfortunately, just as I sprang my youngest daughter came bounding out the front door, and prancing in went Luna with her chipmunk.
NO! I shrieked in my head. And in that moment, I prayed the little guy was dead.
Before I was in the door, I learned my prayers had gone unanswered. Luna dropped the very much alive chipmunk, and it scurried into the corner of our living room. Game on.
She flew toward it, rearing up and lunging with her cute little paws extended like the villain from a jump-scare movie. The chipmunk, let’s just call him Chip, darted left, then right, and found himself behind a floor-length curtain – momentarily safe. Luna circled around, playfully padding at the curtain from one side and the next.
This continued for what felt like an eternity.
While the animals danced their deadly tango, the children screamed, scattered and climbed on the furniture like 1950s housewives with a mouse afoot.
“It could have rabies!”  They each screamed in one version or another.
In that moment I thought how I hadn’t written any blog post lately. Not for total lack of content, mind you, just nothing had occurred to compel me to break through the daily grind long enough to put pen to paper. Apparently, my inaction had upset the blog gods. And now their wrath was raining down on me with material I couldn’t ignore. I was witnessing, without a doubt, a “blogworthy” event unfolding in my living room. And it would only get better.  By better, of course, I mean worse.
Always calm under duress, I began dispensing orders.
Sadie stop screaming rabies and open the front door!
Drew get upstairs and stay on the bed!
Chloe, get to the basement and find an empty laundry basket!
I was going to catch the darn thing or shoo it out the door trying.
“But I’m afraid!” Chloe replied.
Of what? The basement or the rabid chipmunk!?
She pointed to the basement.
Fine, Sadie go with Chloe to the basement, I barked as I kept an eye on the chipmunk’s little toes sticking out from under the curtain. To think my kids used to stand in the same spot during hide and seek. For the record, I could see them then, too.
When Chloe emerged from the basement she had the tiniest box she could find.  She clearly didn’t understand my plan.  I sent her again for a LAUNDRY BASKET while I kept my eyes on Chip.
She finally came back with a laundry basket, but it happened to be the only one in the house with wide two inch slots in the side -- clearly not chipmunk impervious. In her defense, it was likely the only empty one in the house, too.
Forget it, I said. And I took my eyes off the cornered rodent long enough to sprint to the garage and grab my fishing net.  When I came back to the living room, where I’d left the Luna and Chip 23 seconds before, the cat was just walking around the big cushy chair that sits a few feet from the curtain.
“Where’s the chipmunk?” I asked, as shrill as I’d ever asked anything of a cat.
Luna  just kept pacing around the chair and looking confused.
I looked behind the curtain. Nothing. And the next curtain. Nothing. The corners of the room. Nothing. Under the chair. Nope. The couch. Clear. I kept crawling around the room like a mad man. The cat sat down, looking at me, and then she started licking her underside like there wasn’t a live rodent loose in our living room. Eff-ing cats.
The trail had gone cold. I deduced that there was only three things that could have occurred while I was momentarily out of the room.  The first theory, and most hopeful, was that it had run through the living room and out the propped-open front door without the cat noticing. Unlikely, but hopeful.  The second, that it had scurried behind any number of pieces of furniture and floor-length curtain and was hiding in this room or another. Or the third, that it had found a way into the underside of the big cushy chair – which has some holes on its underside thanks to Luna’s other bad habits – and had climbed up inside the interior architecture of its oversized framework. I decided that was the most likely.
I promptly carried the chair out the front door, with the help of a reluctant daughter, and set it on its side so that a rodent could climb easily out of one of the underside holes.  Then I watched it.  And watched it. For some reason I still had my fishing net poised over it, like I had some reason to catch chip outside.
This lasted until it became clear it was about to rain. The raindrops were the real clue.  So I carried the chair back inside with the help of a neighbor who’d come over to check on my sanity.
Time passed. The wife came home. I explained the predicament. She laughed and moaned.
We looked online and the good people of the internet told us to leave a door open, because chipmunks often let themselves out. So the front remained opened as we tried to go back to our lives with Chip missing, last seen in our living room.
And that’s when our wonderful, little cat strolled back in the open door carrying yet another chipmunk in her mouth. We’ll call this one Dale.
I could tell right away that Dale was still alive, as I saw his tail unfurl then furl like a paper noisemaker.
Already on alert, the family sprang into action. We all took up positions in the hall and at entrances to various rooms all trying to steer the cat away and herd her out the door. We were cowboys with a loose steer, though many of us looked more like rodeo clowns when the cat and her catch got near.
She tried to dart left to the living room. Blocked. She tried to the kitchen and family room. Blocked, herded and harassed.  She ran back toward the open front door, and then took a hard right and headed up the stairs.
“Luna! … No!” my wife let out a guttural call.
I sprinted up the stairs behind the cat and corned her in one of the bedrooms.  Dale was still in her mouth, looking at me with its frightened eyes and puffed out cheeks.
I slowly approached the cat, and picked her up gently making certain not to entice her to drop the rodent.  I held her carefully in front of me and walked briskly toward the staircase. We made it halfway down the stairs when Dale saw the light of the door and gave a productive shake, falling from the cat’s mouth and landing with an explosion on the fifth stair from the bottom.  The chipmunk hadn’t exploded, but the contents of its cheeks had.
Dale was very much alive. And we all watched frozen as he scampered and scurried toward the open door, his rear legs swinging and swerving widely like a drag racer on wet pavement. Then, he was gone.
Two chipmunks came into our house, and one certainly left.  All we had to show for it was a pile of nuts.
In other news, if your family’s interested in a cat, I know one that’s free to a good home, has all her shots, and excels at catching mice … and chipmunks.
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Monday, October 12, 2015

Kid Quotes from a Family Hike

“Do we have to go?”
“I hate hikes.”
“How far is it to the top, dad?”
“I need a hiking stick.”
“Can I have a piggy back?”
“She hit me with her stick!”
“Do you think we’re halfway yet?”
"He fell."
“I’m okay … I’m tough”
"Wanna trade walking sticks?"

“I wish this was flatter.”
“Maybe we should go back.”
“Did we take a wrong turn?”
“Is this the top, yet?”
“This is sooo farrrr.”
“I think I see the top.”
“C’mon … race you.”
“Can I have the camera?”

“How high are we?”
“Did you bring snacks?”
“I want the red water bottle.”
“There are so many lady bugs. Do they bite?”
“Ahh! One bit me!”
“I hate lady bugs!”
“Can we go, please?”
“I want to go that way.”
“Please can we go that way.”
“You are the least fun dad ever.”
“I’m hungry.”
“First one to catch a falling leaf wins.”
“How much farther to the car?”
“I’m tired.”
“I caught a leaf!”
“Everyone has caught a leaf but me.”
“Owie, Owie, Owie! Daddy, Daddy. Daddy!
“Can you carry me?”
“Do we have Band Aids in the car?”
“I think I can make it.”
“This is so steep. Did we walk up this?”
“Can we go to the waterfall before we leave?”
“Can I go behind the waterfall?”
“We’ll be fine!”
“How about only people 12 and older can go behind the waterfall?”
“That’s not fair.”
“We’ll be safe, I promise.”
“Can I go too, daddy?”
“I’m scared.”
“She pushed me.”
“We’re so high!”
“This is amazing!”
“Can I have the camera?”

“Best day ever.”
“Thanks, dad. You were right.”
“I’m soooo hungry.”

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Saturday, August 29, 2015

The 14 Comedies My Kids Will Need To Watch to “Get Me”

One cool thing about my kids growing up is that the older ones are finally ready to appreciate the finer things in life, like the many ridiculous and essential comedies that shaped their dad’s strange view of the world and sense of humor.  

Recently I sat down with my eldest for a movie night, after convincing her she just had to watch Monty Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail. It was touch and go. She laughed at first, but fell asleep halfway through, right about when Sir Robin’s minstrels meet their fate (Yay!). We tried again a few nights later, and she made it to the end. She professed to love it. I figured she was humoring her old man.
A few days later I cut myself slicing vegetables, and she told me it was just a flesh wound. I laughed and smiled deep within – while I bandaged my finger.
Finally, I had someone else in my house who knew the answer to the age old question: What is the average airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
I realized, watching that movie was about more than simple father-child bonding – it was showing her a bit of who I am and why, and it was adding her to a secret world of quotes and quips of which only my siblings and select friends are members.
It got me thinking about the many movies my kids need to watch to truly “get me” -- me, as in their dad. Not all of these movies are appropriate yet. But here’s the list, anyway. It’s likely a similar list to that of many other dads of my vintage:
1.       Monty Python’s Quest For the Holy Grail

2.       Monty Python’s Life Of Brian

3.       Airplane

4.       National Lampoon’s Vacation

5.       Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

6.       Steve Martin’s The Jerk

7.       The Three Amigos

When they’re a little older

8.       Sixteen Candles

9.       Naked Gun

10.       Blazing Saddles

11.       This is Spinal Tap (you knew it had to be 11)

12.       Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure

13.       Mel Brooks: History of the World Part I

14.       Austin Powers

I’ve decided to make these movies a requirement of graduation from my house. So before any of them go off to college and out into the cruel and funny world, they have to watch all these fine films. Preferably with me. If not, they will be suspended over a pool of sharks with laser beams attached to their heads. … Or, ill-tempered sea bass, depending on what’s available.

What comedies would make your list?


Monday, August 17, 2015

The Heartbreaking Good Fortune of Returning to Work

This is a note to all the husbands (and wives and partners) of a parent who spent a few years at home, working or just parenting, while looking after the kiddos, only to return to an office job once those children grew. Please support them. Because, it’s a heartbreaking transition returning to work.

I know, because I just did it. And it’s hard. Really hard.

Our family’s story is a bit unique, as everyone’s is, I guess.  For the past five years, since just before our fourth child and only son was born, I’ve worked from home as a consultant, freelance writer and adjunct professor. The work went through ebbs and flows, making me extremely busy at times and not terribly busy other times. My wife’s work-from-home job (I know, two work-from-homers is not exactly normal) was far more structured, requiring her to be at her desk or on conference calls all the darn time. Meaning that, for the past five years, I’ve been the parent of record.

A random and typical photo of my kids,
representing the last five years -- and the future.
I’ve been the one in our house at home watching after the kids when they’re not at school, making bag lunches in the morning, grocery shopping in the afternoon, playing in the yard after school, and preparing dinner way too late, pretty much everything but the laundry – which is a whole other story -- and working a close to full-time as possible myself, fitting my career in on the fringes of life. When I wasn’t working or tending to kids, I was usually driving them places: to pre-school, to playdates, to parks, to day camp, to birthday parties, to soccer practice. If they had someplace to go, Dad’s was usually driving – sometimes while on a conference call of my own.

I remember one time pacing in the front parking lot of a Chuck-E-Cheese, on a particularly tense conference call, while one of my daughters, her friends and all the other parents in attendance partook in the festivities. They probably thought I was a jerk, but I was just trying to balance my career and my family. And, for the last five years, I’d been able to do that while mostly being at home. Not too far from my kids.

It wasn’t always that way.

During the first seven years of our child-rearing experiment (our oldest daughter was born 12 years ago) I was the part-time parent; A weekend warrior. I worked 40-, 50-, 60-hour weeks well away from home, and fit in the parenting around the fringes, usually seeing our growing number of kids during their awful bedtimes or on the weekends that always felt too short.

Back then, it was my wife who bore the primary parenting responsibility, while balancing work and family from her home office. She was the one who made all the tough transitions, from full-time worker, to maternity leave, to part-time worker, to maternity leave, to contract worker, etc.

The pain in her transitions is something I never thought of when I was the one working an office job full-time. I imagine, most working spouses of homebound parents likely don’t think about the transitions either. If anything, we’re a little jealous of the whole arrangement.

But I can tell you, it is hard. It’s hard to go from a stay-at-home mom, or stay-at-home dad, or a work-at-home-parent back to a nine-to-fiver. It’s hard to think that your time at home with the little ones is really over. It’s hard to watch your little baby turn five, and know that those years went by in a blink. It’s hard to think that all those hours, days, months, and years, where you sat on park benches and on a practice sideline, begrudging being around your children all the dang time, that those times are now over. And you’re back at the water cooler. Commuting. Working all day. And living for weekends that are simply too short.

It is hard.

Here’s a confession: the morning that marked my return to the office routine, I sat down after my shower on the closed toilet in our bathroom, with a towel, a t-shirt, and a toothbrush, and I cried.

Me. A grown man. A grizzled veteran dad. I cried. Heck, I bawled. The end of this era hit me. My time at home was over.

I thought about that fact that some of my kids didn’t remember the days when I wasn’t around. And I knew some of them might not remember the days when I was.

Yep. I cried.

(By the way, If my current boss reads this part, I don’t want them to mistake that sadness for regret about this new job. In truth, I am grateful, both for the chance to work from home for the past five years and for the opportunity to return to the workplace.)

I know I am lucky. Lucky I have these wonderful kids and a wife who still professes to love me. Lucky to have a good job when so many others–moms and dads–struggle to get back into the workplace.

But I do regret that time has traveled past me so fast, that my children have grown so quickly, and that I can’t seem to slow this world down no matter what drastic steps I take to do so.

To everyone who is at home with the kids, parenting full-time or working from home, I say, find a way to appreciate what you do have: Time. Time with your kids. It is the most precious thing we have.

And, to everyone who lives with someone who made the sacrifice of staying home for the kids' formative years, only to return to the work routine, know that it is harder than it looks. So support them.

Many moms (and dads) who've done it already know this: but it is a heartbreaking good fortune, returning to work.
No parent should underestimate how hard and fortunate it is.