Inheritance.

I’ve lost the inspiration to write. Hopefully it’s temporary, but everything that’s happening in this country is so stressful that I’m barely keeping my head above water being an adult, let alone a parent and a husband. It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to be spending my vacations truly enjoying time with my son, my weekends relaxing and doing fun things, and my evening shutting off my Work Brain and turning on my Family Brain. Instead, I’m calling my congressional representatives from the base of Hurricane Ridge, on vacation no less. Weekends are for showing up en masse to rallies for Planned Parenthood, Women’s Marches, Pride Parades, Immigrants’ Rights, and trying to move the Sisyphean needle on keeping asylum-seeking families together. Evenings are spent gathering intel and activist strategies through podcasts while accomplishing the bare minimum of chores before collapsing from exhaustion around 11pm.

My 4-1/2-year-old son is with me for all of it, at least when he’s awake. Because if he’s not then I don’t get to spend time with him. There’s too much to do and not enough time to do it. So I try to make the time as high-quality as possible. He knows why we rally for women’s health. He’s cold stood up to a protestor and unflinchingly said “I stand for Planned Parenthood,” without any input from me. He knows I’m referring to him (and a whole bunch of other people) when I wear my Black Lives Matter t-shirt. He knows why we march in the Pride Parades. He’s met many of my LGBTQIA friends and recognizes their humanity. He’s expressed profound, real sadness when I explained to him that children are being taken away from their parents at the border, his empathy shining through as I watch him consider how he would feel if he were separated from us. Again, all completely unprompted.

Parenting is hard. I anticipated some (but not all) of the growing pains of being a first-time parent. You know, the standard stuff. Everything from the chronic lack of sleep with infants to the frustrating, maddening boundary-pushing sociopathy of toddlers. I knew I would have to figure out how to help him navigate his complex racial identity in a bleakly racist world. But I never anticipated all this. I never anticipated that my generation and the generations before me would be gleefully setting fire to the world. That the scorched, salted earth my son will inherit may be appreciably worse than what I have. That I’ll have to explain to him how to stay safe when angry white men spray bullets all over his school. That the one parenting constant – that all generations strive to ensure better lives for the generations that follow – is a myth steeped in white supremacy.

I don’t know where we go from here, and I know I can’t protect him from all of it. My one hope is that he finds the strength to bring his generation together and fix this; to succeed where we have clearly failed. But for now, one step at a time I guess. There are signs to make, snacks to pack, and people to meet at the next rally. 

Onward.

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Ten Memorable Parenting Moments of 2017

Let’s face it – 2017 has been a shit year. So much so that it’s been incredibly difficult to find the inspiration to write much here. But, as with most New Year’s Eves, it’s good to reflect back on some better moments before we give this year the middle finger and turn the page. So in the spirit of the season here are ten of my top parenting moments of the year, in no particular order:

1) Freedom From Diapers (Mostly). Do you hear that? It’s the angels of the heavens singing the Hallelujah Chorus!! This has been the year of real potty independence. And while we’re still not 100% there (I’m convinced he won’t poop in the toilet until he’s 37), he’s a rock star with peeing and keeping his overnight diapers dry. Sidenote: I’m fairly positive I never thought I would think this sentence, let alone write it for public viewing. Ah, parenting. Oh, and yet another shoutout to our cloth diapers for being rock solid for over 4 straight years now. Honorable mention to our washer and dryer for surviving semi-industrial usage for that same time. Y’all are the real deal.

2) Travelin’ Man. As you may or may not know, we were fortunate enough to live in The Netherlands for half of this year. And we traveled. A lot. Our son was a friggin’ road warrior, surviving 9-hour flights, drives of 10, 14, and 18-1/2 hours, and being thrown into a brand new society and culture. All at the tender age of 3 where he was just learning to speak his native language, let alone deal with a completely new one. While he may not remember everything (or anything) from our time there, I can already tell that the experience changed him forever.

3) Roger the Rabbit’s European Adventures. Along the same lines, T’s favorite stuffed animal, Roger the Rabbit, went everywhere with us – from riding the bus in Rome to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris to relaxing in a beach house in Sweden. If you’re on Instagram (@comma.splice) I have a decent amount of photos of T and Roger on their adventures together. This rabbit has seen more of the world than most children!

4) The Colliding Hugs. Every day I come home from work he does this awesome thing where he’ll say my name (“Daddy”) and start running toward me. The faster he gets the faster and louder he says my name until WHAM! he collides with my midsection and wraps his arms around me for a giant hug. This will never, EVER get old. Can I just be greeted like this everywhere I go?

5) School Days. One of the hardest things for me has been realizing that I can’t teach him everything he’ll need to know to survive in the world; I just don’t have the capacity. So watching him develop further and really like going to preschool has been immensely satisfying. Until he comes home with a cold picked up from some other snotty-nosed, drool-faced kid and gives it to ALL. OF. US. Thanks, drooly-face.

6) Building Blocks and Lego Sets. We’re doing LEGO now!! And not just the Duplo stuff, but real, serious, “Age 5-12” sets! I’m not sure who gets more excited by them, me or him, but they’ve really captured his imagination and attention span, all while advancing his fine motor skills and spatial abilities. And the best part? This is only going to get more awesome over time!

7) Music Man. If Lego make me giddy, then music makes me absolutely ecstatic. He’s strumming the guitar, making up songs, singing on pitch, exploring his new keyboard, my trumpet and drums, and memorizing hooks from songs by bands such as Junius, Nirvana, and Hole. We’re also playing a lot of “Song Like/Do Not Like”, which is how I know he likes certain songs by some complex bands like Lamb of God, Opeth, Static X, and Gojira. Oh, and he’s really into Skrillex and Glitch Mob, so we have an EDM thing going too. I’m fairly certain he’s in rarified 4-year-old air in terms of musical palette. Quick, someone get me some Frank Zappa!

8) Friendship. He’s got genuine friends! Partners in crime, even! On the surface, it’s not surprising since he’s got all of the extrovert genes of me and my wife combined then multiplied by 5. But I was a socially awkward kid and sometimes a barely functioning adult in social situations, so it’s been wonderful to see him reach out and connect with others. Oh, and not be a dick to them, too. That’s important.

9) Family Connection. One of our best memories of Europe was driving to Sweden to visit my sister-in-law and her beautiful family. Not only did T get to see his Swedish cousins for the first time (one of which may as well be his doppelgänger), but this was the first time my father-in-law was with all four of his grandchildren at the same time. A moment that would make Hallmark jealous.

10) Reading Rainbows He’s always loved books, but Now. He. Can. READ. THEM!!!! He’s actively spelling words, sounding them out, and putting it all together. This was the official first book, and he read it all the way through!!! Watching his mind work and actually hearing the connection turn into words is one of the most amazing experiences for me. It’s literally indescribable.

And with that, we look ahead to 2018, which will no doubt be big year in a lot of ways.

Adios, 2017!!

Four.

My Baby Boy,

What a year. I know every year is different, but this year has been an indescribable ride. You’ve grown and changed so much it’s nearly impossible to put to words, but I’ll try and at least cover the highlights. You’ve rolled with me on some very big life changes – living half the year in the Netherlands, starting pre-school TWICE (once in Dutch even!!), seeing some of your Swedish cousins for the very first time, riding your bike everywhere, creating and singing your very first song, earning your “stripes” in the bathroom (including stops on the side of the highway in Switzerland, Italy, and the Netherlands!), and my personal favorite – communication. You are so articulate in telling me what you want and what you don’t want. And sometimes that leads to battles.

Oh, the battles, my son. Things haven’t been all roses, and there’s been a lot of tears shed this past year by both you and me. We’re learning in this together, and I know I still have a lot of work to do, so thank you for growing with me, being patient with me, and forgiving me for my mistakes. There are few things better than a post-battle hug through a light fog of tears. Promise me that no matter what happens we will always come back together like this. Your spirit is so strong, bright, and resilent that in a few ways I’m envious. I absolutely want you to carry that spirit with you for your entire life, and from what I can see the fire in your heart grows bigger every day.

You really are going to do great things one day, Trenton. It’s impossible to know right now what those things are, but with the pure joy and passion you have for life your possibilities are endless.

Happy Birthday, and I love you.

Black Lives Matter / The End of My White Fatherhood

As I am challenged to keep improving and become a better parent to my mixed-race son, I’ve had to face the death of a very, very large part of my parenting: the White Parent. Let me explain:

All parents have worries and concerns about sending their children out into the world. White Parents don’t have to worry about their child being bullied, hurt, or killed because of their skin color.

All parents want their children to succeed in school. White Parents don’t have to worry about their child being passed over for opportunities or being labeled a “troublemaker” because of implicit racial bias.

All parents want their child to get a great job. White Parents don’t have to worry about their child being passed over for a great job opportunity or being paid substantially lower because of implicit racial bias.

All parents want their children to be safe. White Parents don’t have to worry about their child being killed by police at an alarming rate.

These are not things I worried about growing up and going through school. And as far as I know my parents didn’t worry about them either. The advice given to me was standard for white suburban America: “Work hard and you can achieve anything”; “Stay out of trouble and you’ll be fine”. And while my experiences (and those of my family) have proven that advice sound, I know enough now to worry that the same advice will not hold true for my son.

I must admit I was warned. Family members of mine expressed concern and urged me not to marry interracially because they didn’t want to see me go through hardships or have a child of mine (and theirs) endure them as well. But the heart wants what it wants, and to reject love out of fear of hardship is poor advice at best. So here I am, a white father but no longer a White Parent. Worrying and just shaking my head are not the examples I wish to set for my son.

What’s important is that my child knows not only that his life matters to me, but that the lives of children and adults like him matter to me as well. That I am not content to turn a blind eye to injustice and “hope” that he is spared because sometimes he can “pass as white”. That I, in the group of the oppressor, will use my advantages to systematically dismantle the barriers of inequality for him and for everyone like him. That I will defend him and reaffirm his and his mother’s worth even when my family members do not. That I will not accept “that’s just the way he/she is” as an excuse for people not doing the work to change. That Black Lives Matter to me, to his mother, and to anyone else we choose to accept as family and friends.

The path forward for my son will be neither straight nor easy. But at least he will know I am there with him in much different ways than I had previously imagined. Onward and upward.

 

Fire Suppression.

“Don’t cry, you’re not a baby, are you?” These words, possibly not verbatim, were uttered to my child on his second day of preschool/day care here in Eindhoven. BY. A. TEACHER. He revealed this to me on our walk to the park after work today as he mentioned he was sad because mommy and daddy weren’t at preschool with him.

What was supposed to be a casual and exciting conversation about how his day went turned into a counterbalance lesson and comfort and support talk. About how everyone feels sad and sometimes people cry when they’re sad and that’s okay. About how mommy and daddy will always come back for him after preschool. About how sometimes thinking of happy thoughts (like being with mommy and daddy) helps us feel better. About how if a teacher tells him this again that he should say that “daddy said it’s okay to cry.”

It took me a few hours, a bike ride, and a generous slice of cake to get past the anguish and sadness I felt for him. As I mentioned in my last post, the kid is doing heroic things all while trying to evolve and mature. Feelings are powerful, overwhelming, and scary, and being in a completely foreign environment with your primary sources of comfort and security removed only amplifies those feelings. Not that I need to validate what he was feeling in any way, but holy shit of course there would be tears!!

As for the teacher, I’m still livid. If we were back at home I’d be camped out in front of the office overnight, primed for a Wolverine-style discussion with the staff as soon as the clock ticked 8:01. But I’m not at home. I’m in a foreign country where I don’t completely understand the culture, language, teaching methods, or societal norms. So unfortunately I have to settle for damage control which, ultimately, will probably happen more often than being able to change the system. And I know the teacher was trying to comfort a scared and upset child who doesn’t know him/her, doesn’t speak the language, and hasn’t adapted to this new environment. But still, I’m livid.

How many times is this exact same message carried to our children? Suck it up, buttercup. Boys don’t cry. It’s not that bad. It could be worse. Quit being a baby. You’re a big boy now. I’ll give you something to cry about. All of these, all of these are creating unhealthy expectations of emotional control and suppression. Everyone has a right to their own feelings sans judgement from others, especially when they are only three years old. And if there’s one thing I know for a fact, it’s that emotional suppression causes scars and dysfunction that are extremely difficult to overcome and heal.

We can do better. We will do better. And we’ll cry if we want to.

Goliath.

[Preface: My family and I are living in the Netherlands for the next 6 months due to my work assignment. I haven’t written anything about it here, but I hope to soon.]

Big day yesterday. Big, big day. The first day of preschool, sort of, anyway. While living here in Eindhoven it was critical that we found ways to expose our son to as much of the culture as possible. So as serendipity would have it there is a preschool/daycare less than a 5 minute walk from where we’re living. So for 3 days a week, 4 hours a day, Trenton goes to Kinderdagverblif’t Parelbosch to play with other children his age and absorb as much of the Dutch culture, language, and education as he can. By the end of this it’s very likely that he’ll speak Dutch better than we will after studying it daily for over a year.

My mind was racing with worry the night before and the morning of. Other than babysitters and family this is the first time he’s been left without us for so long. And having to do it in an unfamiliar space in a foreign country where he doesn’t speak the language? For 4 hours??? Did he eat enough for breakfast? Will the 1 snack they feed him be enough? What will the snack be? How well will he play with the other children? Have we as parents prepared him enough for this? Will he melt down from the tremendous pressure and separation anxiety?

I cooked him a special breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese, and Mandarin oranges. He ate some of it, but I fretted internally about him not eating enough protein. We made the short walk from the house to Parelbosch mostly with Trenton being carried in mom’s arms. We walked up the stairs and through the door together holding hands. We walked into the room and he made a beeline right for the cars and trucks, us parents only a minor inconvenience sharing the same space while he went straight to the work of play. A quick kiss goodbye, some “I love yous”, and poof, we were gone. No tears, no hugging of legs, nothing. Anticlimactic to say the least. A walk home with no child in tow provided a very surreal feeling.

Kids have a way of surprising you in the most incredible of ways. Aside from some minor struggles from being hungry (not enough breakfast) and a little separation anxiety, he said he had fun! Played with cars and trucks, ate apples for a snack, and went outside with the group to play. We as parents didn’t do him any favors there by forgetting to leave his coat there so he had to borrow one from someone else (hey, we’re rookies at this too). All in all a great day and a huge sigh of relief from me.

I know my job is to prepare him as best I can for all the challenges he will face in the world so he can fearlessly knock them down head on. Even then, he’s doing the heavy lifting here and I am unfathomably proud of him for that. He’s been so brave and resilient for all the struggles of being here – from the 20-hour travel day here to the jet lag and 9-hour time difference to having to endure Daylight Savings Time twice in 3 weeks. This child has proven he is built to slay giants and the next one comes tomorrow.

Go get ’em, kid.

Good Hair

Dip the cup into the water and fill it up. Gently place my palm against his forehead to avoid spilling into his eyes. Slowly pour over his head. Repeat until completely saturated. Add conditioner. Rinse. Add leave-in conditioner. Then, with Dave Wyndorf of Monster Magnet, Joe Duplantier of Gojira, or Devin Townsend of Strapping Young Lad punctuating the background, the ritual starts.

Slowly, methodically, my fingers snake through his curls, catching on knots and tangles. There’s much work to be done tonight since bicycle helmets have their own unique way of adding to the nest of tangle-opolis. And sometimes he’s not as amenable to this 10-minute exercise in patience, so in some ways it feels like the clock is ticking here. Yet I find myself enjoying it. My hands move in seemingly random yet fully intentional patterns. Extract the curls with my fingers, find the knot, slowly yet precisely unwrap the strands. After doing this nearly every bath for at least the past 2 years I no longer need to focus; I can meld the movements and the music into one.

I love everything about his hair. The curious intersection of tight ringlets and loose waves. The thick, gentle knot he’s weaved just behind his left ear from constantly twirling his finger through. That it can turn into this beautiful, voluminous afro when it’s both wet and dry, curls falling gently over his ears and down his forehead. I can only hope he loves his hair as much as I do.

But then it hits me. As much as I want him to take pride in his hair, there are millions of people who haven’t or don’t. People have been scorned, shamed, bullied, beaten, and even killed because of this hair, the roots of its culture, and the illogical and unfounded threat it supposedly represents. Generations of children, women, and men have seen this hair as “unnatural”, as something broken to be “fixed” in order to look pretty, to look human in the eyes of others. Billions of dollars are spent every year on products designed to make this hair – a natural gift – look like “white hair” to avoid being seen as the other, a reject, an outcast.

This is something I’ve never had to live through and not something I want my son to experience. And yet I need to accept that he most probably will, especially if we stay in this little town where we live much longer. This is one of many lessons we will have to teach him about acceptance, being accepted, and loving who you are and from where you come. These lessons may be difficult as I acknowledge the world we live in but above all else he can look to me and his mother for wisdom, guidance, and support.

But even then isn’t it much easier for me to lead by example when I, as a cis white man, am the least likely to be oppressed? Even as his advocate, defender, and protector, will he not eventually turn to me and say, “Dad, you can never understand what it’s like to be me”? And for me to then have to painfully admit that I can’t??? Can I ever be more than a parent, an educator, a safe harbor, and a comforter?

Then a literal splash of water hits my face, preventing me from exploring these real-yet-philosophical depths further. This water is cold which signals the end of bath time. I open the drain, slowly lift my son out of the tub, and wrap a towel around him.

I watch the tiny droplets of water bead up and dangle at the end of his corkscrew curls, unaware neither of the safe space from whence they came nor the cold reality of the hard bathroom floor they will meet when they fall. I pull my son in close and hug him tightly; this is a metaphor for everything.