On Snowshoes and Going Sideways

I can remove summiting Everest from my bucket list now, like it was ever even there. Not because I accomplished the feat. Rather because any notion that I could make it to the top of that mountain, or many less-daunting peaks, perished on a rather tame wintry hike up a hill outside of Cazenovia, N.Y., this past weekend. If I ever tried a real mountain, it would certainly be the last thing I did.

So a dream I never had died. And that wasn’t the worst thing to happen that day.

A few years ago, I got this notion in my head that I wanted – no, needed – a pair of snowshoes. One Christmas morning soon thereafter, a pair arrived under the tree with my name on them. I felt whole again.

Since then, I’ve used the snowshoes a handful of times, usually just goofing around in the yard after a big snow, or occasionally in the really deep stuff up north in the Snow Belt where my parents live. Nothing too vigorous.

This weekend, experiencing the cabin fever that sets in after the coldest January in memory, trapped indoors with a house full of children, I decided to change that. I decided I was going to really go snowshoeing. Not lets-take-the-kids kind of snowshoeing. But real snowshoeing.

Why not, right? I had the shoes. I could use the exercise. I needed to get out of the house. And there was snow on the ground.

Luckily, my brother, who lives a short drive away, had a similar notion, as did a friend of his. So on a cold and windy, but partly-sunny Sunday, we met at his farm to set out across a field and into the adjoining woods to follow a looping trail through the foothills of Caz.

We crossed the field, traversing through snow not quite as deep as expected, or hoped. But there was enough. In places, ripples and drifts formed, swallowing all evidence of brush and weeds whole, and allowing us to levitate above it all. Other places, the wind left the earth bare, and the metal spikes on our shoes would hit the hard ground, as the ice and dirt crumbled underneath.

The first thing I noticed was how god-damned cold my fingers got as we trudged along that open field with a fierce winter wind blowing across our path. I wore a thin pair of high-tech gloves, which until that moment had performed admirably on the many cold days I’ve spent fishing for steelhead, building snow forts, or shoveling my driveway. They were no match for a cold breeze across a field on an 18 degree day, the wind stripping away the feeling in my fingers, as my hands were exposed, wrapped around ski pole handles. The gloves were losing the battle. And each of the fingers on my right hand knew it.

I didn’t say a word, though, not wanting to be the first to admit the elements were getting the better of me. It’s a guy thing. And I realized that once an extremity like a finger gets really cold, there is no way they’ll warm back up on their own. You have to do something to warm them up. I chose to pull my fingers out of my glove’s fingers, remaining in the glove itself, and wrap them in a fist within the palm of the glove. Not an easy task as I held onto a ski pole, squeezing the handle between my thumb and newly-made fist.

The next thing to get really stinking cold was my thumb.

But the cold turned out to be only the first challenge. Once we turned deeper into the woods, the wind relented and my fingers regained their feeling. Unfortunately, turning into the woods meant turning toward the hills.

The ascent had begun.

I say ascent like it was an actual ascent. Which it was, technically, but only in that we were going up a hill. By all measures it was a tame ascent.

Somehow, when I imagined snowshoeing, I thought it would be flat – like the pictures I’ve seen of the North Pole. Now I was following two others up a steady climb with expensive tennis rackets attached to my boots.

A few minutes in and my heart was pounding; I was losing my breath and falling behind. I just kept my head down, as the other two broke the trail, and I stepped where they stepped. The hill kept going, my heart kept pounding, and they didn’t slow.

I work out a bit. Not as much as I should, nor as much as I used to, but enough to know when I’m pushing my limits. And this tame ascent up a foothill was doing it. I placed each step in the foot print left by the guys before me, digging my spikes at times into packed snow and other times into a soft, deep impression of powder.

I thought about the people who do actually push their limits to the point where they summit real mountains. Days on end of this sort of thing, with less and less oxygen, and real “climbing” interspersed.  And that would just get you to base camp. I knew I could never be one of them. Not any time soon. Likely, not ever. And I’m okay with that. I’ve got four kids, after all. Why risk it?

Yet, was I risking it now?

With my heart pounding away, short on breath, miles from an actual road, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t worry what could happen to a guy my age under duress like this. And I knew that if I keeled over right there in the woods of Cazenovia, on a foothill, not even John Krakauer could turn my demise into a manly sounding adventure. Maybe a short story, but not terribly manly.

My thoughts kept returning to real mountain climbers. Why do they put their lives at stake to summit such formidable peaks? I know, I know. Because it’s there. But, really why? Don’t they have kids? Or families? Or friends they’d like to sit on a beach with? Or someone they want to grow old with?

I’ve climbed a few real mountains in my day. In the Adirondacks, and in the Rockies. I know the joy of summiting, and seeing the world around you. But there was little or no risk there. Just accomplishment. I’d never truly risk death for that thrill. Even if I had the stamina. Which I clearly don’t. I just wouldn’t do it. I’ve got other responsibilities. Does that make me less of a man? Or more of one?

Leave it to me to have all these dumb thoughts on a stupid little snowshoeing climb.

This was no mountain, after all. And yet it kept going up and we kept climbing, and stepping, and breathing for what felt like a long time. When the path would level off, I’d pick up my eyes only to see more hill in front of us. It was tough. At least, it was tougher than I’d expected when I set out that day for a mid-winter adventure.

Luckily, the ascent ended before I did.

I felt more relief than thrill.

The rest of the loop trail was flat, and even downhill at times. I can do downhill snowshoeing. It’s fun. Maybe I could still make it to the North Pole someday. Maybe.

As the hike ended, we check the GPS on my brother’s fancy watch to see how far we’d traveled. Just a few miles. I thought it would say farther. You just can’t trust GPS. And at most, I figured we climbed all of about 400 vertical feet. Still, it was a solid workout, dragging tennis rackets two miles across snowy hills. And I was glad we did it.

We parted ways, agreeing to do it again soon – maybe farther, but flatter next time. And maybe closer to a road, in case something went terribly wrong.

It was a good day and a good workout. It got me out of the house, and away from our hectic world for a bit. And just when I thought my sacrifice to the snow god was complete for the day, more was demanded of me.

Driving back from my snowshoeing adventure, my car’s tires simply grew tired of holding the road. Rounding one particular corner of packed powder on a rural route in the hills outside Cazenovia, my Subaru turned sideways.

I’ve fish tailed plenty before, and know how to correct it. This time it didn’t work. The car stayed sideways, and kept right on going at the speed I’d entered the curve.

There’s a moment when you’re sliding sideways in a car that you really don’t know what’s going to happen next. And I didn’t. Had I time to think, I would have decided it cruel to let me survive the woods, only to finish me off like this. But I didn’t think that much. I just braced for impact. And it came.

Just so there’s no suspense, I am absolutely fine. Walked away. Could’ve snowshoed away, if I felt like it. The car didn’t do as well. A big tree off the road stopped our progress with conviction. I knew right then the Subaru would soon be headed for the car heap.

Apparently, anyone who willingly embarks on a snow-filled escapade on a freezing January day deserves a lesson in the true power and danger of snow and ice. Message received.

Or maybe there was another lesson there.

Maybe I won't ever make it anywhere near Everest. But I will find other adventures. It seems we have to.

Lessons on Skiing from the Slog at Tog

First of all, I’d like to apologize to everyone within earshot – and eyeshot – of the beginner hill at Toggenburg Mountain on a particular Sunday a few weeks ago. We brought our family there, and we were a total mess. Sorry.

 

Your only consolation is to know it was harder to live than to watch.

 

You’ve heard the expression “herding cats.” If you attached rented skis to each cat and made it so the felines can scream and yell verbal insults at the cat handlers, you’d have a sense of what our winter adventure was like. It was supposed to be a fun family outing, but will go down in Ruddy lore as the Great Slog at Tog 2014.

 

While it appears he just stuck the landing,
he actually wasn't moving. Which is
exactly how we like him when on skis.

At our low point, the ten-year-old sat at the bottom of the bunny hill yelling at me because nobody with any authority was letting her go up the lift to the big hill; the 7-year-old was in a crying heap halfway down said bunny hill, unable to attach one ski due to a faulty binding; the 5-year-old was hanging on to the J-bar wire for dear life, without a parent around to help her master the art of being pulled up a hill; and the 3-year-old, with his skis off, was wandering around the crowded line of people waiting themselves to get dragged up the hill, and he was getting dangerously close to the passing Js that do the actual work of dragging.

 

“Somebody is going to get hurt,” an older dad said to me with concerned condescension as I scrambled to get the young boy away from the crowd and J-bar contraption.

 

I then sat the boy next to his screaming sister, and turned and ran in my boots up the ski hill to get the other child into her binding.

 

When my wife skied up to us, I said through clenched teeth, “WE HAVE TO GO.”

 

Luckily, no one did get hurt during our day at the hill – at least not physically. The only real casualty was the dream that we could become a skiing family.

 

My wife and I both like to ski. We aren’t exactly Olympic quality, but we can get down a hill. It’s a hobby we both enjoyed in our younger days.

 

Yet, once the kids started coming along, we had little time to ski. For a good part of the past decade, my wife’s been either very pregnant, recently pregnant, or nursing whenever the opportunity to ski came along. With our family increasingly laden with young children, skiing just hasn’t happened much in recent years.

 

Now that the baby of the bunch is 3 years old – meaning he’s old enough to fit into rented skis and to learn how to bomb down a hill – we’ve decided to try and make it the new family hobby. After all, we do live in Upstate New York, where I’m told it snows often. And we have several ski hills within 20 miles.

 

My wife also has happy visions of us going up lifts and down hills for many years to come.

 

There’s only one problem: Our kids can’t ski. 

 

It's not really their fault. They've never been – except the oldest one, who went once a few years back.

 

We thought we’d found our solution at the closest big hill, Toggenburg, where they offer a great “learn to ski” package: kids get lift tickets, rentals and a 2 hour lesson for about 35 bucks. We figured we could swing that. So we picked a snowy day, and set out to ski as a family.

 

Our brief, happy, free moment on the lift.
Actually, it wasn't "free." I've owned cars that
cost less than it took to get this shot. But we
were free from our kids ... briefly.

Our problem wasn’t with the snow, or the cold, or all the falling down. Our problem was the math: Two parents who hadn’t skied in a decade and four kids who’d never skied. If we only had two kids with us, it would have worked. But with all four, ay caramba. From the moment we were handed our rented boots until we got back to the van four hours later, it was like we were spinning plates – and doing it badly.

 

There was a brief time when all was perfect, when the kids were in their ski lessons, being taught by teenage ski savants how to snow plow, and my wife and I were on the lift headed up the mountain, planning to check their progress after a run or two. (We only got two runs in all day). Yes, we could do that part again.

 

But the part after the lessons ended, where the four screaming, falling, crying, wandering kids were ravaging the bunny hill area, tying up the J-bar line, and yelling at me because I hadn’t taken them skiing enough before, making it my fault that they can’t ski; That part, I don’t think I want to do that ever again.

 

For the record, there were moments of success. All the kids learned a bit about skiing, and left better skiers than they began – which wasn't hard to do. By the end of their lesson, the two oldest were more or less able to get around the bunny slope on their own, and would have done so if not for one faulty binding and a separate failing attitude. Even the 5 year old went up the J-bar and down the hill on her own once, a huge success as harrowing as it was to watch from afar. And all the kids – except the oldest – claimed to have fun.

 

So, as bad as it was. We'll probably try it again.    

Though, next time we go, I'm voting we get a sitter for at least half the brood. Or bring some extra hands. We have to keep the math working for us. You just can't teach skiing while running the zone defense. You need man to man.
 

For now, when the kids ask when we can go again, my answer is "Someday." Until then, this family is going to just stick to ice skating.




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This Writing Thing May Yet Pay Off…

Up until now, I could tell people I’d never won a single contest, door prize or raffle of any sort. As of today, I can no longer say that.

In mid-December, the Syracuse Media Group, which operates Syracuse.com and publishes the Post-Standard, announced the “Go See UNC” Essay Contest. All anyone had to do to enter was write a short essay – 100 to 150 words – on why they should win tickets for one of the premiere games of the season, kicking off the rivalry between ACC royalty North Carolina and ex-Big East stalwart, now-ACC newbie Syracuse.

I happened to be reading the sports scores on Syracuse.com when the contest was announced, and promptly wrote an essay. It took me all of ten minutes.

The subject of the essay was easy to devise, because it was the truth. My wife went to UNC for undergrad. And ever since Syracuse’s move to the ACC was announced, we’d talked about trying to get tickets to this year’s first-ever Carolina v. Syracuse ACC rivalry game. With four kids and a finite income, we determined at some point in the Fall that we just couldn’t make it happen.

Then, along came the contest, and this is what I wrote:

Ours is a story of love and basketball. My wife and I met on the concourse of Syracuse University’s Newhouse School in 1997, both there to attend graduate school. That she went to UNC Chapel Hill for undergraduate was the first thing out of her mouth. A Tar Heel to the core. Our first disagreement was whether the Big East or ACC reigned supreme in college basketball. We married four years later, and in the decade since have had four kids. In that time, she’s become as much a Syracuse fan as a Carolina one. And I, too, have learned to root for UNC, when they’re not playing Syracuse. We’ve raised our kids to bleed Orange -- and Carolina Blue. Now, since the ACC vs. Big East debate was finally decided in her favor, I figure the least I could do is take her to the game.

Kind of like publishing a blog that nobody "likes" or comments on, I didn't hear a thing back for the longest time. I figured somebody else outdid me in the essay department. 

Then, this week I got an e-mail saying I was a finalist. Another email came later saying I had won. When I told my wife, she began hooting and hollering and jumping up and down. Apparently, she’d never won anything before either, and really wanted to go to this game.

Of course, there’s only one problem. 

Shortly after we found out we won, I learned that part of my essay might not be entirely accurate: The part where I say she’s become as much an Orange fan as a Carolina one. The evidence I have for this is that every time she so much as thinks of the game she chants at the top of her lungs: “UUUUU!….NNNNN!….CCCCC!....Go Heels, Go!”

It seems she still harbors more love for the Tar Heels than she’s developed for the Orange over our time here in Central New York. So, on Saturday, at a game for the ages that we never thought we’d get to go see, we will be rooting for different teams.

But, we do agree on this: We both hate Duke.

A Worm Hole In My Life

I kicked my legs and, get this, nothing happened. Well, something happened, but not what I had hoped.

The leg kick was supposed to be the thrust needed to start the motion, which would lift my thighs off the ground, followed by my midsection, then my chest as my toes simultaneously returned to the floor, and it would finish in a great climax as my head and arms would raise and return to earth last, completing that famous eighties dance move known as the worm.

I ought to know, I’ve been able to do the worm since I was about 12 years old.

Thirty years later, at a particularly-raucous family holiday party, with a crowd gathered around the living room (mostly my kids), and music blaring, and people chanting stuff like, “Do the Worm, Dad!"

I kicked and nothing.

Instead of propelling my thighs skyward with enough momentum to lift my midsection off the ground, my thighs only flew up a few inches and my “midsection” stayed put. I stared ahead, waiting for the wave to reach my fingertips. It never came.  

“C’mon, Dad, you can do it,” encouraged my daughter who’s seen me do the worm countless times. All right, maybe not countless. She’s seen it about four times, but we weren’t counting.  

“Show ‘em dad!” she hollered, smiling ear to ear.

So I kicked again, even harder. Nothing. 

This is a move I’ve been able to do for the past three decades, whenever the right mix of dance and spirits collided. I’ve even busted it out at a few weddings over the years. I'm that guy.

So, I kicked again. And, just like a broke-down car unable to turnover, this time the kick was less hard.

Maybe it was something I ate? Maybe I failed to properly warm-up, not doing the sprinkler enough before daringly laying my body on the ground and attracting the attention of a living room full of awkward dancers? Or maybe I’m just getting too old to do the worm?

Not too old, as in too mature. But too old, like I physically cannot do it. 

I’ve written about getting older before. Here, here, and here.  Jeez. Maybe I have issues with getting older. It beats the alternative, I know. But it’s still hard.

They say, as you get older, time seems to move faster. I’m wondering if gravity doesn’t have an increased effect too.

I first perfected the worm in the mid-eighties, putting me likely in Junior High – back when doing the worm was first cool. (Yes it was). The worm was just part of my repertoire of popping dance moves. I was OK at this new breakdancing thing. Not great, especially at the spinning floor work. But I could pop – sort of.

I don't have a picture of myself in
parachute pants, thankfully.  This
random moonwalker will have to do.

It all crystalized for me when I watched Michael Jackson do the Moonwalk while singing "Billie Jean" on the Motown 25th anniversary show. That was March 25, 1983. I was eleven. My brothers and I watched it in our living room. That's right; I remember where I was when I first saw the moonwalk. How sad is that?
 
I’m not much of a Michael Jackson fan, which seems cruel to say, being that he’s dead and all. But I never was. I was just captivated by that one dance move. 

My brothers and I then tried to do it all night and for many days to come, running across the room in our socks and then turning around real quick, hoping our speed would carry us across the floor. It didn’t. At least, not with the effect we were hoping to achieve.  

After much practice, and less ill-conceived attempts, I finally figured it out how to moonwalk. I then learned the moonwalk is the gateway drug to full-on popping. Once you can moonwalk, people expect you to do more. So I learned more moves. The Wave. The Smurf. The Worm. I even had a robot move, but it was pretty weak.

In about 8th grade I went to a dance at a rival Junior High with a few friends. The dance organizers held an impromptu popping competition. I finished second. Of course, there were only two kids who had enough gumption and lacked enough sense to enter the contest. So I also finished last. 

The other guy did a really convincing robot, and when it ended, the applause-o-meter pointed his direction. For the record, he also had more friends there. Which, in itself, is a sad commentary on my life.

As I laid there, recently, on the living room floor over the holidays, with my kids hooting and hollering at me, and my body refusing to cooperate, I thought of that lost dance competition thirty some years ago. What a fitting end to my illustrious popping career. Somebody might actually have to help me up.

So, as the rest of the world marks the start of another year by setting new goals; and beginning new chapters in their lives. I’m grappling with the fact that I can no longer do the worm. 

It’s heavy. As my kids say, "Darn you, gravity!"  

And it is yet more evidence that I am getting old – like I needed that.  

Of course, I can still moonwalk.



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After This Christmas, My Kids May Need The Affluenza Vaccine

I thought we were going to cut back a little this year. Looking at the ginormous stack of presents threatening to engulf the tree on Christmas morning, it was clear that we “overdid it” again on gifts for the kids.

“Where’d all these gifts come from?” I asked my wife, in merry bewilderment.

“We may have overdone it,” she confessed.

In the twenty-four hours before Christmas, the presents multiplied like Gremlins under a broken sprinkler, overtaking our tree and the surrounding available floor space. That was even before the packages from my wife’s parents showed up, which happened shortly after they arrived on Christmas Eve. I’d thought they were planning to cut back this year, too -- a fact hard to discern as they hauled in giant trash bags full of wrapped kid presents.  

And let’s not forget the marque gifts from Santa, dropped off on his late-night visit, including a bike for the boy, a big chair with her name on it for one of the girls, and an American Girl "Bitty Baby" doll, which must have cost the elves a fortune to replicate.

It can certainly be said that on Christmas, at least, our kids are spoiled.

Kids take a rest during Sibling Secret Santa
Shopping Day.  This was before the family
rumble at the mall's pretzel joint.

It’s not like they get everything on their wish list. Our family still doesn’t own an iPad – or even a Kindle, for that matter – which they’ve wanted the past two Christmases.

Most of the wrapped presents are, in the words of the five-year-old after unwrapping yet another box, “more clothes!”

They get clothes – lots of clothes – as well as books, a handful of electronic gadgets, family board games and plenty of toys.

It’s not like we're wealthy; Far from it. In fact, we may have to sell some of the loot to pay the bills next month. (Just kidding. We’ll sell other stuff).  In reality, we don’t even spend all that much, relatively speaking. That’s partly because my wife’s an excellent shopper. She’s always finding deals, and always buying stuff at greatly-reduced prices. If I had a nickel for every nickel she saved on discounts … well, she’d probably buy even more stuff at greatly-reduced prices.

Still, I often worry what the overabundance of gifts teaches our kids. Are we teaching them to be generous, and kind, and giving – like we think we’re being? Or are we teaching them to want stuff, to make lists for stuff, and to get stuff.

I mean, what if one of my kids comes down with a case of affluenza? Admittedly hard to do on our budget; But still, it could happen.

We really try not to spoil them 364 days a year. And we try to let them know how fortunate we are to have a roof, warm beds and shoes to wear. We try to teach them to be concerned about less fortunate families, to care about others in general, and to find ways to make the world better. We gather cans for the food pantry, give our old clothes to the Rescue Mission, and try to teach them to be concerned and charitable.

But are those lessons getting through? Or is all that lost under an avalanche of gifts on Christmas day?

This year, trying to show them again that it’s more fun to give gifts than to receive, we had them exchange names, picking from a hat and each buying a gift for one of their siblings. We even had a specific day that we all went out shopping for our Secret Santa gifts.

The highlight of the trip came when the four of them fought to the death over the single Icee bought at Auntie Anne’s Pretzels and Over-priced Icee Emporium. They never seem to mind sharing a pair of giant cinnamon-sugar pretzels. But stick four straws in one Icee and all hell breaks loose. I think 3-year-old Drew actually landed a roundhouse kick to his 5-year-old sister's head.

As other holiday shoppers stared and shook their heads at the melee, I thought to myself, “Yet another parenting lesson gone terribly awry.”

Still, when it came time on Christmas Eve to exchange the sibling Secret Santa gifts (the only gift opened on Christmas Eve), it was clear they all loved getting a gift for someone else. Was giving for them more fun than receiving? Heck no. They’re kids. But they enjoyed it. A small victory.

But what finally rest my mind at ease this season of plenty came two days later. On Boxing Day, after all the gifts were unwrapped and evidence of our excess absorbed into our existing belongings, we went as a family to the outdoor skating rink nestled amongst the buildings of downtown Syracuse, next to the city’s giant holiday tree. It’s like Rockefeller Center without the lines, the crowds, or the expense. It only cost 2 bucks per kids, 3 bucks per parent. Total family cost: $14. Skating there is something of a Christmas Break tradition.

Skating by the tree at Clinton Square. 
For the kids, as memorable as any gift.

As always, the kids all loved it: slipping, sliding, falling, learning, and skating hand-in-hand with their parents and grandparents. 

As we waited for the Zamboni to clean the ice during one break in the action, I overheard the kids talking about skating at the same rink on Boxing Day last year. I saw an opening.

“Do any of you remember what you got for Christmas last year?” I asked.

“Not really,” replied 7-year-old Chloe. The others shook their heads.

“But you remember skating here?” I asked in my faux-incredulous voice.

That’s when 10-year-old Maisie laid it on me, “Dad, that’s because doing stuff together is better than getting stuff."

Maybe spoiling them with gifts one day per year isn’t so bad. Though, the next time we get pretzels at the mall, there will be no Icees.

First of all, on the 1st Amendment...

I don’t watch Duck Dynasty, nor do I care what some random guy on a strange reality show thinks. But I do care about our collective understanding of the First Amendment and what it means. The First Amendment protects our individual right to say what we want without intervention or recourse from the government. This is a fundamental right in our nation, and sets us apart from many countries and cultures that would imprison someone for their words, or censor them before they say it.

The guy from Duck Dynasty said what he said. He exercised his right. He was not prevented from saying it, nor does he face any sanctions from our government for his words or his thoughts. He is free to say it again.
  

However, everyone should understand -- especially former vice presidential candidates -- that the First Amendment does not protect you from all the negative consequences of your words, no matter how public those consequences may be. You are free to say it, but the public is equally free to react.

If you chose to say something stupid, or bigoted, or idiotic, or even just something others disagree with – even if it’s something you strongly believe -- other free people have the right to disagree, to publicly condemn you, to boycott you, and to stop listening to you. Private companies often have the right to fire you. Commercial sponsors have the right to drop your show. And, television networks have the right to cancel your program. That’s our freedom, no matter what it is you believe.

So, whatever you think about Duck-gate, what has happened in reaction is not a trampling of First Amendment rights. In fact, it’s an expression of that freedom as everyone else exercises their rights, too. Isn’t freedom great.

The Most Important Lesson To Teach Our Kids

I’m not big on bashing posts by other writers. But I read an article the other day that struck me as a bit off. The main message was that the sooner we teach our kids to be competitive the better -- the real world being winner-take-all, and such.

Among other things, the writer took a shot at coaches who try to play all kids equally, and who give out so-called “participation medals.” He writes how nobody ever displays participation medals, and that we’re teaching kids to be losers. And so on and so on.

Reading the blog, you’d think the world is neatly divided into winners and losers, like the start of a bad after-school special.

That I’m still thinking about this article days later tells me it warrants a response. (It had some good points too, like the value of hard work. But the overt focus on training kids to be competitive didn't sit well).

Participation Medal proudly displayed

in my daughter's room. ... Wait!
Am I raising losers! I hate losers!

First, briefly on coaching: There’s certainly an age after which better players will be rewarded with more playing time. That’s the nature of sport. But to say participation medals and equalized playing time hurts kids is just wrong. If you’re coaching anyone age 10 or under, you should do your best to make sure all kids get to play – no matter how much skill they bring to the game. It’s not anti-competition, or making them soft. It’s called teaching them the sport.

Kids that age have a lot of developing and growing to do, which they’ll keep doing through High School. Stick a 10 year old on the bench because you’ve decided they’re too small or too slow, and two years down the road they could gain the physical ability needed, yet lack the experience because of some coach's boneheaded, overly-competitive focus on winning two years prior.

Worse, that kid may have given up the sport already because of a bad experience with a jerk coach who thought he was mentoring in the Hunger Games rather than teaching kids how to field a sharply-hit grounder. Knowing all that sports can teach kids about teamwork, and hard work, and life, we want them to keep playing – all of them.

Are Competitive People Happier?

 

The truth is, we don’t really have to teach kids to be competitive.  Most enter the world with a bit of competitiveness in them already. Think of a two year old who won’t let anyone touch his toy. Or consider when you ask a five year old to do something for you. All you have to do is follow it with the words, “I’ll time you,” and you’ll see them hurry. We are natural competitors.

In all aspect of their young lives, kids are bombarded with messages that have competition at the core. On the playground, in class, and even in reading groups; kids are ranked, measured and tested.

Around them, constantly, are life lessons about the spoils of winning and being the best. Star athletes make millions. Celebrities deified. Whoever gets the most votes becomes president (usually).

Our culture forces the thought of winners and losers on us at every turn, from the Super Bowl champs and Dancing with the Stars, to the differences in the kinds of cars we drive and the sizes of homes people own. Should we really add to that by making competitiveness a central focus of our parenting?

And, a bigger question, are competitive people happier? Maybe in the moment of winning they are -- for that moment. Maybe the chronic winners among us get more stuff, find security, and attain a higher level of consciousness. But I know lots of overly-competitive people who are -- to put it gently -- a bit hard to be around. Putting it less gently, they're kind of a-holes. Does the world really need more of those?

Maybe rather than competitiveness, we should teach our kids things they might not otherwise learn in this often-hostile and overly-competitive world; things that will enable them to find a happiness they can’t get from simply winning or conquering or buying.

Lets Teach Boys to be Kind, Girls to be Confident

I believe there are two things we need to teach our children that will benefit them far more than just teaching them to be more competitive. The first is to be kind; the second is to be confident. All kids should be taught both, but one, I believe, is the primary lesson we should teach to little boys; the other the primary lesson we should teach little girls.

Before anyone gets angry about that seeming sexist division, I think it’s obvious to all of us with both sons and daughters that they do come out of the womb a little different. And once out here, they are certainly exposed to different messages, pushing them in different ways.

These two lessons are meant to counteract the nature and nurture happening already.

Boys should be taught to be kind above all else. They’ll learn to be competitive, that they should be strong, and that they need to work hard to be successful in life (or network hard). They get taught this from everything else thrust upon them in their young lives, from every direction. They’ll race their friends, have snowball fights, and arm wrestle. They’ll be given fake guns to shoot and footballs to chuck, and they'll be told not to cry. 

The world around will mold them into all those things that we use to define a “man,” and conspire to judge them accordingly.

But, if not taught, they may never learn to be kind to others. Anyone who’s seen a two year old squeeze his sister’s arm or heard how teenage boys talk to each other or been to college knows kindness is something that has to be drilled into boys for it to stick.

As for our girls, parents most need to teach them to be confident. They’ll need that confidence to survive this world, which has the propensity to tear them down, piece by piece. 

Consider the type of competition often forced upon young women, all of it focused on their bodies, on acceptance by peers, or on winning the affection of men, and all of it potentially destructive. If not taught to be confident in who they are, this competitive world can be an extremely dangerous place for a young woman.

Parents must teach them that it is okay to be strong, to be independent, to be smart, no matter what others would have them believe. And that, above all else, they should believe in themselves.

Certainly, all kids – boys and girls -- need to be taught to be both kind and confident. But, there's no doubt how emphasizing these specific lessons for boys and girls will help them become better men and women.

When you think how much better these lessons prepare our kids to be happy and productive adults than the lesson of competitiveness, suddenly equalized playing time and participation medals start to make sense. We're not teaching them to be good losers, we're teaching them to be good humans.

With these skills, they’ll be able to survive this competitive world without being completely consumed by winning or utterly defeated by losing. They'll also know that the world isn't divided into winners who work harder and losers who are just lazy. Rather, time and chance and opportunity plays a part in all our lives.

If they learn these things, maybe they’ll chose to measure their own success differently than how so much of society tells them it should be measured. And maybe they’ll put value in things other than just winning the game, or owning the biggest house, or having the highest paying job, or earning the most medals -- participation or otherwise.

Those who do, I believe, are more likely to find happiness. And isn’t that the ultimate competition?



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Dad, Can We Go to the Holiday Storefront Window Dancing thing every year?

Looking up past the giant pine adorned with lights, I could just make out the stars through a thin veil of clouds, as remnants of a passing snow shower drifted down, mingling with the steam from my breath as it drifted up.  It seemed a peaceful dance. 

Looking down, however, I was reminded of the wailing, heart-broken five-year-old little girl who had just collapsed in a snow-suited heap at my feet, yelling incredulously, “We missed it!? We Missed it!?”

We had missed it, and I didn’t know how.  It was supposed to be at 7 p.m., I thought.  Yet, somehow it happened half an hour sooner.  And, despite my considerable powers as a dad, I had no way to reverse time. 

Memory acts as a powerful editor, though -- and thank goodness.  Just consider the thoughts of some annual event your family attends.  If we remembered the way things actually occurred, complete with the emotional angst, mounting tension and complaining kids, we’d never repeat our errors by attending that particular festival, or this annual party, or even the regular vacation destination, ever, ever again.

The tears cleared up just long
enough to ask for a kitten.

Yet the brain has a way of cleaning all that muck up and leaving behind a memory better than the actual event, which in turn draws us back the next year and helps create what become annual family traditions – a huge thing, often, in the mind of a child, or even that of a former child.

 

This time, it will take considerable work if there’s any hope of making this memory as it was intended to be, with a tree, and lights, and falling snow.  

Yet, I know they will remember it.

 

For the past few years, we – the wife, four kids and I – have spent the first Friday evening in December attending the annual Christmas tree lighting in Cazenovia, N.Y., a cool and quaint village about 15 minutes from our home, with its own lake, a small college, and a main street that serves a picturesque setting for this true community gathering.   Cazenovia also happens to be home to my brother and his family.

 

The whole town comes out for this annual event, descending on a large pine tree just a block away from the slew of shops, restaurants, bars and an art gallery or two.  Santa always shows up at the tree lighting, too, delivered on a fire truck, to flip the switch.  And, then he shuttles off to another location among the shops to take pictures with the kids and hear their wishes.

 

Attending the tree lighting and hanging with the Caz cousins has become something of a tradition for our family.  That we’re often scrambling to get there on-time (Friday evenings are tough for us); that we’re usually freezing our butts off waiting for the tree to light; and that we’re always starving and in desperate need of finding a bathroom throughout the event, and many other negative thoughts, all seem to fade in our memories after each annual event, and the kids and us just hold onto how fun it always is.

 

And each year, we go back to see the tree get lit.  Next year, I doubt that will be enough of a draw.

 

To keep perspective, nothing really bad happened, and we had a fine time with my brother’s family and some other friends.  But the marque aspects of the event – like, say, the lighting of the actual tree – will not be a part of this year’s memory highlight reel.  To be honest, nor will the meeting with Santa.  No offense to the big guy in red (Though, I hear it was just one of his helpers).

Here’s what happened in 100 words or less: 

 

Arrived early, ate pizza.  Extra time to kill.  Husbands walked streets with kids; wives kept warm in restaurant/bar.  Got distracted.  Santa zoomed by.  We hurried for the tree.  Fought crowds mysteriously walking other direction.  Got separated from two older kids.  Fine ... with brother/cousins.  Wife still missing.  Arrived at tree, it was already lit.  Child collapsed in tears.  I stared at stars.  Gathered thoughts, two remaining kids; found wife; headed for Santa.  Fought crowds.  Youngest wouldn’t walk, placed on shoulders.  Older kids beat us to Santa.  Done and gone.  Waited 40 minutes.  Toddler overtired, refused Santa’s lap.  Five-year-old asked for kitty.

 

The ordeal ended when we found our older kids with my brother and their cousins, dancing along main street in front of a particular store.

 

The kid in the middle is just about
to bust a move ... I swear.

For whatever reason, the store owners were letting all the kids take turns dancing to Christmas music in their storefront window, like a live display in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.  As odd as it was, that store served as the only saving grace of the evening – other than the pleasant company, of course.  All the parents gathered around sipping coffees and chatting about how the tree was lit a half hour earlier than expected, as children took turns dancing earnestly in the store window.  It was certainly an odd scene, but also a little fun.

 

And as our brains begin to edit, all the tears and frustrations of the night will likely disappear.  All the lesson will be learned, and the fun remembered.

 

When next December approaches, I don't imagine anyone will be begging us to go to Caz again for the annual tree lighting or to see Santa.  

 

Rather, they'll likely ask for another chance to dance in the store window with their cousins.  For that's how new traditions are born – a huge thing, often, in the mind of a child.

10 Bits of Advice on the Transition to Dadhood

A few guys I know are about to become fathers for the first time. Since I’ve had my share of kids, and ample time to ponder my successes and errors, I wanted to pass on some advice to fathers-to-be on the ever-challenging transition to dadhood---not the big picture philosophical stuff or the woe-is-me feelings of leaving your youthful freedom behind, but the everyday decisions you'll face. 

This lists focuses on the final weeks of pregnancy and the first few months of having a freshly-minted person in your home. It's just to get you started. So here goes.

1. First and most obvious, Get some sleep while you still can. Every list like this is required to start with sleep, and you'll hear this advice from all new parents. There’s a reason. You might never sleep again after that little being currently making your significant other uncomfortable comes out into this world. At the very least, your days of getting a solid-night’s sleep on a regular basis are done for sure. By the way, it only gets better (which, in parent speak, means it gets worse). 

Sure, you might luck out and get a baby who sleeps through the night within the first six months. Our first born did that---once. Or maybe you’ll get a truly great sleeper, and you’ll all have normal sleeping patterns within the year. It’s possible, but not likely. Even if they do sleep well, eventually they’ll learn to scale the walls of their crib. Then, maybe you’ll have other kids, and every night from now on, one of those kids will be scared, hungry, or sick, or come up with some other B.S. reason to wake you up, crawl into your bed, put their feet in your face and ruin your night’s sleep.

We had our first child a decade ago. I can count on one hand the number of undisturbed sleeps we’ve had since. Most were at hotels.  So enjoy these final restful hours. 

More information than you could ever want. 
In "What to Expect," focus on Ch. 15 for labor and
delivery, and Ch. 19 just for expectant fathers.

2. Read Whatever She Reads. If you're lucky, your partner isn't a big reader of pregnancy books. If she is, try keeping up with what she reads.  Even if you just flip through and look at the pictures. Scratch that; don’t just look at the pictures. It’ll freak you out. Read what you can. Though feel free to skip to the chapters on delivery, since that’s where you’re needed---again. 

My wife was a big reader of how-to books. I remember her still reading What To Expect When Expecting when she was three centimeters dilated (Look it up, if you don’t know what that means). I thought it was a total waste of time. And it may have been. But, there’s a lot to know about birth, and a reason those books are so thick. As a guy, you’re already starting the process with less inherent understanding and a predilection to baby-bearing ignorance. If she reads and you don’t, game over.

That said, don’t watch any birthing movies if you can avoid it. It’ll only frighten you both. For some reason, they show these films in birthing class, with the screaming and the blood and nary a boiling pot of water to be found. The time to show this movie was on that drunken date-night half a year ago. Watching a birth movie at this point only causes undue stress. Besides, the book is better.

3. Know when to keep your mouth closed, and when to speak up. Sure, she let you choose the tuxedos for the wedding, and you have a full vote on the baby’s name. You may even get a say on the paint color of the nursery. But at some point there may be a disagreement about how exactly to get this baby out of its mother’s belly. Trust me: keep your opinion to yourself and support what she decides. Whatever she decides. Especially when it comes to the so-called “Birth Plan.” Mouth closed time.

But if you're in the hospital and some medical student doing their maternity ward rotation comes along and tells your wife to take a sedative, or morphine, or something else not in the plan, support your wife. Stand up for her. When her actual doctor says it's time for the Pitocin or a C-section, that's a different story. But talk about this stuff before it's sprung on you in the hospital. Know her plan and do everything you can to support her.

I made the mistake once of letting the fog of war---and the grogginess of night---get the better of me in the midst of a labor. A young resident came in and told us the labor wasn't progressing. My wife was dumbfounded. I just nodded. The resident wanted to send us home. Luckily, my wife's actual OB showed up and told us to stay put. The baby was born within the hour. We would've been on the highway headed home if we'd listened to the other doctor.

On a related note, do your best to remember everything about the experience. There will be a quiz later---possibly years later.

4. Be there. Sounds obvious, right? But trust me. From the last few birthing classes, to the delivery, to the trip home, and thereafter, just be there. I made the mistake of working on a political campaign during the final months of pregnancy for our third kid. I was there for the actual birth, at least physically, but that’s about all. It happened five years ago, and my wife is still a little mad. Understandably. 

Do what you can to be there for everything. Short of serving overseas, there aren't too many good excuses for missing this.
 

You may even think you’re free to go when a whole family of experienced mothers, grandmothers and aunts descends on the homestead to show every trick. Lots of men have the urge to get out of Dodge, going back to work early, or to the gym, or to the bar. Don’t. Stick around as much as possible. Start a house project if you need to. At some point all the pros will leave, and it will by just you, the baby and the baby’s mother. The only way you’re going to learn is by being there.



Now do you understand?

5. Invest in baby wipes. Baby wipes are the duct tape of parenting.

Not only can you use them to efficiently wipe poop off your newborn’s bottom and spit-up off a sport coat, these little wonders can also clean off the grocery cart’s kiddie bar so your toddler doesn’t get sick; wipe dried boogers off the lip of a preschooler; polish hand-me-down soccer cleats; and remove make-up from the cheek of a tweener who’s dressed like she’s going to a fashion shoot on the first day of middle school. 

Our youngest left diapers behind months ago and we still have baby wipe containers in all our vehicles, and neatly stowed throughout the house for any emergency wiping needs. I just wish I’d bought stock in a baby wipe company back when I still had two nickels to rub together.

6.  Ignore the parenting bullies.  You are entering a world with many questions and even more opinions. Some people are going to tell you they have all the answers. And they'll be passionate that their way of taking care of a baby is gospel truth. They'll tell you that a baby must be breastfed for four years; or that you should only use this type of diaper, this food, or that pacifier; or that you should let a baby "cry it out" in the crib so they learn to be independent.  Do you really want an independent toddler? Strong opinions exist on everything having to do with babies you can imagine---and some of the strongest opinions are attached to very judgmental parenting know-it-alls.

Practice nodding your head and saying, "Thanks for the advice."

The real answer is that there isn't one answer. You have to figure out how the two of you want to do this, and ignore all the a--holes who will judge you for not doing it their way. Read up on everything, and talk to people you know. But don't let the parenting bullies get to you, and do your best not to become one of them.

7.  Get to know your kid. Here’s a big secret: most of parenting is trial and error. While those books can give you a foundation, and you’ll learn a ton from other parents, most of this you’ll have to figure out on your own, with your kid. Because every kids is different. We have four kids, and each one had a different set of challenges and solutions.  

Take something simple, like how to get a baby to stop crying. (It’s not simple, just to let you in on the joke). Some kids like to be sung to with specific songs. Some kids like to bounce. Some only cry when they're wet or hungry. Some just need to be burped. Some babies will cry because they want to go outside. I swear. Our youngest, the boy, would stop crying the second we walked him outdoors---it started when he was two weeks old. Luckily he was born in July and not December. But each kid is a riddle, and all the books and all the advice can’t replace figuring out your own kid.

8. Repeat after me, it's just poop. Before having a baby, you likely avoided direct contact with pee, poop, and the like. Good choice. But now, you're a parent. Soon, you will get used to your new and rather close proximity to all these things thus far avoided.  It starts with spit-up, which may gross you out the first time it lands on your bare shoulder. But, within days, it will be nothing. Then your aversion to tinkle and poop, too, will ease. Before you know it, you'll be on your hands and knees cleaning up vomit with an old t-shirt, muttering things like, "I'm going to need a shower one of these days." Welcome to parenthood.

9. Know your place, and like it. Being a dad is pretty cool---once you get past the overwhelmed and anxious phase---but it’s not the same as being a mother. Babies love their mothers. Accept it. They’ll love you too, just probably not as much. Maybe someday it will even out, when it’s time to play catch in the yard or to learn how to drive stick. But a mother is a mother.

Unless, of course, you get a baby that's a daddy's girl or daddy's boy right out of the gate. If so, enjoy your new number one fan ... but try not to flaunt it. More than likely, you're newborn will prefer its mother, being a source of sustenance and all. Don’t be jealous, just enjoy the proximity, and be the father. It’s a good place, and an important job.

10. Make time to hold your new child. With all the visitors clamoring to hold, burp, and sing to your baby, and the newborn’s incessant need to be held by mom---especially if nursing---the dad can get lost in the shuffle. Find your time. It may be late at night.  Maybe even really late. Find it. I still remember lying on our bed ten years ago with my new three-day-old baby girl on my chest late one night, the rest of the house asleep, just holding her and talking to her and being the only one in her world for a moment. It feels like yesterday. Trust me, they don’t stay small for long. Hold your child and cherish the moment.

That should be enough to get you safely through the birth and into the first few months of being a parent. Except the baby wipe thing; that’ll help until they go away to college.

There's much more advice to be had, so just ask another dad. And remember, it only gets better.


Like the article?  Here's others you may enjoy. Learning Lessons from a Little Boy, Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup, and New Year, Few Expectations