Hi. It’s been awhile. Mostly because my life has been a goddamned shit show for the last 9 months, so finding the motivation (let alone the time) to write has been impossible. Not that I need to justify it to anyone, but here’s a quick rundown of what’s happened:

-I changed jobs. Not because I wanted to, but because I got demoted and my pay was slashed for a very unjustified reason. I won’t get into it here, but needless to say I’m still extremely bitter towards the company I used to work for because this was the catalyst for the upheaval of our entire lives for literally no good reason. Has some good come of it? Absolutely. I now work in a job I love for a company that really cares for its employees. Truly. I feel great knowing my company’s values align with mine and they back it up with actions. But holy hell I got career-slapped to the point that the only good way through it was to push the eject button. On everything.

-The job change required us to move because the commute from where we were living was 2 hours minimum each way. Sometimes over 3. Not sustainable at all. So after working insanely hard over the last 4 years to establish roots we had to rip most of them up and start over again. Has some good come of it? Absolutely. We made a small fortune on the sale of our house and my new company paid for nearly every aspect of our move. So we used some of the profit to pay off all our consumer debt and start a real family savings, which has allowed us to breathe easier and stop living paycheck to paycheck. Kind of like real adulting. And we now live in a really rad city that’s still a day trip from our old friends, so it’s not like we’re starting from scratch again. And we’re establishing new friends, with 2 other families on our street with kids roughly the same age as T.

-The house had some major unforeseen issues. It was a complete flip and the flippers did a decent job. Mostly. They added a bathroom on their own upstairs and did such a shit job that we had water leaking in the walls from the sink, shower, and toilet drains for 10 straight days after we moved in. So we spent 36 days in hotels and Airbnbs while undertaking a $30,000 construction project. My insurance company paid for most of it but it was the last thing we needed at the worst possible time. And right in the middle of it:

-Our beautiful baby daughter was born. We’ll call her J on this blog. J was born 4 weeks early on her own accord with a birth story that’s as chaotic as it is magnificent. You’ll hear more on that later, but she’s 8 weeks old now and sleeping on me in the Boba Wrap as I type. My new company gave me 6 straight weeks of fully-paid paternity leave so I got to spend way more time than I ever thought I would with her in the first critical weeks of her life. She’s a goddamned jewel and a shining light through this very heavy fog.

All of these things happened in the span of 9 months. And right now my emotional and physical states are a fucking wreck. I’m typing this standing up with my laptop on my son’s dresser. He’s playing imaginary games with his favorite stuffies while J sleeps on my chest. T has been up sine 6:30am and we’re coming off a rough night with J to the point that a Starbucks Venti Cold Brew is barely propping me up. And yet I feel like I shouldn’t complain because my wife got even less sleep than I did. Plus, this is what newborns do and we definitely signed up for this with eyes wide open.

The house is a mess because we still haven’t finished unpacking, and we’re about to stay in a hotel for 2 days while some very sophisticated equipment tries to rid the house of cigarette smoke smell once and for all. This will make 38 days out of the last 60 that we’ve spent in a hotel or Airbnb for home fixes. We’ve cooked maybe 10 total meals in our new home and my blood pressure is through the roof because it’s really hard to eat fucking salad every day when you’re barely hanging on by a thread. I’m not proud of McDonald’s and Slurpees at midnight after a 19-hour day in the NICU, but goddamnit sometimes it’s the best you can do. 

I’m over all of it and feel like crying as I desperately yearn for things to go back to “normal”, yet because so much has changed I have no idea what the new normal looks like. It’s absolutely true that the only way out is through and that we’re on the other side of all the shit. But it’s still really, really hard, even with the incredible support of family and friends.

OK I think I’ve vomited enough words for now. Just enough to make sure my blog didn’t get left behind in the ashes of my former life. I think there’s more coffee hiding around here somewhere…..

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.

Picture the scene. I arrive home from work, unlock the front door, and step inside. Immediately I hear the frustrated cry of my 2-1/2 year old son as I see him running toward me with sadness on his face and tears in his eyes. Mom isn’t home and Grandpa looks on, despairingly, from a distance. “He just woke up from a nap and started crying, not sure what’s wrong,” he says.

It’s clear that all the usual remedies have failed, and I know Grandpa has tried his hardest. My son isn’t crying hard, but certainly crying enough for us to not understand what he’s trying to say. I pick him up and offer the usuals: Snack? Water? Toys? How’s the diaper doing? It needs to be changed but I know he’ll have none of it right now. The last thing we both need is a dirty diaper battle on top of this.

We retreat upstairs to his room, one of his comfort spaces. I still can’t understand what he’s saying but I see that look of desperation and in his eyes. “Help me,” his eyes tell me, fighting back panic. “Please figure out what’s wrong and fix it.” I’ve seen this look before, and briefly my mind flashes back to the times when he was just an infant and all I could do was meet his eyes with panic of my own. I certainly had no idea what to do back then so we both learned together the hard way.

But this time is different. I’ve learned and grown as a parent. “Do you want a hug?” I ask softly. I hear a murmur through the sniffling that sounds like a yes. So standing there in the center of his room, with him still in my arms, I hold him close, his cheek to my chest. With one frail arm wrapped around my neck and one around my side, I start slowly rocking back and forth, just like bedtime when he was younger. No words, no songs, just the gentle rocking he’s known his entire life.

Slowly, I feel him relax, his breathing calmer, tears no more. He woke up with some pretty big and scary emotions for his little self. Being a toddler is hard enough when things are going well, let alone when these giant invisible forces take over your mind and body. Did he want his usual snack and water after waking up from a nap? Absolutely. But his mood jammed him up with a vengeance, and he didn’t know how to navigate those dark waters.

He knows now that I can be his boat, gently rocking in the waves, soft warm blanket around him, guiding him to shore with a calm yet bright light showing the way.

We had to euthanize Sandy, our sweet, beautiful, 8-year-old family dog this week. She had cancer. It probably started in her abdomen or bladder and rapidly spread to her lungs. When she was diagnosed the vet said she had 6-8 weeks to live. She made it a little over 2 before we did the right thing and said our goodbyes. She was a wonderful companion and friend, not only to my wife and I but to our son as well. She loved him dearly and they grew on each other. Lately, “I love Sandy” would spring forth from my son’s mouth along with some gentle hugs. A Boy and His Dog indeed.

As hard as it was for us to go through this, my wife and I made a conscious effort to guide my 2-1/2 year old son through it as well. This required much more strength than I ever thought I had, but I wanted my son to understand what was happening and know that we were here for him. Here’s what else I wanted him to know:

The truth. We tried very hard to explain to him exactly what was happening so he wouldn’t feel blindsided later. I also wanted him “Sandy is very sick and in pain. Mommy and Daddy are going to take her to the vet and say goodbye. She is going to be euthanized and die so she won’t hurt anymore. She won’t be coming back home.”

It’s OK to be sad and cry. “Mommy and Daddy are sad,” was the observation repeated quite a bit over the past 2 weeks. “Yes, we are.”

Emotions are scary. It’s OK to work through them however you need to. We will be patient, loving, and understanding as you work through your feelings and realize what’s happening.

We help each other through the bad times. As a family we’re all in this together and we need each other to get through it.

Our pets are family. When they hurt, we hurt. We love them like we love each other.

We must do the right thing for our loved ones even if it hurts us. Euthanasia is a gift we can give the animals we love. We surely will experience pain, grief, and loss, but this is the right thing to do when our pets are faced with suffering.

We will cherish the memories. All the photos, videos, and experiences of the happy times. We will celebrate Sandy’s life in all the happiness and love that it was.

Goodbye my sweet Sandy. We love you.