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.

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!

I just returned from an orientation for parents whose kids are signed up for summer camp. Yup, that’s right, my son is going off to summer camp. OK, it’s not like a camping camp; it’s a day camp. Nevertheless, whereas many of the parents look forward to summer camp with greater anticipation than the kids, I’m counting down the minutes like a Dead Man Walking.

Yes, I know he will only be away for four hours a day. Yes, I am aware that the camp is only three days a week. Um, yes, I can do the math (with the help of a calculator): that’s only 12 hours a week.

But I’m REALLY sad.

I mean, REALLY melancholic.

My son, my little buckaroo, is taking his first real giant step toward independence. I seriously can’t believe it. Even as a stay-at-home dad (SAHD), a role which provides me the opportunity to enjoy a majority of my son’s time, I’m still bummed. Of course I’m happy for him and I know he’s going to have a blast but a selfish part of me still wants to spend the entire day with him. There’s a part of me that now feels guilty for all the times I brushed him aside so I could do really important things like write blogs, Twitter, Facebook and the lame list goes on. I took for granted that I had all the time in the world with my son. Even though I became a SAHD for the sole purpose of spending the most amount of time possible with my kids, I still fell into the trap I so adroitly tried to avoid.

And it’s a total cliché: the time goes by so fast.

And it’s so very true.

He can’t be ready for summer camp. I just brought him home from the hospital yesterday.

I’m aware it’s not cool for dads to feel like moms but what can I say? I’m just one of the girls.

I worry about my son. I don’t know. Maybe it’s me I worry about. As parents, we’ve already experienced the agony and the ecstasy of growing up. The break ups, the heartaches, the rejection. We thought most of the volatility that goes along with the maturing process was well in the past but guess what? Once kids enter the picture, you have the distinct privilege to relive these special memories all over again only this time in a vicarious manner. It’s difficult and even more frustrating because you know your power to soften the blows will be futile.

My son is very sensitive. He really cares about other people. Whenever there is a new kid who joins his class at the drop-in center, he is the first to befriend the child. Parents have come up to me saying, “Your son was so nice to my boy. Thanks!” Comments like these are not unusual and each time I hear them I feel awesome. Just yesterday, for participating in a reading program, my son earned the privilege to choose a toy out of a treasure chest at the library. There were all sorts of cool little figurines that I thought for sure he’d snatch up. He ended up choosing a dinosaur straw. Later that evening I asked him why he had chosen the straw instead of the astronaut figurine or the little pirate dude. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and said, “Daddy, I thought those little figurines were too small for Ivie (his sister) and she could choke on them.” My eyes welled up with tears. You’ll recall the recent trauma we experienced when my daughter choked on a piece of food and had surgery to remove the obstruction. In any case, how does a boy this small have such a big heart? It’s a biological anomaly, especially if one considers his parents. I don’t know the kid’s IQ but I can tell you his EQ (emotional quotient) is off the charts and to me I’ll take that over “brains” any day of the week. Think of all the serial killers out there. Most of them have/had above-average intelligence. Let’s face it. Our basic job as parents is to make sure our kids don’t turn into sadistic criminals. If you see a story about your kids on America’s Most Wanted, you’ve probably goofed it somewhere along the way.

Most kids are cool but there are some mean little fuckers out there. My son has shared with me that some kids are not nice to him. They say mean things, exclude him and sometimes even hit or kick him. I’m not sure why that is; perhaps they mistake his kindness for weakness. Nevertheless, it breaks my heart when I hear these stories from him. I know he’s not making them up because I’ve personally witnessed several instances of this behavior. I don’t usually intervene unless the behavior is egregious. I think it’s important for kids to learn how to work things out on their own. I’ve tried to teach him how to handle tough situations, including how to defend and protect himself should things get physical. Although the kid loves to play rough and wrestle, he doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. Teaching him to fight back is like teaching the Dalai Lama to become a shit kicker. I don’t want kids to take advantage of my son’s peaceful nature but I also want to respect and encourage his unique personality. And therein lies the dilemma. The world is not always kind and is not always just and sometimes it swallows the innocent.

Summer camp will really be the first test, as much for him as for me. For the first time ever, we’ll be apart. His personality and genteel temperament will be challenged without Daddy’s occasional intervention. For the first time, the principles I’ve tried to teach him will undergo the stress and rigors of real-life application. Will they stand up to the test? Gulp. I just took my first huge swig of blind faith.

Hey, don’t forget we only have two more days for our fundraiser to help fight childhood cancer. Please consider making a contribution. Just click on the Alex’s Lemonade Stand button above. Thanks!