Hello My Family!

It started when Philip was just a baby. I'd come home from my office at the end of the day and announce, "Hello my family!"

Baby Philip loved the immediate attention I was ready to give him each time I returned home at the end of the day. When he learned to crawl, he would head off to meet me at the door. When he learned to walk and to run, all activity would stop in favor of rushing to meet me at the door. When he learned to speak, the announcement would be returned with "Daddy!" Even his mom would join him in the excitement of the moment.

Chloe was born when Philip was four years old. With her brother's encouragement, she was just as eager to participate in the early evening tradition. We had to make some rules once Chloe was old enough to realize her brother could outrun her to catch the first Daddy-hug. Philip would hold her hand, and together they would speed-walk into my arms. I'd kneel. Chloe would hug from the left and Philip would hug from the right. After a big squeeze and lots of "Daddy" chants, I’d give Amelia a quick kiss and then head over with the children to a big couch in either the living room or the family room of our home in San Geraldo. With Chloe on one side, Philip on the other and me sitting in the middle, I'd hear about their day. Amelia would referee the order in which the kids would speak so they wouldn’t talk over one another. She’d also translate some of the child-talk descriptions of the day’s activities.

The tradition helped our kids accept that their dad would be gone for most of the day five out of seven days and would sometimes even need to work on weekends. We had the privilege of having Amelia as a stay-at-home mom until Chloe turned nine years old. When we moved to Hermes in 2002 and my commuting time increased, the tradition remained just as important. During 2007 and 2008, I had a particularly long commute, and the tradition continued. More recently, Philip’s enjoyment of computer games now often tones down his response to a simple “Hi Dad,” shout from upstairs. At other times, he wants to engage me right away. In contrast, Chloe still always runs to me yelling, “Daddy!”

When I was let go from my long-commute job in January 2009, I indulged myself in seeing the kids off to school and picking them up at the end of the school day. Chloe particularly enjoyed the situation of having me home so much more. We had to explain that looking for a job was a job itself and so if I was working at the computer or speaking on the phone during the hours I would normally be at the office, she had to act as if I was actually at the office.

A little over a week ago I secured a contract-to-hire sales job working from home. We were not quite set up with a sequestered office in the house. The kids’ playroom was a possibility, but I rejected that idea in favor of opening a large fold-up table in the master bedroom suite. And so my first day began at 6:30 AM and I was behind a closed door for the entire day. The only exception was when I made myself some lunch, but nobody even saw that happen. By 6:30 PM, I’d worked a twelve hour day. It felt good to have a job again. It felt good to have no commute. I powered down my laptop and folded up the table to call it a day.

I walked out the door from the master suite, realizing my work day was over, as if I’d just left the office. Then I realized I was now officially home. As I began walking down the stairs, it seemed perfectly natural to belt out, “Hello my family!” In like manner, the response from Philip and Chloe was no different than if I had made the same pronouncement walking in through the front door.

Negotiating the Laptop with My Teen

I sat staring at my 2003 laptop for much longer than I would have liked. The image of the hourglass on the screen should have been a grandfather clock as far as I was concerned.

As a family we had talked about getting a new laptop for quite a while. We were particularly interested in getting Philip his own laptop, given high school was rapidly approaching. Philip was likewise eager to have a laptop he could call his own. He had his heart set on getting a high-end gaming laptop and was demonstrating his eagerness by saving as much money as possible. Philip had already managed to save over five hundred dollars toward his cause. And we had begun speaking with him about us splitting the cost with him so he could get the laptop he wanted sooner rather than later. Our target had been Philip’s birthday in late February, but my recent loss of employment initially appeared to have put off that investment.

Then the frozen screen in front of me inspired another idea. I needed a faster laptop, but only until I found new employment. Philip wanted a fast laptop and had saved aggressively for almost a year. And lastly, Amelia and I wanted to help him get his laptop, even despite the financial setback of me losing my job. I discussed the idea with Amelia before presenting it to Philip. He loved every aspect of the idea, including taking part in helping his dad find new employment. He could get the laptop he wanted and he could get it earlier than would otherwise be possible. In exchange, he would let me, his dad, use it until I completed my job search.

Philip was sold instantly. But Amelia and I wanted to be cautious. Philip’s dream laptop priced in at almost a mortgage payment. So there was a two week window between the time we first presented the idea to Philip and the evening we negotiated the terms to share the cost and made the actual purchase.

It was during that window that Philip’s behavior reminded me of myself at that time in life. I would see him pacing outside his room and downstairs in the family room. And then he would ask me if he could show me the computer he wanted or talk to me about certain features he really wanted, even though such features cost extra. My favorite pet feature of Philip’s was the illuminated keyboard. He would frequently ask when we would be making our final decision. And he would make various proposals regarding how he would share a greater cost burden so he could get the exact laptop he wanted as soon as possible. I could tell in his mind he was soaring, smiling at a future he envisioned with the illuminated keyboard laptop of his choice. It was difficult for him to empathize with his parents’ caution. And I remember well my mother cautiously weighing any major purchase on my behalf.

This past Thursday I had a seemingly achievable list of objectives for my job search that day. As I attempted to execute each action item without wasting time, I was continually frustrated by the amount of time I spent staring at the hourglass on the screen waiting. And so sometime after lunch, I had made my decision. I was going to get the laptop for Philip. When I got home, I sequestered Amelia to make my case to secure her final agreement. Then we told Philip. He was quite happy as one could imagine. But there was one effect that vanished. The soaring stopped. No more pacing and no more wanting to tell me about an idea he had.

Watching my son soaring will need to wait until the next exciting prospect emerges. Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to a laptop with response times one would measure with a stopwatch, rather than a grandfather clock.

Parenting's Gamble, Part II

The town of Hermes has a population of roughly twelve thousand, but over one thousand people converged on the local indoor skating rink this past Saturday evening to support and raise funds for a local family, the Bergins, whose three-year-old Robert developed a cancerous brain tumor that was caught by doctors in November. I’m so proud to be part of this community. But yet again, I am reminded of parenting’s gamble.

The Bergins have three kids: a son, Ryan, who has been on Philip’s soccer team for the past three seasons, a daughter, Rachel, who is in Chloe’s third grade class and of course Robert.

While Philip hit the video games and Chloe joined her friends skating, I secured a seat on the visiting roller hockey team bench and merely soaked in all of it. I’d brought a book, but I never cracked it. Classic rock was mixed with newer pop alternative music at a volume that allowed for talking at only a slightly raised voice. Announcements regarding the raffle and other festivities for the evening would sometimes preempt the music.

I hadn’t seen Robert since he’d gotten sick just after soccer season ended. Not long after I’d settled down, Sean Bergin, Robert’s father, paused at the edge of the skating rink to thank me for coming. Robert was in Sean’s arms dosing. Robert had a feeding tube and a hat to cover his chemo-balded head. Sean was wearing a backpack that managed the feeding process. “I’m so sorry all of you are going through this Sean,” I said, “but clearly you’re living in the right community.”

“That’s for sure,” he replied. “Thank you for coming.” And he moved along to thank other supporters.

Not long after, the announcer asked the guest skaters to move to the side of the rink to watch a semi-pro figure skater who grew up in Hermes perform. It was the peak of the evening. The speakers began piping in Spanish Guitar and I realized it was an unplugged version of Hotel California. The noise in the indoor rink quickly died down as everyone settled to watch the performance.

It was a beautiful and flawless performance. It gave me time to reflect. I had so many mixed feelings. I was so proud of my town and everyone who had taken part in the fund-raiser. I ached for the Bergin family and wished I could do more for them. I was thankful for my family’s health. And among those thoughts and feelings, I had concerns about our own family’s finances as my initial prospects for quickly returning to the workforce had either decided not to hire anyone, or had selected someone else.

I pushed those final thoughts and feelings to the back of my mind. They could return on Monday. This weekend belonged to the Bergins.

Parenting's Gamble

Last June, I started using an online social networking engine. In less than a year, I've connected with over one hundred people I'd love to chat with at a reunion but for whom I would otherwise not have gone out of my way to contact. The list includes peers from college, high school, overnight camp, middle school and elementary school. I've even connected with three women with whom I once shared an adolescent romance: My first kiss, my Senior Prom date, and one more: Lori. And before any of you get worried ... both Amelia and I are comfortable with such connections in the tame, non-invasive world of online social networking.

I have found a strong basis of friendship is shared experience. With most of the people with whom I connect online from my distant past, I share both a formative window of life from years ago, as well as the current experience of being a parent. Of course, parenting experiences vary widely. With Lori, her parenting experience has proven to be very, very different from mine. Like me, she's happily married to a spouse who adores her and she has two lovely children. However, both of my children are in near perfect health, whereas Lori's younger daughter Gretchen has the worst childhood illness I have ever learned about.

Since connecting with Lori online this past summer, I have been able to do a lot of reading about Gretchen's illness. It hasn't just been the descriptions on medical information websites. Lori journals online about Gretchen's ups and downs. The journaling keeps Lori's social network wide and well informed, and I am sure it also serves Lori as an outlet of relief to simply write. During the summer of 2008, I skimmed through roughly one thousand journal entries written over a five year span. It was like drinking from a fire hose. It was nearly impossible to conceive of Lori's day-to-day or month-to-month life.

Since then, I've been reading each of Lori's newly posted journal entries in near real time and the picture of Lori's life with a medically-fragile child has become more clear. But it is one of those situations in which the more I know, the more I realize I do not know. Lori's online peers want to give encouragement, but we don't always know how. Many people post short, kind notes as comments to Lori's journal entries to tell her they are praying or thinking kind thoughts. I send a medium-sized note about once every five or six weeks with the hopes I can deliver something unique enough to add value on top of what she is already receiving.

My 9-year-old daughter Chloe has developed an interest in Gretchen and her circumstances. Chloe looks over my shoulder when I read Lori's journal entries and asks me what is going on with Gretchen's health. Recently Gretchen's health took a difficult downward turn from which she is fortunately now recovering. But on the day of the first and second journal entry to report the downturn. things looked particularly stark. The following morning I woke up an hour before the alarm went off and wondered about Gretchen. I checked for a journal entry online and it woke Chloe. "Daddy, may I have a morning snuggle?" Chloe asked through her blurry mask of blond bed-head.

She quietly joined me in the "big bed" without waking Amelia. Chloe used my shoulder as a pillow, pressed her spine firmly against my side and held my wrist in both arms like it was a stuffed animal. Soon she was breathing as only a comfortably sleeping child breathes. Chloe's health was undeniable. I could smell it, feel it, hear it and see it. I rested there in the bed and wondered what it would be like for it to be my daughter whose life was hanging in the balance. Could Amelia and I endure as Lori and her spouse do day after day and month after month? There’s no way to know for certain, of course. But I believe the answer would be yes.

I continued lying there listening to Chloe’s sleepy breaths and chose to savor the moments. Who can know what the next day will bring? A new, breakthrough treatment could suddenly provide a huge improvement in Gretchen’s life. Likewise, a latent gene or some kind of accident could suddenly afflict Chloe or Philip. That is parenting’s gamble. And we all willingly take that gamble.

I briefly remembered back to a time long ago when it was Lori’s head resting peacefully on my shoulder, and thought about how completely unaware we were of what the future would hold. I silently wished the best for Lori and her Gretchen. Chloe stirred and turned to face me, draping her arm across my chest. “I love you, Daddy,” she said quietly as the sunlight working its way through our shades indicated the alarm would soon go off.

“I love you too, Chloe.” And I made sure I savored every last bit of the morning snuggle.

Nicknames and a Big Cheer

Winter break is over and basketball season has officially begun. This season I am coaching my third grade daughter Chloe's team, MONSOON. I picked up the girls' uniform tee-shirts at the Hermes Recreation Office and took them over with me to the first official practice of the year. Each girl wanted to be the first to pick her number—limited of course to the correct-sized tee-shirts. I used one of the practice drills as a contest to determine what order the girls would get to pick their numbers.

The first two selected their tee-shirts quickly: 11 and 7. As I worked to get the tee-shirts to the rest of the team, the first two began chattering feverishly within my hearing, but not my attention. Suddenly number 11 spoke up. "Coach! Coach! I'm HOT DOG and she's BIG GULP! Get it? Seven-Eleven!"

Immediately the energy level and enthusiasm spiked to a new level. The remaining players all wanted a team nickname to match HOT DOG and BIG GULP. Chloe quickly claimed STARBURST and the whole team agreed by cheering her on by that name. So I gathered them up and gave them three simple rules for nicknames.
Rule #1: The player must want the nickname enthusiastically.
Rule #2: Her teammates must likewise enthusiastically accept her having that nickname.
Rule #3: I, the coach, must approve the nickname.

Throughout the rest of that day's practice nicknames were all the girls could talk about. I vetoed SHOOTER because it sounded too much like labeling one player as the star of the team. A talented but rather melancholic third grader requested CRANKY. I reluctantly approved only after her mother told me that it was the nickname her daughter had embraced in the previous soccer season. The rest struggled and I promised to help them all pick nicknames at the next practice.

I'd also promised we'd have a Team Cheer and many of the girls were ready with ideas. One girl presented some lines with a hip-hop beat. Another suggested making a howling wind sound while saying "Mooooooo-onsoon!" Others asked for references to their nicknames. Chloe wanted the cheer to end with "Let's go!" It was a little overwhelming to get all their ideas, but I promised to compile them and have a draft of the cheer ready for the next practice.

That was my homework the following evening. I compiled a list of pre-approved nicknames to help the girls who hadn't settled. The cheer was a little tougher to arrange. I went to bed still thinking about the cheer and woke up with it in an orderly enough state to put it in writing before the rest of the family was awake. On the same sheet of paper, I put the roster and the game schedule and printed seven copies for the afternoon's practice.

Practice was mainly about getting them ready for their first game, but I made certain to deal with the nicknames and cheer effectively. JAGUAR, ROCKET and PINTO were what the remaining players wanted for themselves from my list of recommendations and their teammates rapidly approved. I had to fend off several unwanted nicknames directed toward me, including HUBBA-BUBBA and DIESEL. In the end, AQUAMAN is what stuck. Finally, the cheer came together with a hip-hop beat to the full satisfaction of these third and fourth grade girls.

One, two, three!
We got names; we got names; we got names that strut our games!
We're loud; we're proud, like a storm from the Swelling Blue Deep!
We play, every day, and here's what we have to say!
Mooooooo-onsoon! Let's go!

Years from now HOT DOG, BIG GULP, STARBURST, CRANKY, JAGUAR, ROCKET and PINTO probably won't remember many details from their games and even less from their practices. But they'll almost certainly remember their nicknames and the MONSOON Team Cheer for the rest of their lives. I know AQUAMAN will.

Kids and Their Parents' Finances

I was roughly the age Philip is today. I was home from school when my mother came home early from work. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “I’ve lost my job.”

We were a single parent family: Just me and my mother. We lived in a small apartment in an upscale East Coast town. The recession at the beginning of the Reagan administration had begun and the economic fallout had forced my mother’s employer to cut staff. We had fixed financial support from my father and his family, but our income had just been cut in half. Savings? Yeah, right. And with the market being down, things looked grim.

I’m certain my mother felt all kinds of pressure in that down economy. Who wouldn’t? But somehow I never felt it. As a child and as an adolescent, my happiness did not depend upon how big the paycheck was. When I speak with peers who had bad experiences as a result of their parents' finances, it was never about the lack of money. The bad experiences were the anger and rage and/or the withdrawal and depression.

Today there is a new recession looming. I'm giving myself a fifty percent chance I'll be among the unemployed before the week is out. With that, our family will take a 75% hit to our income. And we're still recovering financially from the post 9-11 recession. We're hardly alone. The parents of Chloe's friend Samantha were over the other evening. We'd always considered them wealthier than us, given their vehicles and their clothes. But all of it was at least four years old. We learned Samantha's father's business had earned close to nothing these past four years. Their savings were completely drained. Their recent move from an upscale development in Hermes was not to a bigger home, but instead to the home of an elderly relative where they are now renting space. Samantha's father was particularly demoralized that evening. And her mom was feeling the weight too. We told them about our looming situation — which truly doesn't come close to theirs. We talked about our concern for the kids. And that is when Samantha's mom and dad set us straight.

Samantha and her siblings have been fine. It is just the parents who are suffering. They are suffering quietly. When they left the upscale home for shared space in an older, smaller home away from neighbors with whom the kids could play, all the kids could say was, "Mom! This house has a tire swing!" When the elderly relative got sick, their high-school-age daughter spent several hours a week taking care of him. Not only did that save the family the cost of a home health aid, but it also allowed the teenage daughter more quality time with the elderly man than the rest of her life beforehand. The kids — Samantha's parents report — are just as happy as they were before the finances collapsed. Their grades in school are just as good as they had been. And they enjoy their friends just as much as ever.

At the time of this writing, I do not know what this week will bring. But Samantha's parents have helped me to be ready for the worst. Back during Reagan's presidency, my mother quickly found a better job. And admittedly, there is one company with which I have already been interviewing that may have a better job for me. But nothing is certain. I could find myself employed at the end of the week, or I could be among the unemployed. The company with the better job might extend me an offer. Or it might not. This recession could prove uneventful for us. Or it could be a long difficult road. Like Samantha's family, we have options. Houses don't sell in this recession, but they do rent. We could rent out our spare room. Or we could rent out our whole house and move into a small apartment. My wife could increase her hours at her part time job, and I've had some success before getting short term consulting assignments while between jobs.

I'm choosing to be optimistic. It keeps me at my best with the kids. And as long as I stay that way, the kids will never care whether or not I'm gainfully employed. Either way, I plan to spend a lot more time with Samantha's dad. Some day his business will recover. And some day (hopefully for the rest of 2009 or at least most of it) I’ll be gainfully employed.

As for the kids, my goal is they won’t need to recover from anything. I didn’t when I was that age.

The Joy of Coaching

I became a coach the way—no doubt—many, many parents have before me. I checked the box on the soccer registration form that volunteered me to be an assistant coach for my son’s second grade soccer team. Then one evening in August 2002, I came home to a voice mail message asking me to be the Coach of my son’s soccer team. Apparently, not enough parents had volunteered to coach. After a few cajoling sessions on the telephone, I had made the commitment. And so began my first of many seasons coaching. And while the first year was a little tough, I do not have any regrets. I’ve now coached three seasons of boys’ soccer and two seasons of girls’ soccer. I was the assistant coach for my son’s first lacrosse team and am now the coach of my daughter’s first basketball team.

I am particularly looking forward to this coming basketball season. I’ve got seven eager third and fourth grade girls, including my daughter Chloe. At least half of the parents are willing to get involved. But it is more than that. The game of basketball is what really appeals to me as a kids’ recreational sports coach. Between rebounds and the small number of players on the court, basketball ensures every player touches the ball many times throughout the game. And while there is still the opportunity for a strong athlete to develop into a star player, a star player is unlikely to develop into a ball hog. The double dribble rule keeps even the star players passing the ball.

We’ve now had just two practices. It is the first basketball season for all but one player. Most of my players still need to look at the ball in order to dribble it. Everyone favors dribbling with their right hand over their left hand. About half the players cannot throw the ball high enough to reach the standard height net in the gymnasium where the first two practices have been held. Fortunately, they’ll have a 9-foot basket set up for actual games for at least the first part of the season. As I look at them, the team has all the trappings for the plot of a made-for-TV movie.

I’ve found that coaching puts me in an interesting place. Each season, I get to be there for a ten to twenty week window of life for a handful of kids who are not my own. I end up playing a role in their development unique from teachers, parents and other family. I remember my coaches and how they spoke. Somehow they could get away yelling in a way nobody else could. Words that have no business being funny somehow sound hilarious when the coach wants them to sound that way. Words that would sound clichéd in any other context somehow serve as the greatest source of inspiration.

I love watching kids’ sports much more than college or professional sports. There’s just more of a chance for a sudden breakthrough or an unexpected error. And if I know one or more of the players on the field then the game becomes personal to me. With kids’ recreational sports, players who had been on the same team one season end up being rivals playing for different teams in another season. And when I coach consecutive years, the players I once coached remember me and I remember them.

While I treasure each game, my favorite part of every season is the awards ceremony. Some coaches are satisfied to give their players the trophies or medals provided by the league. Not me. The awards ceremony gives me the unique opportunity to create a customized award certificate for each player. Each season I have a Most Valuable Player, Team Captain, Most Improved Player and however many other unique titles are needed to fill out the team. Each certificate contains a few words of unique praise - “for her unsinkable determination …” - to memorialize each player’s season. I dress the certificates in a frame with team colors, a team logo, a gold seal, my signature as head coach and at least one other official signature.

My hope is that the framed certificates will be something from childhood my former players will retain far into adulthood to fondly remember the ten to twenty week window we shared together during which they knew me as Coach.