I was on a podcast. Check that box.

When you’ve written a blog for as long as I have, there are several crowning moments.

Like the time I passed a guy in a stairwell and he looked at me and yelled, “RUDDYBITS!”

Or when I was in the local grocery store, and a mom who was friends with my sister came up and told me she enjoyed my blog. That was shortly after I’d written about my child barfing in that same store, so it caused mixed emotions.

Undoubtably, the top “accomplishments” that stand out for me over the past 9 (holy crap) years are getting to write for the Washington Post and that ski trip to Gore almost 5 years ago that a magazine actually paid me to write. I’d be remised to not also mention how my blog introduced me to the Dad 2.0 community and helped me make fatherhood friends from across the globe. That led to being a spotlight blogger at the 2019 conference and speaking in front a few hundred people more talented than me, which was a blast. Those are the “best ofs” from over the years, for sure.

But, a close second place – or third or fourth, but who’s counting – is getting to talk about this entire blogging experience, and how it ties into my fatherhood journey in general, on a Podcast launched by a couple friends.

The Men on Men Podcast tackles many of the same issues I always tried to, talking about things dads deal with in a humorous and thoughtful way. And in the latest episode, I spoke with the men about my time being the “frontline” parent and all the fun that ensued. I love this podcast and these guys and certainly hope you will give it a listen.

I was a guest on this podcast

I always joke that podcast are the new reading. Which they kind of are. People used to start a smart sentence with, “I read recently…”  Now people say, “I heard on a Podcast recently…”

This was the first time I was a guest on a podcast, and I proved my old self-deprecating adage that I write better than I speak. Still, it was enjoyable. One less thing on the bucket list.    

But it got me to thinking how I really haven’t written much lately. At least not here. It’s been a combination of busy at work, focused on Twitter, and lack of motivation due to the pandemic. You know, I don’t have a lot of regrets, but not writing more this past year is likely going to be one.

Then again, maybe I’m just done.

Maybe appearing on this podcast was the final act. The pinnacle. Or the last gasp.

This blog has served an essential purpose, it has helped me chronical the part of parenthood that turns into a total blur years later. And maybe someday, I’ll be able to look back at old posts and be like, “Oh yeah, remember when that happened,” about something I wouldn’t otherwise have remembered. (Actually, I did that yesterday).

But, the truth is, writing here doesn’t help the way it used to. I don’t hold out any hope that this is going to lead to a book contract. Or that I’m going to go viral with one of my barf stories and end up on Good Morning America, after which, of course, we’d be set for life.

And for some reason, self-publishing the intimated details of our daily adventure for free doesn’t give the endorphins it once did -- or provide the therapy I likely need. It was always kind of like being an artist who paints pictures and then hangs them down by the mailbox for passersby to glance at and say, that guy always was a bit odd. Slightly talented. But odd.

Frankly, with three teens in the home, my life isn’t the constant source of humor it once was. Now, it’s more like a slow-moving horror movie. And if I wrote about that. Well. It would be like the biopic of the suburban dad who descends into madness, but in blog form.

There are things I wish I'd written about but didn't: like school musicals or my pride at my daughter's involvement in the High School Improv Club. I went to a High School that had one room for the cafeteria, the auditorium and the gym. We didn't have an Improv Club. Or a school musical. Or a track team for that matter. So, I wish I'd written about that stuff.

This is starting to feel like that Facebook post where someone announces they’re signing off, while the rest of us just scroll by. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. And all the poster is really doing is yelling into the void.

And, who knows, maybe something will change inside of me and I’ll need this space again. It has been fun. And, if you do like it and are just discovering these posts, there’s 152 more – just enter a key word in the search bar on the right. You can start with a common term, like “poop.”

I’ve even been thinking lately about using this space to share some of the great recipes I’ve grown to depend on over my years in the family kitchen. Kind of a “Dad Can Cook” thing. We’ll see. It starting to sound like my trip to madness is complete. But why not. I’m no better a chef than I am a writer or a parent. And, a general lack of expertise seems to be my most endearing quality.

And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow to a headline that says, "Blogger's Heartfelt Goodbye to His 3 Readers Goes Viral."       

So, I’ll keep this channel open in case I am so inspired.

But for now, thank you for reading. And be well. It's not goodbye, but until I see you again.

*Passes torch to podcasting friends* 

RuddyBits out.

I repeat, For now.

P.S. Follow me on Twitter.

One Last Time Up a Mountain

The dad stood atop the tallest ski hill in the east, 4386 feet above sea level, looking out at the surrounding mountains and down a steep slope of white. It’s one of those views that make you say, holy crap, I’m on a mountain.

Then he turned to his kids and lowered his goggles.

“Alright, we’re gonna take our time, wait for each other, and stick together,” he said. “We got this.”

And off they went.

I turned to my kids and could see the concern in their eyes.

“What he said,” I muttered with a less cool lowering of my goggles.

It was our only trip to the top of Whiteface Mountain. Accomplished thanks to an intimidating chair lift that takes you into the clouds -- with signs noting the famous mountains you‘re higher than along the way.  

“I think I’m scared,” my 17-year-old daughter said when we passed the sign telling us we were higher than Vermont’s Jay Peak. And there was good reason to be.

After filling my kids with dread, the lift eventually deposited us atop the Adirondacks. It was on us to get down in one piece.

We’d decided to take the family skiing during Presidents Day week due to a break from online school and the mental need to do something, anything. It was a calculated risk.

Like most people, we’ve had very few adventures away from home over the past year. Mostly local hikes here and there, and a few trips to a nearby beach with no crowds. We’ve taken the pandemic health protocols seriously, and always wear masks and social distance and make sure not to do all the things that can spread the virus. But this ski trip felt needed.

Before we planned the trip, we read up on the health protocols at the mountain and on articles about the relative safety of skiing as an activity during a pandemic. Masks required all the time. Limited lodge access. No virus breakouts recorded. It was in the same state and would only require a long car ride to get there. It all checked out. So, we weighed the decision against our increasingly debilitating cabin fever and went for it.

But there’s another reason we did this. And that’s because it was likely the last time we could.

A lot of people have given up things they love as we as a society and a world try to fight this pandemic. With a daughter headed to college next fall, most of what we’ve given up and what she’s given up are the lasts. Her last school musical. Her last school dance. One last normal year with all our kids living at home.

The last family ski trip wasn’t going to be another casualty. Not if we could prevent it.

I don’t want to give the impression that we spend a lot of time, typically, galivanting around the country going skiing. We don’t. That’s not who were are or who we can afford to be. Most winters we just ski at our local little hills a few times. But, we’ve also taken trips to bigger hills, once memorably to Gore Mountain and more recently to Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont. These trips were the culmination of the many years we spent teaching our brood to ski, which was no easy task. Though, it got better.

We’ve also learned over the years that special events, like family ski trips, are the flowers in the garden of our memory. They’re the times that stick with you, when the day to day fades into the background of your life story. And who couldn’t use some flowers right now?

I also don’t want to give the impression that we will never take another family ski trip. We well might. Maybe our eldest daughter will come back from college for a weekend, and we’ll be able to find time and money enough to make it happen again. It just doesn’t seem likely. And when your kid is quickly becoming an adult, those last family moments together are tangibly fleeting.

In the fall she goes to school. Where, we’re not yet sure. Someplace far away, she says. I’m trying not to take that personally. But going to a college that’s cool and big and challenging is something she’s been focused on and dreaming about since before high school. Like most parents, I’m proud that she has a solid plan, and I slightly dread that it’s about to happen.

I just hope that we’ve raised her with enough guidance and support that she willfully decides to come home from time to time. And that she desires to go on a family ski trip again, or something akin to it, because we’ve given her a reason to want to spend time with us.

The truth is, I’m a little scared myself right now. I know life always brings change. And, if the past year has taught us anything, it’s that you won’t always see the changes coming. But sometimes you do. And that can be hard too.

Our family is about to change. The four kids under our roof are about to become the three. We’re one step closer to being empty nesters. And to grandchildren. Oh my god. I’m getting old.

I just want to stay at the summit of the mountain with my kids and my wife nearby. Looking out at the world and the adventure ahead, with all the fear and excitement you’d expect and ever want. But, things do change.

Not to spoil it, but we did make it down from the summit of Whiteface Mountain in one piece. And it certainly was a day to remember for the ages. Filled with gondola rides and ski fries. And even a few smiles.

And, between now and next fall, we’re going to do our best to enjoy the lasts that remain. The last trip to Hilton Head. The last days at the beach. The last campfires in the backyard.   

Hopefully, no matter what the future holds, and where we all end up after the pandemic is over and this family is separated by many miles, we’ll always remember to take our time, wait for eachother, and stick together.

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The Rink and the Not-So-Great Flood

The PVC pipe rolled away, the tarp flattened, and a few hundred gallons of water began flowing toward the boy and I, our hands drenched, freezing, desperately trying to hold back the flood.

“Fuck!” I cursed out loud.

Failure. The big, dumb project had failed.

Have you ever had an idea that got stuck in your craw and you just had to get it out? That’s exactly how I found myself trying to build a backyard ice rink.

I’d thought about it for years, and would often Google cost for kits that are sold to do such a thing, like E-Z Ice. But those kits are expensive with mixed reviews. And we do not have extra cash for such a folly.

But this fall, with the second surge of the pandemic bearing down and a few cold months being trapped in our house on the horizon, I decided to make it happen.

After a bit of research, I found there were basically two approaches for the DIY rink: Wood boards and braces, or PVC pipe. The key being that if you go for the PVC pipe, you better make sure you have a flat, level area, because you only have a few inches to play with to get the thickness of ice needed for safe skating.

The first step, before deciding materials was finding the right area. With the biggest tape measure I own, I went into the yard and found a 20-foot by 30-foot rectangle that seemed fairly flat and level. PVC it was.

I swung by Lowes and Home Depot to price out PVC parts, figuring I’d need 10 sections of 10 foot 4-inch PVC pipe, along with 4 corners and 6 other connectors. I’d also need a tarp. The pipe and connectors priced out to be about $160. But neither store had the right tarp.

Thank goodness for the internet. A 24x36 tarp would set me back $125.

So, I spoke to the wife, who kind of shrugged, and said go for it. The next day, I dragged the boy (10) to the big-box stores and purchased the pipe. (I got the PVC at Lowes and the corners at the Depot to save a few bucks). The boy went happily, as this was for him after all -- (and his 12-yr-old sister -- as a replacement for the hockey they’d played in recent non-covid years. I also figure we’d all need a reason to get outside this winter.

The tarp was ordered that afternoon, opting for white – which was the right call – and 2-day delivery.

When it arrived, we began the construction, and it was the easiest darn thing I ever built. Of course, it still needed water. Which is important.

The temps we’re predicted to drop below freezing in the coming days, so we got the hose and started filling. This would be the moment of truth. Would the pipes hold? Would the tarp leak? Would the area be level enough?  I’m a worrier by nature, so of course, the hours filling were spent pacing and tinkering.

After a few hours of the hose running, we had four inches on one end, and nary a drop in the other. Not knowing a darn thin about what the future would hold, I was concerned that, if I decided to just let the shallow end be thin and be avoided for the winter, we’d certainly see a skate go though it and rip the tarp, spoiling the entire rink.

So, I decided to raise the pipe on the deep end, forcing the water to cover the entire area.

The boy and I jammed a few pieces of chopped wood under the corners – their shape creating a ramp that, with outward pressure on the pipes, would push them higher. I figured that seemed smart. Then I got some extra paving stones and went to put them under the long parts of the pipe, so the entire side was even.

I lifted the pipe and tucked in the paver.

That’s when the great breach happened.

The pressure from the building water had found a weak point when I was adjusting the pipe height, and boom, leaving the boy and I befuddled as the water rush past us, chilling our fingers instantly.   

I sat back on my knees and collected my thoughts.

“Stay calm.” I instructed.

And I grabbed the edge of the tarp and stood up straight. It wasn’t as heavy as I expected. “Hold this,” I said. The boy dutifully took the tarp’s edge. While I gathered the PVC pipe that had rolled away, and secured it again with a rubber mallet, this time as an inch of water sopped my shoes and the ground around us.

Pipe reattached, and securely placed on the pavers and wood, he let the tarp go, and the water again rushed toward the high end.

This time, the PVC wall held. About half of the water had spilled out into the yard. But, within minutes, it had absorbed into the thirsty ground.

Knowing what failure looked like, I began cautiously filling the rink again, while the boy worked to remove the leaves. 

By that evening, we had at least 3 inches of water throughout the rink. The pipes held. That tarp didn’t leak. And, after a few cold nights, we had skateable ice.

Now, we spend time most days skating and playing small hockey games.

The boy loves it. Though not nearly as much as my wife.

I also discovered a whole world of people who build rinks in their yard each winter. The Backyard Ice Rinks group on Facebook has 23,000 members. Apparently, mine was not such a novel idea. And some of these rinks are impressive – like full size hockey rinks.

Ours is a little small. But we enjoy it.

Though, next year, we’ll likely build a bigger one.

The Many Ways I'm Not Superman

There’s a theory out there that claims the side of the head a man parts his hair on says all you need to know about his personality, his potential in life, and his success.

I heard about this “hair part theory” recently on a podcast, which is the new reading. It used to be that some schmo would have to write something down so others could begin sentences with, “I read recently that” blankety-blank. And then all the rest of us would automatically give it credence because the schmo wrote it down. Now, all anyone needs to do is say it out loud and everyone who hears them gets to begin sentences with, “I heard on a podcast that…” and they sound like Einstein.

Anyway, this podcast claimed the most successful and notable men always part their hair on the left side of their head. And that left-side-parters emit some sort of cosmic vibe that communicates their awesomeness to the world.

This theory isn’t new, apparently. It’s been around for some time. So long that the hairstylist for the movie Superman used this subtle difference in hair part to distinguish between Clark Kent and his Superhero alter ego.

Mr. Kent parted his hair on the right, and, when the big switch would occur inside a phone booth somewhere, Superman would emerge with his hair parted on the left. My own sub-theory is that, because Superman parted his hair on the left all those years ago, it further reinforced this notion of a dominant side on which to part your hair. But, what do I know? I don’t even have a podcast.

It just so happens that in recent weeks, I started parting my hair on the right side, like Clark Kent.

After years of parting on the left -- for no real reason other than I’d done it that way since ending my Tom Petty, part-in-the-middle phase in High School -- I finally gave in to the fact that certain cowlicks made me more naturally a right-side-parter. What a weird word cowlick is, by the way. I mean, how long did we have to share space with our bovine friends to come up with that one?

Oddly enough, since I made the switch to a right-side part, people have been complimenting my hair. Which is something that has never happened before in my entire life.

What it’s told me, however, is that – despite my visions otherwise – I am much more of a Clark Kent than a Superman.

This is the paragraph where I shift gears and head in a different direction, seemingly. You see, as this hair-part realization occurred, I unrelatedly but simultaneously came to the conclusion that the white whale I’ve been chasing quietly for the past decade might never get caught.

That was way too opaque. Let me try again.

I’ve got this affliction called writing. And I’ve got this dream about getting my writing published. But not published in magazines or major websites, as I’ve done that. But books. And not books like print them myself and sell them out of my van, but like lit-agent, publishing house type books. New York Times best-seller type stuff. Far-fetched, right? 

Well, with this in mind, I’ve written books: memoirs, and literary novels, and an MG realistic fiction. MG means middle grade, a genre I really liked reading these books to my kids. Heck, I even once wrote a picture book that I horribly illustrated about a kid who loses her balloon and imagines that it went to the moon. Balloonie Went to the Moonie. It was a metaphor for death and loss. It was cute. Way cuter than it just sounded.

These books were like my lottery tickets. One of them was going to be the answer to all our challenges. And the next one was going to change everything. My life’s dreams lived in each of them.

While everyone else has been waking up, or getting ready for bed, or pursuing their own hobbies that border on afflictions, I’ve been writing, and editing, and pitching literary agents. They call that querying. And the process sucks as bad as the word.

What querying means to most writers is random rejection. It’s not random in that it comes from nowhere, because you essentially ask for it. It’s just random in when it arrives. I’d be coaching a soccer practice and look down at my phone to see an email that says something like, “Thank you for sending your query. I read it with interest. Unfortunately, it’s not right for my list right now. But don’t fret, publishing is a subjective industry. Another agent might love it. Now, piss off.”

I may have embellished a bit. But, like that, rejection would arrive randomly: in line at the grocery store, or on a lunch break, or on a Saturday evening. Or on Christmas Eve. How cruel must you be to hit send at that point?

Anyway. The latest book I wrote was really going to be the one. It's good. And quirky. I had a bunch of agents ask for the full manuscript, which is like getting to first base in the publishing world.
Yet, in recent weeks, those full request have generated even more rejection. Deeper and more personal rejection. Quote, It didn’t pull me in. Your main character failed to grab me. The execution wasn’t what I’d need to see to champion this project going forward. Sprinkled in there were compliments, too. There's a lot to admire here. Your scene setting was commendable. Each rejection felt like the “it’s not you it’s me” kind of break up. And each makes you realize that you're not as good as you want to be.

 So, just as I’ve come to realize that my hair is of the Clark Kent variety, I’ve also begun to conclude that publishing might just not be in my future.

Another gear shift. In other news, my daughter this week went on her first college tour. She’s a junior, and ready to get out of Dodge and take over the world. She’s looking at big name schools with the perfect programs for all her dreams. I’m excited for her, but I can’t help but thinking about the cost.

It’s not just because I’m cheap, but rather, as my eldest gets ready to head off to school, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m still paying my own student loans. And there’s no way, with four kids, even with two decent jobs between us, that my wife and I will ever be able to pay for these types of schools.

I never thought that would be the case. I always figured something would break our way. Some big job would come along. Or some ship would come in. Or some book would sell. And it just hasn’t.

She’s not worried. She’ll borrow to make it happen. Which feels like defeat to me. Because, while I’ve rarely worried much about my own lifetime of student debt, I lose sleep worrying about my inability to prevent my kids from their own.  

It’s been a strange couple of weeks, all things considered. Realizing I’m not Superman, or publishable, or capable of paying for my kid’s college.

First world problems, if ever there were any. I know. 

Still, if you see me. Just tell me you like my hair. That it suits me.

I’m trying to embrace the fact that I’m not Superman and never will be.

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Watching Your Kids Fall Down

Down he fell again, this time landing on his back. I could practically feel the rock-hard ice reverberate through his little body. Pads or not, that one had to hurt.

He hesitated, worrying me that he was actually injured this time. Then he rolled over, scrambled to his feet, regained his balance, and skated on — certain to crash land again in the moments ahead.

It was a cool November morning during his first hockey practice when I realized my son didn’t know how to skate.

We’d gone skating before as a family over the years, a few times at the outdoor rink downtown and once or twice on a pond near our house. But not often enough for my 3rd grader to feel truly comfortable on the ice. And it was showing.

Thud.

He fell again, likely the 50th time he’d hit the ice in the first half hour. Each time, I watched him, waiting for the tears to come, for him to skate off the ice — or crawl or crash — and announce that he was done with hockey.

He’s wanted to play hockey for years, bugging me to let him each year when I get obsessed with how deep into the NHL playoffs my team will go. This past year, my team won it all, and we watched every game we could. After they hoisted the Stanley Cup, he made his mom and me promise we’d sign him up for hockey in the fall.

So, we did. We just forgot to teach him to skate first.

One of the things I’ve always struggled with as a parent is watching my kids fail. What parent doesn’t want to protect them from some of the pain and disappointment life has for all of us?

I distinctly remember the feeling I had when I got cut from a travel soccer team in fourth grade. I was devastated. I don’t want my kids to go through that kind of rejection.

The boy, while not on his rear at hockey practice

As a parent, I often prepare my kids for potential setbacks, saying things before soccer tryouts like, there are so many kids that I’m sure lots of good players are going to get cut. Or telling them before play auditions that even getting a call back is something to be proud of.

That’s how I prepared my high schooler for her audition for this year’s school musical. Last year, she didn’t make it – as most freshman don’t. So, this year I prepared her for any potential disappointment.

“There’s so many talented kids, dear.”

And;

“All you can do is give it your best.”

Along with a few;

“No matter what happens, we love you.”

I was surprised when she expressed frustration with my attitude on the matter. She liked that it was hard to make the musical and just wanted me to believe in her.

I've begun to realize, I’ve been so worried about preparing my kids for failure, that I’ve been undermining their confidence.

It seems a strange thing to admit in an age when most parents do a disservice by filling their kids with too much confidence, convincing them they’re the best at everything, when they’re just average. And sending them out into a world that is going to level them with reality in the years ahead.

That’s a mistake in itself.

Parents can make that one even worse by further protecting their kids from that eventual leveling by stacking the deck in their favor. That’s become clear recently, as we’ve seen wealthy parents across the country who have been so concerned about protecting their offspring from life’s disappointment that they’ve spent thousands of dollars and resorted to cheating so they can get into the college of their choice.

What those parents did was wrong.

But I understand the instinct. Believe me, I do.

That morning in November, I wanted to run out onto the ice – or skate, or something – and pick my son up and give him the biggest hug I could.

And, if I could’ve figured out a way, I probably would’ve made sure all the kids who tried out this year made the high school musical, just to spare them all, and most importantly my daughter, from the potential pain. But I didn’t.

I suffered as they struggled, and I worried as they worried.

In so doing, I’ve come to realize there is a balance to be had. Kids need confidence, for sure. But they also need to know the hard work it takes to get better at things, whether it’s hockey, or soccer, or singing, or school. And they need to know it’s going to take a lot of hard work on their part to reduce the number of disappointments in their future.


If I didn't know this already, it became obvious watching my kids face their challenges.

In the months before the musical auditions, my daughter put in the hard work. She worked on her singing, and she spent hours in dance classes improving her skills and even learning a whole new dance style.

And, guess what. She made the musical. She even had a speaking role and was a part of a few big dance scenes, including the tap dance number. Who knew she could tap? I was so proud of her. To top it off, the show was amazing.

As for my son, after that first day of practice, the one where he fell countless times, he skated over to me waiting by the boards and exclaimed, “I love hockey!”

Then he looked at me, and said, "I got better. Didn't I, dad?"

Boy, did he.

Now he’s been playing a few months, and he’s improved so much. He rarely falls, and he's even been scoring goals.

I’m the first one to admit I don’t have this parenting thing figured out. But, I’ve certainly arrived at the conclusion that a bit of failure and disappointment doesn’t hurt kids all that much.

In the long run, it might even help.

Despite my instinct to protect them from even the smallest failures, I probably knew this all along.

After I got cut from that soccer team, I tried again. The next time, I made the team. Then I continued to play the sport through high school.

While I never forgot the pain of being cut that year, it made any success I had later that much better.

So, as hard as it is, let your kids fall down. And then watch them get back up.

You'll both be better for it. 

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Why You Should Always Make One Last Cast

I was done, having had no luck all day. I’d changed flies, tried different techniques, added weight to sink the midge lower in the water, taken weight off to let another float along the top. I’d matched the hatch and turned to my trusty never fail. I’d thrown everything in the bag at them over several hours. And nothing.

The kicker: it was a crystal-clear day on my favorite river, and I could see fish all around me. But they weren’t taking what I was serving.

Situations like this remind me of my favorite W.C. Fields quote: “If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it.”

So, I was calling it quits.

Walking out along the creek, I decided to throw one more cast in the direction of a big brown trout I could see nestled behind a rock. It was my most half-assed cast of the day. I literally flipped the rod over as I walked and let the fly plop down on the water with a thud no respectable fisherman would aspire to.

And, WHAP. He took it.

Before I go any further, you should know now that this is not going to be a post about fly fishing. It’s about far a less interesting subject: the stage of success known as quitting.

Fisherman often claim that fishing imitates life. Just as golfers say it about golf, and knitters about knitting. But, in this case, it’s more about how life can imitate fishing.

As some people know, I’ve been writing this blog for quite some time now. I used to write here quite regularly. Even posted weekly, for a while. And, over the years it has been a fun outlet for my creative side and a fine place to chronicle our family adventures – now of great use to my increasingly forgetful mind.

It’s also opened some interesting doors. Because of this dumb blog, I reconnected with some old friends, met some new ones, and, one time, I even got our family a free ski vacation. One of the most interesting things to happen due to this whole blog thing has been my involvement with the Dadbloggers Facebook group and my attendance at the Dad 2.0 Summit – a yearly gathering of dad social media influencers and parenting writers.

One of the 2018 Spotlight Bloggers, Doug Zeigler,

 reading his blog post to the conference.

I’ve gone twice: 2016 in Washington, D.C., and 2018 in New Orleans. Not that I’ve ever influenced anyone. Heck, my kids don’t even listen to me. But I’ve had some great experiences at these conferences, picked up a few writing tips, made those friends I mentioned, and had a lot of fun.

As it happens, each year the organizers of the Dad 2.0 Summit recognize a few bloggers from across the country and have them share a post – as in read it – to the hundreds of people at the conference. It’s the Blogger Spotlight and it’s kind of a big deal.

To become a Spotlighter, a post has to be nominated (most often by the author) and then get selected from a few hundred submissions. And, for the past four or five years, I’ve had posts nominated (most often by the author).

I always wanted to get selected because I looked at it as validation from my peers that I wasn’t totally wasting my time. I also dreamed that it would be one more step on the way to other goals – like writing books, or early retirement.

Yet, it never happened. And, I started to figure it never would. 

Lately, I haven’t exactly been the most prolific writer, by any stretch. As time has marched on and sped up, the ideas just seem to come to me less often, and the opportunity to write passes before I have a chance to funnel my thoughts into a coherent thing worth putting into words.

To be honest, I’ve thought lately about letting this old blog just fade away. I always say to myself when I’m preparing a post, maybe this will be the last one.

I wouldn’t stop creating, altogether. I’d focus on the dumb book I’m halfway finished writing. And I’d tweet, which has much more immediate returns than blogging, from the positive feedback side of the equation.

Maybe it was time, I thought, to quit RuddyBits.

Then, in January, I got a text. Actually, it was a Facebook message – which is now considered old school. It was from one of the Dad 2.0 Summit organizers asking if I’d like to read one of my post as a 2019 Spotlight Blogger.

WHAP.

It made me think again about how, sometimes, it's right when you are ready to walk away that your luck turns around. Some people call it persistence. But it might be something else. But, whatever it is, it can change your perspective.

You know that time on the river, when my last cast of the day landed the fish? It ended up not being my last cast. I kept going.

How can you walk away after something like that, am I right?

So, now I’m headed to San Antonio to read a blog post on parenting. And I imagine, at some point, this damn fool will probably want to write about it.

The Chaos Theory of Parenting

A butterfly flaps its wings in New Zealand, and I end up late for work.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely the butterfly’s fault. It really started, one morning last week, with my eldest daughter and her talent for sleeping through an alarm clock. Literally, this is her super power. An alarm clock could be buzzing right next to her ear, and nothing. Which probably has something to do with her penchant for staying up late to finish homework. Which may or may not have been on abstract mathematics.

Our typical morning routine has a predictable linear structure. (I know it is redundant to call a routine typical, as that’s the nature of a routine, but this is Science not English). Child 1 ostensibly gets up at 6:15 a.m., to be on the bus at 6:52. Children 2 and 3 rise from their slumber when child 1 departs, and they get on their bus at 7:40. That’s when child 4 awakes, his bus arriving at 8:12, which he dutifully boards.

I call this predictable structure the Ordered Family model. And it works well on paper. In reality, it rarely occurs.

Here’s a sample of our reality through the lens of one particular day last week when my wife just happened to be away on business.

And this was the best time of all.

The alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. as planned. Our oldest child didn’t move, however. Unplanned. Then it went off again. And again. When she did finally move, she announced she needed a shower because “it had been a few days.” We have an unwritten rule that we never stop a kid from cleansing themselves. Still, the shower was unplanned. And it ate up precious seconds.

Long story short: she missed the bus. So, of course, I had to drive her. I woke the two younger ones, who are just barely old enough to be left home alone, and ordered them to get ready as I took the eldest to the High School.

When I got back, the house was still standing and everyone was alive, but nobody was ready for the middle school bus, now just moments way. So, I quickly threw together their lunches, prodded them to brush their teeth and get dressed, and then I watched as the bus pulled away while they sat at our counter nonchalantly eating breakfast. Bus missed.

To take them to school, I had to wake the boy, as he cannot be left alone for everybody’s sake. Once his sisters were deposited at middle school. We went back home to get him out of his PJs and ready for his bus, which he missed. So, it was back in the car and to the third school of the day to drop off yet another child.

By the time I got home, I had exactly zero minutes to get showered, dressed and off to work. Needless to say, I was late. Like, really late.

That’s when it occurred to me the similarities between math's Chaos Theory and the way my wife and I are as parents: the Chaos Theory of Parenting.

This theory is not so much a planned philosophy or a framework as an observational reality. And it’s one that can be witnessed by spending even a single morning at our house… or an afternoon… or any given Saturday.

In mathematics, Chaos theory is used to describe dynamic systems where minor variations in initial variables can cause wildly different outcomes. It’s been popularized by the analogy known as the Butterfly Effect: A butterfly flaps its wings and that results in a hurricane half a world away. A little farfetched, I know. But smarter people than I claim it works.

I find it easier to understand Chaos Theory by thinking about the game Plinko on the Price Is Right. That’s the one where the lucky contestant drops a round chip down the Plinko board and it bounces around rather unpredictably until it reaches the bottom. In reality, the reaction of the Plinko chip to its surroundings is quite predictable, scientifically speaking, if you know all the precise variables, which include the speed of the chip, the friction of the board, the angle it hits the first peg, and the second peg, etc. The Chaos comes in when even the slightest variation in any one of those variables dramatically changes the path of the Plinko chip. I like the Plinko analogy because I feel like a Plinko chip going down the board on a daily basis.

The Plinko Theory of Parenting isn't as catchy

The difference is that in Plinko there are only five possible outcomes. While in life, and in parenting, there are infinite. Kid 3 could miss the bus. Kid 2 could leave without gloves and have to stay in for recess. Kid 4 could forget his homework, and his parents could get a call from the teacher. Dad could be late so often that he gets fired, and the whole family could have to move to another state. Anything could happen. All based on Kid 1 sleeping through her alarm and a host of other initial variables.

I tried to explain this to said kids in the car on the evening of the particular day in question.

“Have any of you heard of the Butterfly Effect?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied the high schooler. “Isn’t that how a butterfly on one side of the world can cause a hurricane on the other?”

“Yes!” I responded, almost gleeful.

“Wait,” said the 12-yr-old. “I learned in science that the weather is caused by high and low pressure in the atmosphere?”

“It is,” I stated, trying to think how to marry the two thoughts. “This is before all that."

“What kind of butterfly?” asked the 10-yr-old.

“That doesn’t matter,” I replied.

“So, butterflies cause high pressure fronts?” asked the 12-yr-old, confused.

“I thought you told us once that hurricanes are caused by extreme low pressure,” said the high schooler.

“I did.” God save me. “I was just mentioning the Butterfly Effect to relate it to our mornings and making the bus.”

“What do butterflies have to do with the bus?” asked the 10-yr-old.

“Look, take our typical morning routine…”

“Doesn’t the word routine imply that it’s typical?” pondered the high schooler, in a condescending way.

“Ugh,” I grunted.

The 10-yr-old recollected, "Remember when we went in the butterfly tent at the fair?”

“Yes. Look, it’s just that if one of you misses the bus, it can make me late for work.”

“Um. I still don’t get what this has to do with the weather,” said the 12-yr-old.

“You know what, never mind.”

“I have to pee,” said the 8-yr-old.

So, rather than accurately describing Chaos Theory to my kids, I showed them an example of it in conversation form.

Not that they need to be shown. Because, the truth is, you can look at almost any aspect of our lives and find discernable examples of chaos.

You could be observing us on what seems like an otherwise quiet evening when an unexpected (but predictable) variable occurs, like someone yelling, “Oh My God! We forgot soccer practice!”

And then we suddenly find ourselves scrambling to get our tween to her indoor soccer practice, and the whole plan for dinner is out the window and half our kids are crying because they’re hungry and haven’t started their homework. All because one of us had to run to the store after work to get an ingredient for the dinner we now aren’t making and, in the frenzy, simply forgot it was a practice day.

Come to think of it, the ingredient we were missing was chicken broth. And we were out of it because I'd made soup the day before. I made soup because it was raining. It was raining because of a big storm that had hit the whole coast. So, it may well have been the fault of a butterfly, after all.

Clearly, I have only a rudimentary understanding of the real Chaos Theory, however I’ve found that with proper use of vagueness and big words, anyone can sound like they’re an expert on theoretical mathematics.

Parenting, on the other hand, is not quite so easy.

Here's other articles you may enjoy: Vegas, Baby!, Dog Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations, and Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup.

Crappy Husband Alert! Crappy Husband Alert!

Tomorrow is my wife’s birthday, and today I was reminded what a lousy husband I am. The reminder came from an unlikely source, which rules out my wife. In fact, it was a large, faceless corporation that told me, essentially, I suck at being a husband.

Today, I took a little time away from the home office to sneak over to one of my wife’s favorite stores to purchase an item she told me she wanted repeatedly over the last week. It’s not like she was walking around talking about the item, rather it came up in conversations that went something like this:

“Honey, want anything for your birthday?”

“No, I don’t need anything.”

I’m not falling for that trap, again.

“Come on, dear.  There must be something.”

“Well there is this one thing I saw …”

 

Years ago, I gave up trying to come up with my own ideas. Back when we first met, I considered myself a good gift giver, in that I came up with creative, romantic, original ideas. At least I thought I did.

 

As time went on, I began failing at the task more often than I found success by buying her gifts that were solely my idea, from clothes and shoes, to books and CDs, to household trinkets. I even failed times when I thought I’d succeeded, as she graciously accepted the gift and then days later asked if I had a gift receipt.
 



Note to Husbands:  Just because she
watched the movie instead of talking to
you, doesn't make it a good gift.  

It all started when we were on a vacation of sorts one Thanksgiving, long before the kids were born. My then-future wife chose to stay in the hotel room for a few hours watching “A Christmas Carol” – the semi-old version with George C. Scott – rather than explore the town with me. Not my favorite version of the tale; I always preferred Kermit as Bob Cratchit. But I figured she must like it. 

That Christmas, I bought her “A Christmas Carol” staring George C. Scott, thinking it would be the anchor piece of our future holiday movie collection. She laughed and told me she didn’t care for that movie at all. It left me confused as to why she watched it rather than hanging out with me that day, and began my steady descent into becoming a bad gift giver.

 

Experiences like that have made me a bit gun shy on gift ideas. Not just birthday gifts and holiday presents, but other gifts as well. Making matters worse, I’ve also never been the spontaneous gift kind of guy, which is the real offense here.  

 

I know that a better husband would just show up on occasion with a little something for his beloved. Apparently, I am not a better husband. My wife gets her allotted five gifts a year: Valentine's Day flowers, a Mothers' Day gift card for a manicure, an anniversary-appropriate something in yearly honor of our nuptials, and then some gift idea I coax out of her for her birthday and Christmas. Five. Which is more than twice as often as she gets dental cleanings. But, it's certainly not enough. And it's all my fault. Heck, my wife is lucky if I bring her a chai tea when I splurge on Starbucks for myself. Cue the “You don’t bring me flowers” music.

 

That brings me to the reminder I got today of just how much I suck.

 

As stated, I went to a store she loves and decided to get her that thing she told me about. It was a little pricey, but not that bad. We spend more on groceries at Wegmans twice a week. And, for goodness sake, she gave birth to all four of my children. She’s worth it.

 

When I got back to the car, after making the retail kill, I felt the vibration of my phone telling me I just got an e-mail.

 

It was from my bank – a security alert, from the anti-fraud department.

 

“We’ve noticed unusual and suspicious activity on your account,” the e-mail read.  I got worried. Was it identity theft? Have we been robbed? Should I take back the gift I bought to make sure we don’t bounce any checks?

 

The urgent message went on to state that the suspicious transaction occurred moments ago at … my wife’s favorite store.

 

Me buying something for my wife is so unusual that even the fraud department at our bank has noticed. I get it, bank, I should buy her more stuff, more often, for no reason.

 

In a split second, I went from feeling like I was a true king for getting my wife the gift she really wanted, to a total louse. Being married to me must suck.

 

Happy Birthday, dear. And I'm Sorry.


Here's other articles you may enjoy: Vegas, Baby!, Dog Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations, and Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,