Basement Time

Basement time is an age-old tradition at our house. It started years ago with my now teenage boy. We'd play, create, and otherwise explore the wilderness of our unfinished basement-a place where memories are made and messes are welcome. And it’s still going strong with our five year-old girl.

I’m a bit older wiser, but the gist is about the same. 

Only, it’s not.

With a little boy, everything was tools and gadgets, taking things apart. I understood the mission and the chaos was clear. Now, with a girl, the chaos is, well it's pink. 

The old fort/writing nook under the stairs? Now a glittery pink castle, with flower arrangements and butterflies.

The boxy projection TV/video game area? Now it’s a stage complete with pink curtains, poofy dresses and a makeup room.

The sword collection? Tiaras.

The trainset? Doll house.

The obstacle course? A parade of princesses.

So what’s the same? Well, somehow, it's completely the same. 

We roam the basement, out to the backyard. We dig for treasure in the sandbox. We play doctor, zookeeper, park ranger, hotel, police, hide and seek, and just about whatever else she imagines she wants to do.

And yes, Bella is girly, but she still likes to get dirty. She's not always so glamorous. Or she is, only with dirt in her nails, sticks in her hair. She can be a barefoot sticky mess of glamour, I suppose.

Simon was more mechanical about things, inventing and seeing how something ticks. He built things. We’d play basketball or football. Bella is more pretend this or imagine that.

Bella likes to put on stage shows. And a stage show is only as good as its prep and planning, so when I'm told to have a seat, I sit. The curtain closes so that the star can go backstage to get herself ready, and I can't help myself thinking just how much basement time has changed. 

But has it really? It's still a place where the outside world seems to melt away. It still becomes a magical forest, or a jungle, a kingdom or even outer space. It's still all pretend, only now with more fairies and mermaids. 

When the curtain opens, and the star brightens with a smeary blue lipstick smile of a deranged clown, I applaud her efforts until I'm shushed as the show begins. 

We do get the occasional soccer game. And we do have the occasional obstacle course. I've learned to roll with the changes, the many breaks to accommodate the wardrobe changes. The other day she went through three dresses in an hour. But hey, that’s what the dresses are for, to wear, when playing in the dirt, jumping hurdles, climbing trees and pretending to be a tiger, while wearing lipstick. 

I'm just along for the ride.

 

The Cost of Silence

I love playing with my daughter. At four, she’s creative and curious and she never fails to surprise me. We play dress up, tell jokes, perform magic, and cook all sorts of treats in her kitchen. We play outside, with bugs, leaves, the swing set, whatever strikes her at any given moment.

We sing. We laugh. We dance and we tumble. She's a princess, and sure, I’m getting older, but I still make a good steed.

More recently, as she nears five years-old, sometimes, especially after a busy day, she’ll go off in her room, or any room, and things get quiet.

Occasionally, I’ll try to come in and join her only to have her shoo me away, tell me it’s a surprise.

Hmm. What's a surprise? There’s no telling what she’s cooking up, but in these little gaps of silence, I’ll talk to my wife. We catch up on our lives in two-minute intervals—think speed dating for parents. Bella will hum along to herself in the sunroom while I ask my wife about her day. I tell her about mine. Sometimes our twelve-year-old son will join us, and for that short little span, and yeah, I’ll admit, it can be pleasant.

It's surprising how much of a presence a little four-year-old person can be. Though no fault of her own, she’s demanding, a force to be reckoned with. She kind of runs things. So when she's quiet, or off playing by herself, it's nice to have a moment and catch my breath.  

But there is a price to pay.

The silence means Bella is busy. She’s building, creating, constructing, upheaving…

After two, maybe three or four minutes, I get to my feet to go check in on things. Walking in, I stumble over a chair, regain my balance only to slip on the fifty or so crayons splayed across the floor. Stickers adorn the walls, graffiti covers her desk, and as I cut a path through the scatter of bowls, cups, utensils, plastic fruit from her play kitchen, I marvel at the spread: open books, magazines, a pile of discarded dresses, dolls, (is that a popsicle?), stuffed animals, a pack of scantily clad Barbie Dolls. All of this stands between me and my daughter, who is still humming to herself as she uses a marker to draw on her arm.

A tornado of activity, the word “how” forms on my lips before my daughter looks up.

“It’s not ready yet, Daddy.”

I start to ask what is not ready. I think about cleaning up. Then I look back at my daughter, who holds her tattooed arm up triumphantly. “Look, it’s a flower.”

She clutches a marker in her other hand. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

"You want one?"

Another look at the mess. It can wait. I clear a place in the wreckage and sit down beside her. I roll up my sleeve and smile. “Sure.”

 

Coach

Seems like every year I get pulled into coaching my son’s basketball team. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s great to watch the team progress as we go through the season. I get into it, usually taking on little pet projects, working on something in particular with each kid individually while also working drills with the team.

But if I've learned anything through the years, it's that coaching kids takes p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e.

Deep breaths.

This year began like most of the others, as I come up with drills and teaching moments and prep with notes I will never use. No matter how prepared I am, it never fails. It all falls apart. 

My wife, a second-grade teacher, gets this amused look on her face when I get home after an hour of coaching, flop down in the chair and exclaim how the kids just won’t listen to me.

But I’m not teacher. I’m only a man trying to organize a decent after-game snack schedule.

Again, each year I start with high hopes. Take for instance, my gameday lineup. Look at that. All neat, with little notes and observations, things to work on.

Fast forward to last week. See? See the frantic scribble of a man at the end of his rope. This is the scrawl of someone hoping people show up. Because that’s another thing. All the kids want to play, but they can’t drive. So you never know just who is going to show up. 

There were times--okay lots of times--during the year, when it all came together. I’d look at their faces, brimming with confidence, having soaked up all my lessons I’d drilled into their heads, and I'd think hey, it's working. It's really working. 

I’d taught them how to move without the ball, how to box out and rebound, keys to the two/three defense. I'd instilled the discipline of staying in your spot. The results were beautiful. Defensive stops. Rebounds. We were off and running.

Other times, I’d stand to the side, bewildered, the whistle dangling from my lips as I watched a bunch of kids who'd completely ignored any and everything I’d tried to teach them. They’d bicker and argue and crowd together and clamor for the ball. And I’d wonder what in the world I was doing wrong.

Such is how it goes, I guess.

Each year brings it’s own problems. Years five and six was simply herding cats. Why did you take your shoes off? There was no hope, only survival. Years seven and eight was the attention span. Stop dribbling. Stop, okay please stop dribbling. 

But this year, it was all attitude. Lot's and lot's of attitude. One minute, things were going swimmingly, the next time down the court, it was nearly a street fight. I’d watch the clock, wondering if I should just let them have at it or try to actually coach. Then gameday would come and I’d do my best to put them in a position to have some fun.

And to my surprise, they did. Everyone made strides. Everyone mostly enjoyed themselves. And as the final buzzer went off on Saturday, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. I’d survived.

But now, well, I find myself thinking how I sort of miss those guys.

It's Not Easy Being the Prince

In the never ending world of Disney that is my three-year old’s life, it can be difficult to keep track of all the characters I’m supposed to play. From villain to hero, be it animal or, well, I've even played a tree, I do my best with the roll I'm assigned. But usually I'm a prince. 

Only it's not what I had in mind...

At 48, being royal can be taxing. Ideally, it would mean a life of luxury. At least a castle. And while I do have the castle, (in the basement, it’s pink and built out of cardboard), things are not quite as charming as I'd imagined. In truth, it can be a bit grueling, and I almost long for the days of pirates, swords, and football. 

With this being the second child, I thought I’d be more… prepared? I’m not, but a am much older now, and the other kid was a boy and so things—trucks, sports, explosions—came naturally. Not this time. Now, everything is pink, and there’s more role playing, whether I’m ready or not.

In the mornings, usually before I've had even a whiff of coffee, we’re reenacting scenes. If I don’t have my lines pat, there's trouble on the set. Once we're in the car, it's more of the same. I'm not ashamed to admit that the other day I read two pages of The Little Mermaid while at a stoplight.

And still, my knowledge of these fairy lands remains unsatisfactory. What little I do know is taxed at every turn. My inflections and voices are under razor sharp scrutiny and I have to be repeatedly corrected. No, Daddy, not like thaaaat. 

Depending on her mood, diva or devil, I can bring things to a halt with one slip of the tongue. Call Ariel Aurora and oh boy, pay the price.

My meager talents aren't limited to royalty. At times, I have to play the heel as well. I’m the beast. I’m Gaston. I'm King Triton and I’m Hans. Sometimes, I'm mere livestock (which does wonders for my knees).

Now, it's not always so crucial. Sometimes, I'm hilarious. Most of the time is good clean fun. Morning. Day. Evening. Repeat. 

But my hard work is paying off. The other night at dinner, Mom sat down at the table while daughter and I were midway through one of our fairytale skits. Upon seeing her, our princess turned to her mother, AKA The Favorite, AKA Numero Uno, AKA The Head Honcho, and politely asked, “Can you go back in the kitchen?”

My wife and I exchanged looks of astonishment, before my wife cocked her brow and backed away, no questions asked. She had like a million other fires she needed to put out anyway, so she was more than okay with taking a free moment when offered. A little smirk my way as she took off. "Sure, I’ll give you two some time.”

With the matter settled, my little princess turned to me and batted her eyes. “Now, you will be Gaston.”

Things could be worse…

 

No Regrets

 

Sometimes, in the Groundhog Day repetition that is parenting with a toddler, when we do the same things over and over again and one day blurs into the next, middle age comes creeping into my thoughts and I start to wish I’d done more with my past. Be it travel, or work, or wishing I had a do-over for all the dumb mistakes of my youth, I don’t have many regrets but every now and then I find myself wondering what I could have done differently. 

But those thoughts are fleeting, and as it is, I find my happiest moments are in or around my little house on my little patch of land in my little town.

The other day I was in my backyard with Bella, my two year-old daughter. We’re playing in the pallet house and she wants to do my hair. Only there are rules in place and so I have to crawl out of the house and then return so that I can knock before coming in and make a proper entrance. 

Oh, uh, right. 

I do as I'm told. This time I knock and she welcomes me inside. There’s a toy sink with actual running water wedged into a corner. I’m instructed to sit against the wall. A siren wails in the distance, somewhere outside these magical walls, as she sets her hands in the water—probably filled with mosquito larvae and who knows what else—cupping them as she carries the water to my head and splashes my hair with it.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, wiping down the sides of my face.

“Thank you,” I say, water dripping onto my shirt, kind of looking around. She does this again, maybe four or five more times. Then uses a toy set of pliers to cut my hair. She's fully focused on her task and takes time and care to do the job right. 

“Does it really look good?” I ask, as she drops the pliers and starts to clean up. 

Bella looks up from the sink and regards me with big blue eyes. A small nod. “Definitely.”

And that’s it. I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m good here, hunched over in this make believe bug infested pallet shed hair salon, with this sweet little stylist who hands our compliments like candy.

 

Bella and the Bad Guys

My two year-old daughter is sweet and charming and a complete goofball most of the time. She bumbles around the house clad in pink, her hair in pigtails. She's a bundle of joy in her light up boots, as she rides her little tricycle up and down the street, taking everything in. It's such a fun age, watching her play in the sandbox or discover new adventures. But I’ve noticed something else about my sweet little girl.

She likes the bad guys.

Whether we’re reading books or watching cartoons, or even telling stories, she’ll make me go back to the naughty part. The other day we were reading three little pigs. You think she was worried about those silly pigs? Nope. It was all about the wolf.

It all started back around Christmas. She was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and couldn't get enough of the Abominable Snow Monster. I'd been worried she would be afraid of the beast but instead she only wanted to watch the scenes with him in it. She loved him so much we even got her a little stuffed animal, which she cuddled and cared for as though it were a baby doll.

And then we noticed a trend...

The wolf. The Grinch. The Gruffalo. That boy sitting in the corner in Timeout. If it’s hairy or spikey, or makes terrible decisions, count her in. No matter what the situation, if she has to pick between Clark Kent and his arch enemies, she’s picking those three lunatics in black.

Maybe she likes a challenge, or enjoys the turning point in a story, but something about her giggle, they way her eyes light up when the villain gets the upper hand, it makes me wonder what kind of company she's going to keep as a teenager. 

Then again, I think it’s commendable, how my daughter sees through a monster's scaly exterior to find the good inside. These are trying times, when everyone could use a friend. So hey, if she’s willing to take on a project, help a brute find his shine, who am I to tell otherwise?

But where does it end? Measuring for curtains at the Death Star? Finding ACME discount codes for Wile E. Coyote? And back to that teenager thing. At this rate, I fully expect her to leave the house on the back of a motorcycle.

The Worst Halloween Ever

Okay *deep breath* it’s been two years, so I guess I can talk about it.

Halloween 2020. 

A cruel joke in the year of Covid. The year of Zoom. The year of virtual school, work, shopping and family gatherings. For our family, like most, it was a year of setbacks and change and continuing global crises. Of learning on the fly. The only good thing, besides daytime pajamas, was the tiny little addition we were expecting. 

Our baby girl arrived in September of that forsaken year and her seven year-old brother was thrilled for about fifteen minutes. A newborn baby is, for a seven year old boy, boring at best and annoying the rest. 

Obviously, Halloween was going to be different. With Covid running rampant, trick or treating was more or less cancelled, as were parties and gatherings and anything to do with real life living, breathing people. Still, I wanted my son to have some sort of Halloween experience.

I took him to get a costume. We ended up with this half Jawa, half grim reaper type thing that under normal circumstances I never would have bought. We bought our own bags of candy. We got pumpkins and watched movies and had a fire out back and the leaves were flying around and I was thinking, Well, maybe this won’t be so bad.

After some scrambling, we caught wind of a community farmer’s market a few miles up the road in the county. They were having some kind of costumer/candy party scheduled for around seven that morning. Yes, morning, but again, we were desperate, and so we packed up the car with the brand baby, stroller, along with our pint-sized grim reaper and decided we’d make the best out of it.

When I think of a farmer’s market, tents, fruit stands, some old guys in overalls and maybe a little country band comes to mind. Or maybe I’d been watching too many Curious George reruns. Either way, what we found was not that.

Tables scattered along a path. A few local businesses. Insurance. Realtors. It was maybe forty degrees and oh yeah, it was seven in the morning.

Out of the van, my kid ripped off his mask and surveyed the scene. I set a hand on our little jawa's shoulder as he shrugged, deflated, his little Jack o' lantern bucket empty as sea shell. 

The baby in place, we trudged on, stopping to sniff some homemade candles. And we made the best of it. My kid collected maybe four pieces of candy (although one was a cough drop), before the baby had had enough and we packed it up and headed home.

We tried. We played spooky Halloween music. We carved pumpkins at the dinner table. We even ordered pizza and planned to have a fire with a giant sack of candy. I let him fill that bucket until it spilled. I thought it was going to be okay. Not the best Halloween in history, but with enough junk food and candy and activities to get us through it. 

Then came that magical time of a fall afternoon, when the sun was slipping down and the air was cool and crisp. It was that time we'd normally be getting ready to set off for trick or treating. But we weren't, we were in the dining room, where the table was covered with newspaper and pumpkin guts and how many times can you listen to Monster Mash and Thriller when you knew that was it? It was all too forced. And then the baby started to cry. She was wailing away and Mom had to rock her and it was like something just kind of cracked. I glanced down at my son and his eyes full of tears.

And I couldn’t blame him.

Here was a seven year-old kid who’d taken everything the world could throw at him like a champ. He’d adjusted on the fly, absorbing closures and cancellations and life-changing events and readjustments by the week. The world. School. Home. His family. He hadn’t been in a classroom since March. We’d added a family member. We were always packed in the house on top of each other. Now no Halloween? It was too much.

We’d marveled at how well he’d been doing. We made jokes about how easily these kids navigated the computer. He’d come accustomed to meeting people through pixels and internet speeds. Now he’d lost Halloween. This wasn’t fair.

Hell, I was crying with him.

But now here we are again. We're ready and willing and we’ve just spent a small fortune on a Darth Vader costume. And yes, we went trick or treating last year but that 2020 Halloween will take five or six more trick or treats to get over. So bring it. Rain or shine we’re getting out and knocking on some doors.

Trick or Treat.

 

 

A Tale of Love, Loss, and Rock and Roll

 

My middle grade novel, The Thing About Dad, is out now and available everywhere. Here's the summary:

For thirteen-year-old Jack Lansford, moving from upstate New York to Virginia is a prison sentence. At least that’s what it feels like when his dad takes a job down south and asks him to “give it a year.” Moving in, Jack's misery turns to confusion when he stumbles across a box of letters to his mother that forever changes the way he sees his light-hearted dad.

As close as Jack is with his father, they never talk about Mom, or the car accident that took her life when he was only three. So Jack can’t help himself from sneaking back to the journals—pages of heartfelt confessions about the mother he never knew. School begins and Jack tries to find his place—playing drums in the basement band with his dad and the neighbors while making a few friends along the way.

Jack confides in Miranda, the girl next door with the voice of a young Aretha Franklin. But when he shows her a poem his father wrote about his Mom, she decides it’s the song they should perform at the local band jam. With that, The Wallywalkers are primed for the big time, but first Jack has to summon the courage to have the talk of all talks with his dad.

Amazon

 Barnes & Noble

My Kid's Room

There’s something to be said about my baby Bella’s room. The books, the blocks, the crib, the loopy swirl of her name on the wall. It’s like a separate universe in our house. In Bella’s room we sit on the floor. We use our imagination. We play with stuffed animals or Barbie's. We don’t think about all that stuff on the news.

There’s a lamp on, casting a cozy glow over us as I look at my daughter, into her wide, all-encompassing eyes. It’s where I find the absolute best in humanity.

After a while she’ll crawl to me, bash into my chest then slide down and bury her little head in my lap. I’ll stroke her little tuffs of hair and her back while she murmurs softly. Then she’ll look up and say something like, “Blah.” Her mix of ball and dog.

I say it back to her. “Ball.” She smiles, coming alive. She crawls around, muttering to herself, pulling up on the dresser or crib as we talk colors and shapes. We point at things that spark our interest: a book, a shoe, the ceiling fan. Outside it might be raining, or hot, or windy or dusk, but it doesn’t matter. Not when we’re in her room, with the lamp on, talking shop.

When I’m in Bella’s room, I’m not thinking about work, or writing, of past failures or even worrying about Covid. I’m content to play and sing and laugh until she gets hungry or tired or simply grows bored with me.

My little girl's room is a safe place, for her, but for me as well. It’s where time stops and holds still in our laps—even as she’s growing so quickly. Where we wind up the music box and let its clicking melody pull us away. It’s where bears talk, turtles fly, monkey’s dance and I can take a moment to catch my breath.

Fairy Dust Fumble

Less than one month to go before my middle grade romp, Fairy Dust Fumble hits the shelves. My first four books have covered some pretty heavy topics. Not this time, my July release, Fairy Dust Fumble, tells story of Colton Clutts going from third string bench warmer to superstar phenom. And It’s plain silly fun.

Here's the summary:

Twelve-year-old Colton Clutts is looking for a breakthrough. But as the third-string quarterback of the middle school football, he team does himself no favors when he agrees to play the part of the fairy in the school play. Clad in tights, wings, and armed with a wand, Colton achieves school-wide fame after he tumbles off the stage during rehearsals. If that isn’t bad enough, a drafty backside incident on the football field quickly goes viral.

Things at home aren’t much better. Colton’s little sister thinks she’s a witch. She casts protective spells for Colton because she’s convinced he’s cursed. But when she stumbles upon a spell that actually works—turning theater-issued glitter into magical fairy dust—things start happening. It begins with crazy slam dunks in gym class, then Colton runs wild in a middle school football game. Just like that, Colt-the-Bolt is born—a superstar athlete who gallops into the record books.

For Colton, it’s a dream come true. But a feisty school journalist is chasing the story. And Colton’s sister no longer wants to be a witch. His drama crush isn’t interested in a superstar who’s skipping out on play rehearsals and his best friend is tired of being the sidekick. With the varsity coach calling and ESPN proclaiming him a “phenom,” the Colt-the-Bolt trend is nothing but a big glittery mess. And now, with the spotlight awaiting him and the fairy dust dwindling, Colt finds himself onstage and completely out of magic tricks.

Release date is 7/6, but for now here’s an excerpt—after Colton’s little sister has “spelled” his stage prop glitter and he realizes his new magical abilities:

-

The blitz comes storming and there is nowhere to go.

Correction. There is nowhere for a mere mortal to go. My

feet, however, have other plans.

They take me left. And when I say they, I really mean it.

My feet are driving and I’m only hanging on for the ride. A

wall of defenders close but I find a crack of daylight in the

middle. I slip between two hefties but more come calling.

At the last second, I catch a glimpse of Harrison streaking

down the sidelines with a couple steps on his guy.

I chuck it with everything I’ve got.


The pass flutters in the wind. Harrison slows, his

facemask to the sky as he makes the adjustment. A roaming

defensive back converges on what should be an easy

interception. What happens next will be discussed for

years.


Doing all that running, I hadn’t put enough muscle into

the pass, so the ball floats like a sagging balloon at a parade.

The safety arrives perfectly on time to make the play, but

it’s like someone has hit the pause button. The balloon

slows to a magical stop in midair. I mean, the football halts

and hangs there, like a cloud, until the poor safety goes

crashing into his own bench.


Only then does the football drop safely into Harrison’s

hands, where he stands stock still, looking down at the ball

like it’s a meteor rock. Hundreds of jaws drop in complete

silence. Finally, Coach Barber cries out for him to run, and

he mechanically jogs into the end zone.


No one chases Harrison. Probably because no one

knows what in the heck they’ve just seen. Me included.

Without peeling his eyes away, the referee slowly finds his

whistle and eventually, cautiously, raises his hands to signal

a touchdown.


Both sides of the bleachers are as quiet as a library

Tale of Two Dads

I slide into safety, taking cover between the bushes. Having escaped enemy fire, I catch my breath and wait to ambush my assailant. A quick peek out, when I don’t hear footsteps. But I force myself to hold still. This war is won with patience, not bravado. I clutch two guns, both cocked and ready. From my vantage point I have an excellent view of the field, the hill between the houses, even the back door. I have everything covered. It's a perfect plan. 

Minutes pass. A fly lands on my nose but I don’t dare move a muscle. I have to be ready for anything. But nothing is happening. Maybe the plan is not so perfect. 

Slowly, against my better instincts, I leave the safety of the bushes. Arms raised, wielding my pistols, I climb the hill to the front yard. My ears perked, my eyes open. I swing around, wildly, my arms like hands on a clock. But there’s no sign of my attacker.

I creep to the maple tree in the front yard. I clear the treehouse then step down, allow myself to relax. Then, I make a crucial mistake. I wander out of the shaded safety of the trees to the street--no man's land--where I hear a snicker. I look up. There, I spot my pint-size opponent, fifty yards away, rifle in hand. I hang my head in shame. 

I’ve been outsmarted, outmaneuvered, my impatience has doomed me once again. But luck is on my side, as his cartridge drops from his rifle. He looks down, then back to me. 

I smile.

With only one option left, I go full Braveheart on him. I charge, pistols extended, Tarrantino-style as my feet slap the asphalt. Neighbors take notice. In the confusion, a couple of the neighborhood kids join in, running behind me. I look left, then right, as one kid’s face is covered full in war paint, the other wears a towel around his shoulder, with… one boxing glove? I shake it off. There’s no time for questions. It's go time. 

The gleam in my opponent’s eyes turns to surprise, fear, panic. He rushes to retrieve the cartridge as I bear down on him. Twenty feet… ten…

Just when I think I have him, my forty-eight inch target stands tall. My first dart whizzes by his ear, the second falls short at his feet. I keep gunning, reloading as I approach, until I hear the snap of the cartridge and he takes aim like a dueler at high noon. I shoot again, but it’s too late.

I’m hit.

He nails me between the eyes. I let out a wail, stumbling, my arms out, pistols skidding along the street. My opponent shows no mercy. A second shot finds my ribs, and I crumple to the street, mortally wounded, staring up the lazy clouds passing through the evening sky.

I stammer over some last words as my assailant takes aim and looms over me, when my reprieve comes from the house. 

“Honey, can you take the baby? I’m trying to fix dinner.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

I roll over, amidst a collection of Nerf darts and oil stains. I get to my feet and wipe myself off. “Well, I gotta go.”

My son lowers the rifle. I hand the pistols to the other two kids. I know they’ll take good care of my weapons. “Until next time.”

As I hobble into the house, defeated but smiling, I’m handed a bundle of pink and told I have a leaf in my hair. A wide-eyed munchkin squeals at me. I make a face, she giggles. I tell her about the battle with her brother. She grabs my nose. 

Being the dad of an eight-year old boy and an eight-month old daughter is a great thing. It’s also very confusing at times.

It means waging an all out Nerf war outside, then coming in to read about purple monkeys and bubble gum trees. It means being careful not to get bike chain grease on the pretty pink onesie. It means wrestling on a trampoline then gently pushing the Little Tikes swing. It means trying to keep the baby from eating your UNO cards.

But at times, when it all collides, when my wild man eight-year old stops and hugs his sister, when she lights up with a smile as he dances for her, it’s not confusing at all.

It’s easy.

Sticks and Stones and ... DON'T EVER SAY THAT

Race relations always seem to find its way into my books. Maybe it’s because I'm from Virginia, or my childhood, how I was raised. Either way, it’s not always by design but it’s there, creeping onto the page... Racism, bigotry, injustices large and small. Yep, that’s me, never afraid to let it rip. 

Me the author? Fearless. But me the dad? Not so much…

The other day my eight year old son came home and told me he'd learned the N-word. 

I stopped whatever I was doing. I froze. I found myself getting angry, blaming people. I gave the word all the power it needed to thrive. 

Eight years old. And while he knew there was such a thing as the N-word, he didn't know what it was or what it meant. All he knew was that it was off limits. Now he'd overheard it, from a kindergartner, of all things. 

He was shy about it, unsure, his eyes wide. He hadn’t said it right, hadn’t wanted to say it at all. I asked all the wrong questions. Where did you hear this? Who said that? I looked at my wife, like, How did this happen? That we were in our kitchen and he should’ve been telling me about a game of tag, or even freaking Minecraft. Instead, this precocious, beyond-his-years kid, was asking me about the N-word.

My skin lit up. My breath caught short. Of all the talks I’ve had with this kid, about any and everything, from Coronavirus to Trump to more recently the Capitol riots, this was the one I’d secretly wanted most to avoid. Like so many other white people, I thought (hoped) that because we weren’t racist, because we didn't use words like that, well, he would never encounter it.

I know, I know...

It wasn't that we had never talked race before. But now, as he asked me about this terrible word, I could only cringe. I imagined him saying it, unknowingly, just because it was a bad word. Last year, pre-Covid, back in first grade when he learned the F-bomb it was like some sort of secret power he held in his mind. 

But this word is different. It’s heavier. It’s…

…That kid in the woods when I was five

…That dude at the park who looked around before he told a joke

…The old man when we cut through his yard to play ball

…The kid in the rich neighborhood when he saw my dad’s van as I was getting dropped off

How could I expect my son to magically understand the power of this word?

I couldn't. Instead, I let him watch me stammer and stutter and nearly scold him on how he was never, ever to use that word under any circumstance. 

And I could tell he wanted to know why. This kid who once told me he wanted to learn every word. Why was this bad word different than other bad words?

As adults, or parents, I think sometimes we assume our kids know stuff we take for granted. But again, I can't expect my kid to somehow just get it. To understand exactly how horrible this word is, to grasp the back breaking weight of it. Because it's not just a bad word, it's... much uglier than that. It carries a history that many of us wish to forget. 

But we can't forget. Because it's still there, on the tip of a kindergartner's tongue. 

And while trying to raise a kid without that kind of hate or ignorance, it's been easy to pretend none of it exists. When we’d discussed the Civil War, we'd touched on slavery as this awful thing in the past. But was that enough? To explain that word? Why it still lingers?

We hear all the time about black father’s having the talk with their sons. And that’s devastating. From that context, I'm lucky. Here I'm worried about my kid using a word that is off limits when some parents are having life and death discussions. 

Yet at the same time can I honestly look at this little white kid before me and tell him racism was something in the past? Pretend it doesn't exist? I thought I could, hoped I could. 

But…

…A coworker, with a nudge, when it was just him and me in the van

…That guy at work who said I only hang around ------s

…A friend of a friend’s father, at the dinner table

I can’t.

And later that night, in bed after I had some time to think about it, I could only try to explain. To help him understand what has happened and how that word came to be. I could only tell him what I've witnessed. The damage a word can cause. 

I haven't felt it, not like my friends have. But I’ve been close enough to its hurt, the tears, the anger and rage it carries. I’ve watched it hit my friends full on. I've seen their reactions. I've heard my friends use it in an attempt to take the word back, in songs when it was reclaimed and rearranged.  

From there, we talked about hatred and atrocities. We talked about the Holocaust, about Hitler and what he he'd done to the Jewish people.

Then we talked about slavery. We talked about all men being created equal. We talked owning humans, their ancestry. We talked segregation, Jim Crow, and Ruby Bridges. What it must have felt like when she walked into school each day, that word being slung at her like a brick.

Imagine how that felt?

It was a lot for an eight year old. But I realized by shying away from it, I’d only delayed the inevitable. I thought since I didn’t talk like that it would be enough.

But it wasn’t enough.

Sure, I’d shielded him from that word, just as I’d shielded him from violence. But now it’s here, in our kitchen. It’s time to talk. To listen. To try and understand and go forth and do the best he can for the world around him. To try and be the solution.

Damn,  

I need to take my own advice.

 

Back Up and Running

My son and I like to roughhouse. We love playing football at the field at the end of our street, which lately always seems to turn into some sort of Braveheart battle scene. We play basketball. I go hiking in the woods with my dogs. We ride bikes, climb trees, wrestle. I’m pretty much his tackling dummy/stunt guy. Everything he wants to do, I’m game.

But… my back.

At forty-five, I guess I might need to slow down a bit. But I tweaked my back over the holidays (could’ve been the street hockey goal he got for Christmas). I never stopped doing what we do, until I couldn’t do what we do.

I gave it a day, then two. By day three it was still bad. I couldn’t walk or sleep, and my posture was crooked. My wife, a lady I watched give birth to a child without the help of any epidural or medicine at all, was hardly sympathetic to my whining. The next day I called the physical therapist.

My appointment was three days out, so by the time I walked up the street, feeling darn good about magical healing powers I might add, I was considering cancelling altogether.

I mean, this stuff was for old people, right? Ladies in walkers, old men with new hips, that sort of thing. I was only a bit sore, at least until I coughed and almost cried.

The therapist welcomed me in. We’ll call her Tara. Before I could tell her I thought it all might be a waste of time, Tara pointed out the way I was slumped to the side—which I totally thought I wasn’t doing.

She looked me over, and to my horror didn’t laugh me out. Didn’t tell me to go run off with the young bucks. Nope, she asked me to lie down. She looked me over. I kept on about how I was fine. Tara said she had to get “Jim” because he was a strong guy.

Odd, I remember thinking. Why would she need a strong guy?

Before I could think much more about it, Jim walked in. A barrel chested guy with broad shoulders and a penchant for rolling his neck, he looked me up and down holding back a smirk. He told me lie back and relax and grab the sides of the bed, as he began admiring my shoes. He straightened my legs out, as I sat back and laughed.

Oh, okay, I laughed, telling him all the silly stuff my son and I do together, I mean, you know how--WHAT IN THE WORLD DID YOU JUST DO TO ME?

Jim yanked my leg with the force one might use to start a lawn mower. Something clicked, and after my initial shock, I noticed and immediate difference. “That ought do it but maybe we should do one more,” he said, a wild look in his eyes.

I walked out with a second appointment. I was feeling like an old man. I mean, my back was significantly better but gone were those awesome days in my twenties when I’d hurt myself and wake up the next day good as new.

But I’m on the mend. Just no more hoisting my kid up on my shoulders. And I’m not ready to give up Braveheart football or street hockey or much of anything else. No way. I’m armed with new muscle activating techniques, some youtube stretches and strengthening exercises. I mean, as I’m writing this, I feel ready to go...

To my next appointment.

A Few Things...

 

Go back to any post on this blog in 2013 and it’s easy to see my kid is my world. So what happens when a new baby comes along? Well, I’m supposed to say my world has evolved And it has. But…

It’s different.

Of course I love the new baby. Don’t be silly. But it’s like I’ve entered this strange new place where it’s now baby world and kid world. We have jibber jabbering and baby talk in one room and a boy whose whole life has changed way too much in one year in the other.

I mean, not only does my kid (and everyone) have this Covid thing endure, with school shutting down last spring and now this hybrid stuff without friends. Toss in a baby and the new dynamics of our family and well, we're off to a rocky start.   

Again, I don’t claim this problem as ours alone. It’s not original. But I don't write about everyone's experiences, I write about my own. And this is new to me and it’s no easy adjustment.

My son loves his new sister. He’s great with her. They play and he’s already deemed her a “princess warrior.”

But, well, babies cry. And they need lots of attention. Again, nothing new here but we’re talking about a seven year-old who’s emotional state isn’t always solid ground as he’s trying to navigate the world’s many problems. 

And so sometimes, when the baby is crying and it’s getting harder and harder to control our son’s downtime from technology our lives now depend on, as we work to figure out when it’s okay to play games or do schoolwork or otherwise zone out and just look at pictures he’s taken on his digital camera, it can get dicey to say the least. And I’m working from home in a laundry room, trying to work a day job, write sometimes, sell books at others while my wife is exhausted from going back to school and breastfeeding and being the bad guy who gets on our son about school work to the point I almost seems like my son and my wife’s relationship is just one more casualty of this stupid year in Covid...

It can be exhausting, you know?

So uhh… How do you fix this?

You don’t, that’s how. You realize you’re with the people you love most in the world and it’s best if you just look at the bright side because otherwise you’re not doing anyone any favors here, especially a new born baby.

So here we are, in this new, bizarre, hybrid, online, work-from-home environment. We have a baby. We have a kid who only goes to school a couple of times a week. We are so far removed from our lives only just one year ago that it’s hard to fathom.

But…

The other night, my son and I were at the dinner table. He was moving pasta around on his plate and we were playing chess (hey, don’t knock the dinner habits, at this point it’s survival). I had the baby sitting on the table with us and he was making faces at her, trying to get her to laugh. At four months, she’ll giggle and smile occasionally, try to tell us something in baby speak.

But then…

She started laughing. Like, real, belly laughs. Simon kept on with the faces and she was hiccupping and giggling up a storm, just filling up the house with the healing power of baby.

After all the fights we’d had lately, all the family arguments and the adjustments to having this new life form in our house, it was a moment I’ll never forget.

Seriously, these little moments are what it takes to keep me going. We have our health, our house, each other. I can complain about everything else but what does it matter?

For a few moments I was filled with enough joy to keep plugging along. To remember what is important. Christmas was small this year, a few yard visits with grandparents, a few neighborly hellos and a house full of warmth and cookies. Just a few of everything...

But that laugh. Simon’s face. Things may have fell off some from where we were but it’s proof we can get it all back. We can be happy together.

We can make it.

 

Bella the Beast

 

The first baby napped. A little bit of playtime in the morning then boom, nap. Up for lunch then he snoozed through most of the afternoon. He napped before bed. He was regular. Life was regular.

This time around. Nothing is regular.

She’s a sweet little girl, I think. When she wakes up, she’s bright eyed and looking around, the trees really get her attention. The world is a special place, and she’s loving the view.

But after five, ten, fifteen minutes max and her brow wrinkles. Her color turns from a milky white to a deep crimson. The lip juts out and...

Three…

Two…

One…

The beast is here.

The beast will claw out your eardrums with her seek-and-destroy screams. She will slap you into submission. She will shriek, wail, pause to fill the lungs before she roars again. You don’t want to be short a bottle or breast when this thing is hungry.

She is just beginning to coo and jabber but blink and these little moments vanish. Usually, it comes with a smile, enough to melt your heart until she destroys a diaper on your lap. And then the beast returns with a vengeance.

When she sleeps, we tip around the house like cat burglars. Any creak on the floor and we exchange wide eyed looks, scowls, everyone ready to turn on one another in an instant. In the case our seven year old forgets the little beast is sleeping and comes rushing in flushed and loud—you know, being a seven year old—my wife and I lunge for him, a single finger to our lips. Shhhh!”

She’s not quite two months old and seems to realize her absolute power over us. She can change plans on a dime. She can get what she wants. All she has to do is threaten to blow and she will be returned to Mom’s arms, ready to nurse.

I know things will change. I’ll go back to work. We’ll all go out into the world again. Maybe we’ll look back at this time together and remember the good moments. The soft coos and the rare smiles. The impromptu walks with my seven year old on my lunch breaks. This very easy morning commute down the hallway. My open window, the birds’ morning songs and the slight breeze in the fall leaves. The…

Oh, baby’s crying. Gotta run!

This Time

I'll start with the obvious: Pregnancy is a woman’s job, through and through. It's not for guys, it looks... hard. Anyway, I'm lucky to be married to an amazing woman. Let me explain.

So here we where, at the end of this baby making process. We had a due by date and everything was sort of on standby. My in-laws drove down to hang with our seven year old and the plan was to play the waiting game.

We didn’t wait long.

While I’m working from home, my wife was still going to school to teach online. (Read that again if you have to, it’s the subject for an entirely different blog post)

Anyway, the day after my in-laws arrived, my wife went to work and I logged on. At lunch, I took for a quick dog walk. I returned to find my mother in-law waiting outside. She said something like, “Two things…First…”

She leads with the news of the Fed Ex man, something about a damaged package. And then, “Oh, and Anne is coming home. She’s having contractions.”

I look up. “Um, what.”

Sure, I knew we were at the any-day-now stage, but that day is today?

Yep, my wife pulls into the driveway, and this time, unlike the other time, she’s struggling.

The first time she was all, no lets’ wait. Now she’s ready. Our seven year old watches on as his mother, hunched over and wincing, takes deep breaths. You know, contractions.

There’s no time to wait. We get in the car. We say a tearful goodbye. It’s all too weird, this second time around. The first time I was a mess, worried. This time I was a mess worried, but also leaving one kid to go have another. I know, people do it all the time, but we’ve been seven years as an only child family. It’s going to take some shifting.

And shift I did. We drove to the hospital, did the whole Covid check in thing, and whisked right up the elevator to the birthing center.

Bits and pieces come back to me. Of last time. While my wife is deep breathing, my mind is roaming, The little wooden stork’s the same, the floors are a bit more scuffed. No one in the waiting room. Oh look they redid the windows…

“Honey, focus.”

Right.

We ring the bell. We wait. I offer my wife a seat but she can’t sit. Honestly she's not doing so hot standing up, either. The last time—yep, everything will get compared to last time—she seemed far more comfortable as we waited in one room, then after a while moved to another. This time we're going to be lucky to make it through the doors.

We ring the bell again.

A nurse comes out. "Hi yes. Um, can you wait a minute. Yeah, we’re getting the room ready."

Seems it’s a busy day in the maternity ward.

We don't wait long. Something in my wife's pale, pallid face must have gotten the point across, because soon the nurse returns and we get in the room as they’re still mopping. My wife doesn’t notice. She locks herself in the bathroom, long enough to where I’m kind of listening for baby wails.

Then, she comes out. They help her into a gown. They ask if she wants an epidural. She nods, her head spinning exorcist style.

More nurses. A doctor. Seven, eight people, including the nice lady still mopping. My wife mentions the epidural again. They do some prodding.

“No time, girl. You’re having this baby.”

“Oh,” I perk up. If there’s ever a time for a man to feel helpless, it’s in the delivery room. Last time it was slower. Or maybe time smoothed the edges so it seemed that way. But last time I hung out, watched it happen. This time my wife is sweating, writhing around, looking for a shot of whiskey. We might as well be in a covered wagon because this baby is coming right now.

“That’s it. Push.”

And then, forty-five minutes after we walk through the doors. Baby.

A baby girl arrives in the world. She’s purple and messy and connected by a cord that supplies everything she’s needed up until right…now. It’s one of those all too surreal moments in life where you realize just how much matters and how little control you have over anything.

And people might say things are a mess right now. But it’s a good time to have a baby. We’re together, all of us. One, bigger, happy family. Stay tuned. This ought to be fun...

Getting Closer

Well, here we go. In a month, give or take, a little girl is coming into our lives. Well, my son’s life, my life, pretty sure she’s been in my wife’s life, bouncing around all this time now.

But as the baby room comes along and I find myself hanging flowery things, and the baby seat is ready and waiting, it’s clear this is getting real—fast. We bought a minivan. A minivan. Us, although I will say it’s plenty roomy and with the seats down I can get my bike in there pretty easily. But, where was I. Oh yes.

A girl.

My life is a blur of Nerf darts and tree forts. And yes, who is to say a girl can’t partake in all of that, but for a while this thing is going to be a baby. Meaning nap times and lullabies, and "Please don’t shoot me in the ear while I’m working!”

Sorry.

This chaotic 2020 has been one for the ages. But it hasn’t been all bad. I mean, I’m fortunate enough to hang onto my job and work from home. We’re having a baby! I’ve had two books published this year. And while those dreams of book signings and brick and mortar stores have gone the way of handshakes and hugs, who’s to say it won’t happen down the road.

My son is ready to go back to school, but that will have to wait. As the Covid-19 cases continue to climb, he’ll be remote for a while. Sure, he’s bummed, but it’s for the best. We’ll all be here, under one roof, all day, all night, living the dream.

So hey. People are fighting for their lives out there. People are getting sick. People are losing their minds. But people are also out there well, having babies.

You can’t make this stuff up. All you can do is enjoy it.

Oh Boy, Oh Boy. It's a Girl!

Well, here go again. Older, wiser, armed with a vast arsenal of parenting knowledge. 

Okay, maybe just older. 

Back in January, when my wife first mentioned she might be pregnant, I was working on edits and I’ll admit, my mind wasn’t completely in the conversation. Hey, it wasn’t my fault. Things were finally taking off. 2020 was looking to be the year. I’d signed a book contract. I was finally getting published. Something I've been dreaming about for nearly a decade.

So… baby? My mind was miles away. A book baby. Yeah, I've been writing and rewriting then editing... after all that rejection, then rewriting and editing all over again, well,it is almost like carrying a baby. Pretty much the same thing...

A few weeks later she said it again. Only, by then she'd scheduled an appointment and was chucking out cash for the early learning center to hold a spot for the fall. Now she had my attention. "Wait, do you mean to tell me...? You're pregnant? Like a… with a human?" I made a rocking motion with my arms. “You mean like a baby baby?”

Really, it's amazing my wife is still with me. 

Anyway, so the day before my novel came out, you know, the big dream and all, we took a trip to the women’s center, where I sat back, sort of looking at my wife like, this is cute. 

"Remember doing this?" I said, thinking back to my wide-eyed self. So terrified about the prospect of fathering human life. What I didn’t say was, Remember doing this when you were really pregnant? Because I’m not going to lie, she’d refused to by a store-bought pregnancy test so I really didn’t believe this was actually happening. But dumb as I am, and I’m dumb, like, brew-decaffeinated-coffee-in-the-morning-by-mistake kind of dumb, I’m still smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.  

So anyway, there we were, heading down the halls we walked nearly eight years ago, back when I started this blog. I took my seat, set my hands behind my head and got comfortable, hoping the nice lady would let her down easy.

Lights out. Show time. The lady wiped the gunk on my wife’s tummy and I turned to the screen and what’s that? That little peanut is moving.

So fast forward. The book came out, there’s a major pandemic going on. I got a little spot on my face and turns out, I had to go to the doctor’s to have it removed (2020 is still my year, dammit, but it’s kind of kicking my tail). And it just so happened this was on the same day my wife went to find out if this little surprise baby is a boy or a girl. So my son went with her, which was kind of cool. 

And t’s a girl. A girl. And considering my son filled up the bathtub with sticks the other day, I’m really okay with that.

Sure, I’m hitting my mid-forties, and I’m okay with that too.If anything, being a parent has taught me patience above all else. And what else to I have to do besides raise kids who make me feel like a kid again? To laugh at silly jokes, tell silly stories and watch silly movies? Of course, parenthood comes with battles and issues and all sorts of problems I could never dream up all by myself, but you know what, 2020 is proof that nothing is guaranteed, the world has a way of throwing you for a loop, so when things happen, like Covid-19, skin cancer, global instability, and mass confusion, you take the surprise news of a surprise little girl coming into your life for exactly what it is: a gift.

Hey I wrote a book!

You’ve probably wondered where I’ve been. No? Well, anyway, I’ve been working on some novels, and now one of them has been released into the wild.

It’s hard to believe the day has come. For years I’ve been writing and editing and writing more. But now, it’s here, on Tuesday my debut novel, JUSTICE IN A BOTTLE was released and it’s a dream come true.

This is shaping up to be quite a crazy year for sure. More on that later, but for now, I can sit back and enjoy all my success. No again? You mean, I have to like, market this thing? Release parties and book signings and bask in the spotlight? Ugh. Not my style. It’s so much easier to sit behind a desk and write stories.

But it’s happening. As an indie author, it’s up to me to spread the word, so I’m trying to do that, here, like right now to you. Check out my book, if you want to, you don’t have to, but here are some links just in case.

Thanks!


Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/Justice-Bottle-Pete-Fanning/dp/1733908587


Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/justice-in-a-bottle-pete-fanning/1134550612

The Coach

I walk into the gym at 5:29, having changed clothes in my car after a long day at work then the slog of a commute to the local Y. Not for the first time I second guess my decision to coach youth basketball—I’ve been skittish since Meet the Coach pizza night a few weeks ago.

Now, as I walk in, clutching a clipboard of all things, the freshly opened Walmart whistle around my neck, I take inventory of the group.

Fourteen of them. All between the ages of 5-7. Everyone with a basketball, launching it at the goal, balls ricocheting every direction. I realize the clipboard will come in handy for banging against my head.

“Hey guys,” I start. No one looks. I have grand plans for these guys. I have a speech, somewhere, in the recesses of my head, about hard work and discipline. Fundamentals and the results of drills and routines. But that will have to wait, because two kids are licking the floor.

I clear my throat. “Over here, Suns.”

The Suns, our team name. It seems fitting because this whole thing is about to crash and burn. Even my own kid isn’t paying attention. In fact, he may just be the worst of the lot because unlike the others, he knows my true colors. He knows I'm not, ahem, exactly Mr. Disciplinarian.

I reintroduce myself, trying not to stare because some of the kids are almost rabid. One monster is eating Skittles by the handful, a rainbow of color around the lips, a glittering, Apocalypse Now sort of craze in his eyes. Two twins—because of course I’d get twins—are tumbling around the court with cones on their heads. Cones my wife brought for dribbling drills. The only dribbling is the line of spit flowing from Skittle Kid’s mouth.

“Okay, um. Let’s run some layups. Or better yet, just run.”

I line them up. Or, I try to line them up but that would take four men on horseback and a couple of Australian Shepard’s. But eventually I get them to one side of the gym. All have a basketball and no intention of dribbling it. In fact, they look like foot soldiers about to charge a battlefield.

I get out my whistle, give it a little spurt, and they erupt.

They come in waves, screaming, laughing, shouting, tripping and pouting. I’m pulled one way because Will took my ball, then the other because, Is it time to shoot yet? Someone unties my shoe, I’m kicked in the leg then spun around. I yank my arms free from all the little reaching hands because I’ve only just finished the two-hour Appropriate Touching video and there are some clear violations taking place.

I blow the whistle again, then again, desperately, like a traffic cop in Times Square until for the most part they get lined up again, minus the kid licking the wall.

I check the clock. It’s 5:34.

There’s no way. I can’t survive this. Practices. Games. Team pictures. A quick glance at my wife, a second grade teacher, who either cannot or refuses to hide her smirking.

“Let’s take a water break.”

Only they don’t want water. These kids are out for blood.

We regroup. Mia, the only girl on our team makes a layup. I tell her that was great and try to coax her back to the line. “Who’s nex—"

She’s crying. Head down and sobbing. I rush over to her. I’m not used to little girls, but this one is devastated. I look over to her mother, who’s on the phone and making the most of her reprieve.

“Would you like, would you like another turn?”

In a blink Mia breaks free and skips to the front of the line, where she grabs the ball and winks—I swear she winks—then flits to the goal.

A teaching moment for Mia. She's learned the coach is a sucker.

Eventually I corral them. I teach proper form, the bounce pass. A basketball hits my head. We practice dribbling. We take another water break. We huddle up, and I look over the panting faces. This is my team, huddled and squirming, reeking of sugar and feet, looking to me to lead them through the season. And so I set my hand out and they set their little hands out.

“Suns on three. Ready?”

They all nod.

“One…”

“Suns!”