Steely Dad

by Todd Gottlieb

I’m shooting for that fourth-grade “What I did for summer vacation” paper.

I’ve written many stories on my personal experiences as a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) but I’ve  never actually explained why I decided to become a full-time SAHD. I guess just like Star Wars, I started with Chapter 4 so consider this Chapter 1, the prequel.

SAHDs are becoming a force with which to be reckoned. No, we’re not as ubiquitous as our stay-at-home mom (SAHM) counterparts but nonetheless we are growing and expanding (and not just with regard to our waist line). We have blogs and support groups, and yes, we even have our own conventions. The lobby that represents us is in the making and it won’t be long before we have our own talk-show. Watch out, Oprah!

Dudes become SAHDs for a variety of reasons. Some become SAHDs as a result of circumstances (perhaps they lost their job) or because they realize that going to work just to pay for daycare doesn’t make financial sense. Others, and I put myself in this category, make a conscious decision to become SAHDs for no other reason than they wish to have a closer relationship with their children. For me, I wanted to be an integral part of raising my kids.

Being a SAHD doesn’t make me a better dad than the guy who works 60 hours a week in order to provide for his children nor does it make me any less of a dad; it only indicates that our priorities are different. Although my early ideal of what it meant to be a good dad was more consistent with the “traditional” role of financial provider, that philosophy experienced a seismic shift. In order to understand my desire to be a SAHD one must understand my background.

When I was younger, I always envisioned myself as the next Trump. I’m sure most of my classmates and early friends would be surprised to find out that I’m not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and downright shocked to find out I’m a SAHD. To be sure, I was on that professional path but after 9/11, I traded in the suit and tie for frayed jeans and a smock. With my then-girlfriend-now-wife, we opened a ceramics studio and taught kids how to make cool stuff out of clay. That was the beginning of my transformation.

My childhood is a convoluted story that perhaps I’ll share someday but for now understand that my parents separated when I was eight and divorced when I was 12 years old. After remarrying, my mother moved to the East Coast and I lived with a father who was neglectful and essentially absent. He cared about his girlfriend and her kids more than he did his own son. I grew up with very little parental guidance and this painful experience perhaps jaded me as I never envisioned myself a daddy. “Why would I want to put a kid through something like this,” I always asked myself. It was a question whose answer was not conducive to fatherhood.

More than anything, I had an unabated fear that, should I become a dad, I would turn out to be the same type of dad as my father. You know the old saying, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. These powerful demons often haunted me and challenged my paternal instincts. I resolved that I’d rather not be a dad at all than be that kind of dad. I just wasn’t confident that I had what it took to be a good dad, to be selfless, supportive, understanding, unconditionally loving, strong and sensitive. Unfortunately, fatherhood is not a toe-dipping experience: you have to jump in with both feet and I wasn’t sure I was ready to take that leap of faith.

Through therapy and the support of a loving wife and wonderful in-laws, I was able to take control of my fears by acknowledging and accepting my childhood, adolescent and young adult experiences. I began to realize that my unchartered path of fatherhood stood ready for ME to blaze, that the biological influence was only as great as I allowed it to be.

So when my son was born, I wanted to be the absolute best daddy that I could be. It had been a mantra of mine that, should I become a dad, I would want to provide for my kids everything I didn’t have. Early on this meant a big house, fancy cars, new clothes, ski trips, motorcycles, all the things that my friends had growing up. I think most dads feel similarly. However, those “things” I wanted to provide took on a different hue. No longer was I committed to providing material possessions for my kids. It seemed to me I had little control over how much stuff I could provide my kids (a capricious boss could simply decide to fire me one day or the economy could tank, for example) but I did have control over how much support, love, affection, time and stability I provided my kids. I felt that I brought him (and subsequently my daughter) into the world and therefore I had an obligation to guide them through it to the best of my ability. For me, that meant being a SAHD.

So, there you have it, my story of becoming a SAHD. You probably assume I think I’m the best dad in the world, that I’m something special because I’m a SAHD. Far from it. But if my kids think so then that’s all that truly matters.

Over the Fourth of July weekend I was gripped by the following news story that completely knocked me off my feet Sex Assault Suspect Found Dead.

Why is this story of rape different from any of the other innumerable rape cases? Isn’t this the story of just another scum bag doing things that he should never have committed? No, it’s not the same.

Why?

The reason is simple: the wife, the widow, of this man is my friend. Yes, she’s my FRIEND. And in the darkest depths of despair, at a time when she most needs a friend, I wonder if many of her “friends” will run for cover and distance themselves from her and her family. Why wouldn’t they, right? They can’t afford the popularity capital to be associated with such people. They can’t be friends lest they be judged. What will the neighbors say? What will people at church say? The little league? The soccer team?

They may not be able or willing to be friends with this girl but you know what? I am.

You see, I don’t make any attempt to keep up appearances and I’m not out to impress people. I guess you could say I don’t give a rat’s ass what people think of me. I’m a SAHD so what the hell do I care? That’s why I have the freedom to say: THIS GIRL IS MY FRIEND and if you don’t like it, don’t agree with my stance, you can simply pucker up and kiss my ass. Unfortunately, I was endowed with a loyalty gene that does not allow me to turn my back on a friend in need. So, instead of running from this burning building, I feel a duty to run right into it and offer whatever help I might be able to provide.

I’ve known this wonderfully genteel and kind girl since middle school and although we’ve since lost touch after college, I consider her my friend. In fact, there were a couple of occasions in which I actually met her husband, the man who was accused of these horrific crimes. I should also mention that I am friends with members of his immediate family, good people I’ve known for a majority of my life, people with whom I went to school and played Pop Warner football. People who pretty much look and act like you and me.

This story has made me acutely aware of the unyielding ripple effect of one’s actions, especially when those actions are criminal acts of violence.

I think about the victims of this man, the women who were violated and assaulted, their fragile faith in the goodness of human beings forever shredded. How do they go about repairing their lives? I, too, have a daughter and simply lack the capacity to even imagine such an ominous cloud descending upon any one’s baby girl. And then I think of the families that are directly impacted by this man’s actions. Yea, it’s easy to say that everyone associated with the guy is garbage but do they deserve to be impugned by the dark shadow that he ALONE cast? What about the kids? The kids! They have two kids! What do they do to carry on? To whom do they turn for consolation and healing? Who will help wake them from this never-ending nightmare? The door to their childhood has been prematurely slammed shut, never to be reopened.

And then I think of my friend. What did she do to deserve this unforgiving fate? In all the years I’ve known her, I never heard her say something rude about another person, never witnessed a mean or vicious act. If she has a negative side I never saw it. Indeed, I’ve never heard someone use a single disparaging adjective to describe this girl. By all accounts, she and her husband shared a happy, NORMAL life. They owned a successful business. She had a good job. What happened?

Obviously, this is a story that produces infinitely more questions than answers. Unfortunately, the only person who has the answers is no longer speaking, his silence secured for all of time.

I guess this is what I want to say to my friend: If you happen to read this, please get in touch with me when the time is right for you. Whatever my family and I can do to help, know that we will do so without hesitation. It is not our job to judge but rather to assist.

On this the GREATEST day in American history, normally I’d attempt to write an eloquent, if not verbose, piece about the nobility of our republic and acknowledge those who’ve paid the ultimate sacrifice in the name of freedom, liberty and individual rights. However, I don’t think I could add anything substantive to what my home girl WeaselMomma has already stated in her beautifully written post Fathering a Nation. Please check it out.

So instead I’ll just leave you with this photo of my breakfast (Yea, that’s right, I said “my breakfast.” Inspiration can take many different forms and this is what you do when you’re a SAHD and the kids are still sleeping.) that pretty much captures the emotion I experience when I think of the Fourth of July, a very special day that commemorates so much.  Happy Birthday USA!

Let me be honest. I’m not a “charity” sucker. What I mean is that I just don’t throw money at an organization called “Save the Children” or “Pets are People Too” or, as in the case of George Costanza, “The Human Fund.” Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the effort many organizations make on behalf of their constituents but after working for a non-profit in the past, I’m a bit jaded for I saw first-hand the level of profligate waste that occurs. All too often a majority of the money intended for the “cause” becomes the salary of the executive director and that just breaks my heart. I’m also reluctant to get involved in something that requires me to solicit funds. Don’t ask me why but I’ve always had an aversion to asking friends for money. It makes me uncomfortable. So unless the charity is a cause in which I truly believe and unless it’s a struggle with which I can identify, unless it’s an organization that doesn’t have a minimum contribution and is appreciative of every penny, I’m not interested. Sorry but that’s how I feel. Also, I want to know that my money and effort, as well as that of the people I solicit, is making the difference it intended to make and isn’t going toward paying the CEO’s BMW bill.

Such a charity does exist.

The Steely Clan has teamed up with Stash’s Restaurant and Grill to join the fight against childhood cancer by sponsoring an Alex’s Lemonade Stand fundraiser. Yup, we’ll be manning the stand, serving up the finest pre-mixed lemonade that’s guaranteed to wet your whistle. You can learn all about the endeavor on our fundraising page by clicking this link:

Steely Wife put us down for $720 as our official goal. How she came to this random number I’ll never know. I think she researched the Farmer’s Almanac to determine weather conditions and then divided the ultra-violet coefficient by the thirst denominator. Anyhow,  I told her that the Steely Dad Nation is made up of truly generous members whose munificence cannot be overstated. Between me and you guys, I’d like to make it an even grand. I don’t know, it just looks prettier to me.

Now get this: $.90 of every dollar raised goes directly to the organization’s mission. Yea, that’s right. Only $.10 of every dollar goes to paying administrative costs  so rest assured the money raised will go directly to Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation for Childhood Cancer, a 501(c)3 public charity, to fund childhood cancer research projects across the country. The mission of Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation is to raise funds and awareness of childhood cancer causes; primarily to support research into new cures and treatments; to encourage and educate others, especially children; to raise money for childhood cancer by holding their own lemonade stands and to expedite the process of finding new cures and bringing them to children currently engaged in their own noble battle against cancer.

Did you guys know that childhood cancer is the leading cause death by disease for children in the United States? I didn’t but I for one cannot ignore this statistic impacting the youth of our country and I certainly hope that you won’t either. Let’s face it. As parents all we really want is to watch our kids grow up to be happy, healthy people. To that end, we need your help.

Please help support our efforts and this critically important cause by making a monetary contribution. Simply click on the LEMON on the right-hand side of our fundraising page where it says, “DONATE.” We honestly don’t care if it’s $1 or $100. It all matters and it all counts. Times are tough all over and if you think your wallet is looking emaciated these days you should take a look at those of the non-profit sector. I know our family doesn’t have tons of extra dough right now but we still want to do our part. You can do yours by making a donation online, visit an upcoming event or mail your donation.

Thanking you guys in advance.

Have you ever had one of those days where it just seems that everything goes wrong?  I recently had one of those days and it crescendo’d with my daughter ending up in the hospital.

Last Thursday I took the family to see the Padres play the Cubs at Wrigley Field. We went early to the ballpark for batting practice which is usually when you can interact with the players.  I’m not going to go into it here, perhaps I’ll save it for another post, but the Padre players were jerks and downright rude to my son. ‘Nuff said.

Following BP (that’s inside baseball talk for “batting practice”) we strapped on our Everest-capacity oxygen tanks and adjourned to our assigned seats. It took a while as we had to perform an altitude acclimatization regimen (OK, you get the peak, I mean point).

Steely Wife immediately excused herself and headed for the loo leaving me solo with both Steely Kids. No big deal, right? I’m a seasoned stay-at-home dad and this is certainly not my first rodeo. The three of us were famished after our Alpine climb so we began to devour our snacks. We were eating granola bars and trail mix and who the hell knows what else. My daughter, who we like to call the “Viper” because when she grabs for something she strikes like a coiled serpent, grabbed a tiny plump-fist full of trail mix.  As you are all aware, trail mix includes peanuts, yes as in those peanuts, the little nut with a major PR problem. I wasn’t worried. We tested her for nut allergies. I wasn’t worried. She’s a good eater and hasn’t had a choking episode.

Suddenly, I was worried.

When she saw Mommy walking up the stairs to join us at our seats, my daughter started to cry (she’s been experiencing Mommy withdrawals lately). Being the astute observer that I am, I didn’t notice that she had yet to swallow the edibles in her mouth and when she went to take a breath the food went down the windpipe like a Hoover vacuum. She started to choke big-time. I immediately grabbed her to administer what, I had no idea. I took a CPR class before my son was born so that was nearly four years ago and fortunately or unfortunately, I hadn’t had the opportunity to practice my craft. It was good luck that she had her mouth agape because it allowed me to look inside and remove the obstruction. Now mind you this is all happening very quickly but my first instinct was to perform the “finger sweep” because I could see the food but in a flash I recall a stern admonition not to use this technique as it can further lodge food into the critically important windpipe. I couldn’t recall if she was too small for me to perform the Heimlich. Panic. Finger sweep. Here goes nothing. I was hoping against hope that the finger sweep had since made a comeback as the preferred un-choking method. You know, firm bristles, soft bristles.

I managed to remove the food that was in her mouth. She coughed and even more food particles were ejected from her mouth. She started to breathe again and we thought the worst was behind us. Of course she was really upset and crying.

Fast-forward to later that evening, I was playing with both kids in the backyard. I noticed my baby girl wheezing, just a faint little whisper that was barely audible. We couldn’t hear it during the Cubs raucous victory. Nevertheless, I grew concerned because her laborious breathing was not commensurate with the level of activity.

When I shared my concern with Steely Wife we began to hypothesize that perhaps Steely Daughter had inhaled a particle of food. Could it be a coincidence that she had this choking episode on a day when she was coming down with a little cold that caused the wheezing or had she in fact inhaled some of the food that almost took her out?

We didn’t take any chances and called the doctor straight away. The doc advised us to keep an eye on her during the night and then bring her to the office in the morning. I took my son to preschool while the missus went to the appointment. Don’t ask me why but I had this strong feeling that something just wasn’t right and that this was more serious than at first blush. Sure enough while at the preschool I received “the call” from my wife. “Meet us at Children’s Hospital. We’re heading over there in an ambulance.”

I scooped up my son and headed Dukes of Hazard-style to the hospital. Yep, you guessed it, I even beat the ambulance (but only by 30 minutes).

After an examination and some chest X-rays which demonstrated her left lung was expanding but not collapsing, the physician determined that my daughter must have breathed in some small particles during her first desperate inhale for oxygen.

So what do we do?

Remove it.

How?

Surgery.

Surgery? As in general anesthesia?

Yes. We will insert into her lung a “tiny baby instrument” that has attached to it a camera and forceps in order to grab and remove the food particle.

Can I be in the room?

No.

As a dad who hasn’t left the side of his baby girl since the day she took her first breath, this was very difficult for me to accept. After a vigorous lobbying effort, I was resigned to putting the welfare of my daughter in the hands of the experts.

And I’m glad I did.

After the longest hour and a half of my entire life, the doctor and his team were successful in removing the particle that had lodged itself in the lower regions of my daughter’s lung. She emerged from surgery a little drowsy but with her resilient spirit still fighting. Relief. Tears. Smiles. Hugs. Kisses.

What did her big brother do during this entire ordeal? I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how good this kid was throughout our little misadventure. He was brave, stoic and cooperative. Whenever we were in the presence of his sister, he kept a smile on his face and eased her tension as only a big brother is able. However, when I took him home from the hospital (my wife stayed with my daughter at the hospital as they wanted to keep her for observation) he broke down and cried. He was concerned about his baby sister. It was the sweetest, purest demonstration of sibling love I’d ever witnessed and it filled my heart with pride and awe.

So, what’s the lesson here, kids? One, remember that which sustains can also kill and two, do the Clinton: don’t inhale!