The Guilt Trip of a Lifetime

"Every time you go away you take a piece of me with you." -Paul Young

"She's old enough," we said. That's how we justified it. She's old enough to be without us for a couple of weeks. Sure, she'll be aware that we're gone. She'll definitely miss us. But she'll be just fine. Most important, she'll still have a lot of fun. Without us.

There we are. Young and in love. Venice 2004.
(I still have that shirt.)

So My Director and I went ahead and followed through on a promise we made to each other on our honeymoon. Our favorite place on that whirlwind Italian odyssey was Venice. But we were there for just two days. "I wish we had more time here," we said at the time. So we promised each other we'd come back for our tenth anniversary. We even shook on it. Or pinky swore. I can't remember exactly. There was definitely a lot of wine involved.  Either way, it was clearly a binding agreement.

You never know where you're going to be ten years from now when you make promises like that with your spouse. Financially, physically, or professionally. You can never know. Peanut wasn't even a glint in our eyes when we made that promise to each other, and ourselves.  So as we sat on our couch shortly after New Year's this year, contemplating whether we should follow through, it was she who weighed mostly on our decision.

Every time I think about her, talk about her, choose to write about her, or do anything at all in fact, it is with Peanut in mind. And anytime I think, talk , write, or do, it dawns on me that she will be this age only once. I want to savor every last moment in time with her and of her. All through her life I've done this. Not so much lamenting. But enjoying. Documenting. Mentally, pictorially, and verbally. Beaming with pride and amazement. We recently watched some videos of her from when she was a baby. What a wonderfully magical yet simple time. How much joy she brought us. How truly blessed we are to have witnessed her discover this awesome world, and for us to rediscover it along with her. Reliving these memories didn't make me sad. It made me thankful. It also made me realize how many times I must have squealed a high-pitched, "yay!" during Peanut's babydom.

I am also thankful to have had those two weeks in Europe with My Director. From Venice we went on

Paris 2013. Still young. Still in love.
(I wear glasses now.)

to Geneva and then Paris. I like to think our marriage is strong, but I also believe all couples need time away. Alone. To reconnect, rekindle, and have an actual conversation during a meal without someone who is either complaining about their dinner or forgetting basic details of their day. All of that being said, I am sad to not have had those two weeks with Peanut. While in hindsight I do not think this trip was for her (a subject for another blog post), that doesn't mean we didn't think of her. Especially during down time and on travel days, we both found ourselves missing her a lot.

The one time we managed to connect via Skype a few days into our trip (communicating was much more difficult than we had anticipated), we could tell by the look on her face that she was so excited to see us. She was missing us, but putting up a strong front without us. That's my girl. She stayed with my sister and her family at what we called "Zia camp." (Zia is aunt in Italian.) Her second week was spent in Wildwood, NJ on vacation with my extended family. A vacation we normally attend. Besides that shaky Skype call that cut out after five minutes, her only true contact with us for two weeks was a daily letter we each wrote her, one for every day we were gone. We wrote them before we left. Some were funny. Some were informational. Some were sentimental. And some were accompanied by gifts inspired either by where in the world we were or she was. Turns out, this was a very good idea. Peanut loved her letter every day and looked forward to that little bit of interaction with us.

My sister said Peanut was very well-behaved. A pleasure. A true joy. This came as no surprise to us. She also adopted our policy of not saying no on vacation, so Peanut never had to wear what she didn't want to wear. Those dresses My Director packed for dinners out, for instance, stayed in the bag. (Peanut currently prefers an active chic look.)

Back-at-home-for-first-tim-together selfie

When we returned, Peanut looked so different from when we left her. Her hair was more blonde from the sun. She was tanned from her vacation. She looked older. Rarely one to be outwardly affectionate, she hugged us both very hard and buried her head into My Director's chest when we first saw her. And because she comes from a long line of guilt trippers, every time we asked her about her vacation she would say, "But you guys went on an adventure. I didn't get to go on an adventure." Way to lay it on thick, kid.

Later that weekend, Peanut and My Director baked a birthday cake for me. We had a belated celebration since we were in Paris on my actual birthday. Peanut knew exactly how she wanted to decorate it with icing in my favorite color - green. She wrote the names of my favorite sports teams on it and spelled "Happy Birthday Dad," too. When I blew out my candles, I told her I had made a good wish. In following tradition, I didn't tell her what I had wished for. But she was quick to tell us she also made a wish and that it was for "you to never break up our family again."

How cute is this cake she made for me?

Ouch, babe.

We had an amazing time in Europe. But I couldn't help but miss her, and I can't help but think of what I missed. And lament. She is at such a great age. An age of learning and understanding. Of critical thinking and reasoning. Of giggling and joking. Of exploring and discovering. And she's just so adorable. I feel this summer has come and gone like every other before it and all of the ones that are yet to be. Too quickly, yet jam-packed with great memories. We made the most of our time with Peanut. A lemonade stand. A dinosaur park. An amusement park. Camping in the backyard. But more often I feel her drifting away. Already.

At age six she has such a busy social life. Between after school activities and play dates, I could go days sometimes without quality Peanut time. There are days where I'll skip the gym to come home early if the weather is nice, only to find her at a friend's house or with a friend over at ours. It's our own little real-life "Cats in the Cradle." And then I lament some more. Then again, there are few sounds I enjoy more than Peanut and a friend giggling at each other in some far off corner of the house. Or even better, hearing her channel her mom's diplomacy and settle a difference of opinion without drama, making her guest feel at home.

As Peanut grows older I realize I want her involved in our once-in-a- lifetime memories from now on. Soon enough she will be making those memories on her own. Our choices cost me some of the best and most precious days of her lifetime. As much as we may try there is no getting them back. I realize this is a nice problem to have. That I am complaining about an otherwise awesome vacation with My Director. Still, no more leaving Peanut behind. I miss her too much. There will come a time where she'll leave us behind. I'll miss her then too. At least I won't have the guilt.

Oddly enough, last summer I wrote a post about being away from her for ONE NIGHT and missing her. You can read it HERE.

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Along Came a Spider

What's the big deal about spiders, anyway? I'm ambivalent towards them. No issues. No phobia. Sure, I think they're kinda gross. But they do serve a purpose. A pretty important one, too. Like controlling the housefly population.

So I am here to announce that I am decidedly PRO spider. Despite My Director's objections. Just another thing we disagree on. (Many political issues too. But that's a subject for another blog post. One that will never be written. But I digress...)

Spiders. They're creepy but cool. And definitely bad-a$$. I've never advocated killing spiders just because they were there. Or "gross." After all, should we just arbitrarily kill anything we consider ugly? Or scary? Especially, or because, we are so much bigger and stronger than they? I say, emphatically, no. Although, I must admit, I have acquiesced to My Director's blood-curdling request many times in the past to ensure peace in my home and stability in my marriage.

But no more. I'm taking a stand. The spidercide stops now, despite My Director's pleas. Miss Muffett can find another tuffet on which to sit and eat her kurds and whey. (Who eats that anyway?)

The rest of spiderdom has this gal to thank:

She is SO cool.

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We Took the Road Less Traveled

"Where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me."- from Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed. (I'm sure this comes as no surprise.) This was not my idea of a vacation. This is not how we had said we would spend our 10th Anniversary celebration. My Director had totally hijacked our day and dedicated it to shopping. No...looking for the perfect gift to repay my sister and brother-in-law for watching Peanut for the two weeks we were away. This is one area where we, and I believe most men and women, differ. Shopping. I don't look for things. I think of what I want ahead of time and I set off to buy things. Or, I see something and impulsively say, "I'm going to buy that," finances willing. But I never say, "I want something like this so I'm going to go look for it." That's just a waste of time. Nonsense.

Yet, here we were. Immersed in nonsense.

This is 1 of nearly 6,000 identical stores.
But look at her in her cute hat. I can't stay mad at her.

We were on the island of Murano, the place in Venice famous for its hand-blown glass. And My Director had taken a one-way boat to Nutsville, obsessed with buying a set of glasses. We went into every store, on a mission. It was maddening because all of these stores are the same, except for infinitesimal differences in each figurine, light fixture, or piece of jewelry. I was stuck in Venetian Groundhog Day and I needed out. So I threw a bit of a tantrum. Albeit, a strategic, impassioned, but sympathetic tantrum. To my surprise, it actually worked.

Still, I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed as we boarded a boat to head back to mainland Venice, Piazza San Marco. First we had to make one last stop at "Murano Faro." This is the only place where you get a boat to the island of Burano. One of my wishes for our trip was to go to Burano, because it's little known, quiet, far away. But at this point, in the state I was in (the "done with shopping" state), I felt defeated and resigned to go back.

This selfie proves there were actually more happy
moments on Murano than not. (And that I am terribly bald.)

"Last chance," My Director called to me. "If you want Burano we have to get off here. Now."

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The Empire Strikes Back

"If I ever lose my faith in you, there'd be nothing left for me to do." -Sting

We started with a couch. A three-seater sofa. That's the first thing My Director and I owned together. We took a major plunge, moving in together after she graduated from college. My dad and I picked it up from the furniture store in my hometown. When we got back to my parents' house, I called her on the old land line. (Cell phones weren't quite a thing yet in 1999.)

There's the old couch. in the middle of
our old condo.

"This is it," I told her. "We're building our Empire."

Our Empire. I have always referred to our life as that. I haven't shared that on this blog until now. We've built quite the little Empire in the fourteen years since we bought that couch, if I do say so myself. But it all began with that couch, which first sat in our one-bedroom roach motel of a railroad apartment.

It moved everywhere with us over the years. Two apartments, a condo, and our house. We had to get rid of it last year. It was getting pretty beaten up. Had our basement not been wet at the time, we could have stored it down there. That would have been nice. As much as you tell yourself you don't want to become attached to things, this couch was special. It represented the start of our Empire.

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My Dying Wish

"He would make a lovely corpse." -Charles Dickens

Till death do us part. It's in the vows, yo. The only thing that will separate me from My Director is a dirt nap. Marriage. When you think about the whole thing, committing yourself entirely to one person for the rest of your life, it's pretty freakin' deep. I love it. Until you're six feet under. And that's pretty freakin' shallow. I don't love that.

This photo is just dripping with irony, is it not?

So shallow, in fact, that it creeps me out. Since I first experienced death with my Grandpa Sal when I was 11 years old, the thought of being buried totally gave me the heebie jeebies. The thought of dirt and bugs and just laying there rotting...gross. I can't handle it. Just mentioning it makes me nauseous. I decided at a pretty young age that I wanted to be cremated. I didn't really think about it until decades later when my dad died, and was cremated. "Oh yeah," I thought. "That reminds me. Sign me up for one of those too please."

Over My Director's dead body. Whenever the subject of our final resting place comes up, she puts me in my place.

"You're not getting cremated," she insists. "I want to be buried and I want you next to me. So you're getting buried." 

"Not if I go first," I counter. 

"You wouldn't," she shrugs. 

"No. I would respect your wishes because I love you," I admit.

Yet, she would not do the same. The sad and frustrating part of this whole morbid mess is that it's inevitable that I will die first. The man almost always does. You know why? Because we're tired and eventually we just want quiet. Some uninterrupted sleep.

"I can't believe you would do that to me. Deliberately go against my wishes," I protest. Meekly. 

"What do you care?" She says. "You'll be dead." She's cruel is what she is. 

"If you go first," she reasons, "I want a place to go and visit you. With a headstone and a bench. Maybe under a tree somewhere. So I can talk to you and tell you about my day."

It's a little worrisome that she's planned my death in pretty vivid detail, don't you think? I'm rethinking my recent purchase of an axe for chopping firewood. While that sucker might come in handy during the zombie apocalypse, maybe My Director has other plans for it first.

"If I'm in an urn, you can take me with you. Wherever you go," I tell her. "I'm so portable." 

"No." 

"We can BOTH be cremated and Peanut can spread our ashes somewhere special. Somewhere we love. Like the beach at LBI. Or Venice. Or at Syracuse." 

"It's too cold at Syracuse. I don't want to be there for eternity." 

"But it's where we met." 

(Shakes her head and wrinkles her nose in disgust.)

Now she's just being unreasonable. So I give in, with a quid pro quo.

"Fine. Bury me," I say. "But no open casket. I don't want to be preserved or put in a box. If you're going to bury me, just dig a hole and dump me in. No chemicals. That way I become one with the earth. You know, the circle of life."

"No. That's gross." 

"Right. Which is why I want to be cremated in the first place." 

"I'm putting you in a coffin." 

"Please don't. I'm claustrophobic. And it's such a waste of money. You're gonna need that money." 

"You're insured."

WTF?!

When I do die, she will have final say. She will make the decision and I will be powerless to stop her. She handles our finances. She plans our social calendar.  She even gets to control the television most of time. Now she's got her sights set on my afterlife.

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We Made the Right Choice

"I don't know what this life will bring but I know it has us. I choose us." Tea Leoni, The Family Man

Life is a series of decisions. Big ones. Small ones. Every one you make affects your life in some way. From the clothes you choose to the food you eat to the jobs you take. And the jobs you don't take.

The movie I quoted above, a tear-jerker starring Nicholas Cage that is somehow one of those must-watch-when-it's-on movies, is all about a glimpse at the life you could have had. And wouldn't you know, it was on television the weekend before our 10th wedding anniversary.

The movie begins with Cage and Leoni in an airport. He's heading off to a golden job opportunity that will help launch his career in finance. She's having doubts and utters the line above in an effort to convince him to stay. He doesn't. He takes the job and they don't end up together.

In this blog, I use the title to another movie to describe the journey My Director and I have shared to get here: The Story of Us. Our story would have ended if not for a job I DIDN'T take.

My goal - my dream - when I went to Syracuse to study broadcast journalism was to be the next Bob Costas. (He's a Syracuse alum.) I wanted to be the next play-by-play man of the Yankees or the next SportsCenter anchor. Soon I realized those guys (and girls) weren't enjoying college the way I wanted to enjoy college. (Drunk and foolish.) They were too serious and kind of nerdy. Yes, I chose not to be a sportscaster because I no longer considered it to be cool. I was a shallow 19 year-old. But a news guy... a news guy can be cool and taken seriously. Right?

After graduation, I sent resume tapes to dozens of television stations all over the country in towns you've probably never been to, let alone heard of. I received a couple of offers. One from a station in Meridian, MS, where I would be reporting during the week and anchoring on the weekends for $18,000 a year. A great opportunity in a decent market for someone just out of college. The other was from Lincoln, NE. I received the call on a Monday. They wanted me to anchor, report, shoot my own stories, and write and produce the show myself for $12,000 a year... and can you start Thursday?

I knew this was the way to break into the business. Do it all, one-man band reporting. Make no money in a far-away place as you build your reel and work your way back to where you want to be. I also knew that if I went to the middle of nowhere for six months or a year I would risk losing the love of my life.

12/07/2002

So I chose us.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: If a Tree Falls in the House

Some unexpected traffic on the bus ride home meant I would be a little later than normal. So I texted My Director with some basic instructions on how to get dinner started. This way, I could get a jump start on cooking as soon as I got home:

"Can you put some water on for brown rice and heat the oven to 350 please?"

I was planning to make pan-seared tilapia over brown rice with baked Brussels sprouts and bacon. Yum. Her response was quick, and unexpected:

"Our tree fell over. Have to deal with that right now."

I have to admit, I laughed a little when I read that. Have to deal with that right now? Ya think? A classic line from my straight man. When I got off the bus, a stunned Peanut met me at the corner. "Daddy, you're NOT going to believe this." She escorted me inside. My little girl was beside herself. But not because of this:

Yes. That's My Director working on the tree
while I snap pictures for the blog. Priorities.

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The Story of Us

"After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same." -Simon and Garfunkel

I picked up the newspaper. It was the New York Times. I showed it to my fiance. "I hope you're ok with the front page of the paper looking like this every year on our anniversary." It was December 7, 2001. The 60th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. We got married a year later.

It's funny how your anniversary is sometimes chosen for you. We decided we wanted to get married in December, when every place would be decorated for Christmas. We wanted a Saturday. The thought was with a lot of people traveling to attend, and staying over for the weekend, the 21st was too close to Christmas. The reception hall we wanted was booked on the 14th. So Pearl Harbor Day it was.

The day that will live in infamy. (My Director STILL doesn't think it's funny when I say that.)

This Friday we celebrate our 10th anniversary. That's a big one. It really does seem just like yesterday. So much has happened since then. To us, to our world. Yet, we remain. Older, different, but pretty much the same.

One night recently, as we were laying in bed, My Director told me that she had shared a story of some of her college "exploits" that day with a few of her students. "How much detail did you give them?" I asked. "I was vague," she said. That college girl is the person I fell in love with. And even though our "exploits" are different now - much tamer, thank you very much - she's still the person I fell in love with. Same smile. Same beauty. Same kindness, generosity, and warmth.

I just have a lot less hair now.

And here, I was trying to set her up with someone else in the year before we got together. Good thing she never has listened to me.

Please celebrate our anniversary with us by reliving some of our fondest memories of the story of us:

We are proof that everything happens for a reason. It's How I Met Your Mother.

I knew it was too soon to tell her I loved her. So I came up with something else. Her response was underwhelming to say the least. Read what she said when I told her, "You're My Best Friend."

A few weeks after that, she did something that told me she was the one I would spend the rest of my life with. For This I am Forever Thankful

How did I pop the question? You really should check out the Lies, Deception, and the Three-State Tale That Ended With My Marriage Proposal.

If you don't know the reason why I refer to her as "My Director" on this blog, it was my anniversary gift to her last year. Allow Me to (Re)Introduce...

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Hoping for a New Normal #JerseyStrong

We've managed to return to normal here in the DKL house, here in the DKL town, post-Sandy. It happened a while ago, actually. Normal, of course, is all relative. Before that happened, though, there was a whole lot of not normal...

The Witch Pinata

The warnings were there. We didn't ignore them. Not completely, at least. We just... tabled them. Sandy was coming. It was making a bee-line for New Jersey and all indications were it was going to be bad. We had to get ready, but not for Sandy. For Halloween. Our annual child Halloween extravaganza. So that's what we did. The weather on the Saturday before the storm was eerily calm and overcast. Perfect for an outdoor Halloween party for a dozen or so kids. This day was business as usual. Fun needed to be had. A party needed to be thrown. That witch pinata desperately needed to be beaten down in a violent avalanche of sugary paradise. The hurricane could wait... for Sunday. 

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For This I Am Forever Thankful

"How do I know when it's love? I can't tell you but it lasts forever." -Van Halen

When do you know the person you're with is the one with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? I knew early on in my relationship with My Director, but our first Thanksgiving clinched it.

Hall of Languages
Syracuse University

It was 15 years ago. We were in college at Syracuse. We had been dating just three months. I knew earlier in the semester that she was "the one," but when I took her temperature to see if she felt the same way, I didn't get the response I was looking for.

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What to Expect When You're NOT Expecting

“It isn’t the size of the family, it’s the interactions of the members inside." Michele Borba

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook. It was of her daughter entering daycare for the last time. A big moment. A milestone. Certainly a bittersweet one. The end of one era with daycare and the beginning of another one with Kindergarten. The first person to comment in the thread underneath the picture said, "Time to have another baby."

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A Disturbance in the Force

"You see, there are two sides to every Schwartz." -from Spaceballs

The tide has turned. Peanut, forever and stubbornly a momma's girl, has switched allegiances. Could it be? Yes, my daughter has turned to the dark side. She's all about daddy now. (Wait a minute. Who says my side is the dark side anyway?)

Making funny faces
is one of our things

Through an unforseen series of fortunate events for me, I have knocked My Director off the top of the parenting pedestal. Somehow, Peanut now likes me better than she likes mommy. And I will be the first to admit that I have not earned my place through merit. No, I haven't earned it at all. But I have to tell you, it feels good. Strange, but good.

Here's how I did it: dirty politics. A smear campaign, of course. I've masterfully, not-so-subliminally turned Peanut against My Director. She gets a kick out of calling her mom "bossy," for example. Whenever she tells one of us to do something, Peanut and I will look at each other, flash a mischievous grin, roll our eyes and sing, "Mommy's being bossy again." Peanut might even add a, "Mommy, you're Miss Bossypants," for an extra laugh. She'll then look at me for approval, and I'll give it to her with a grin and a nod of the head.

The whole race to number one that I've been running since Peanut popped out has been a no-contest despite my best efforts. But true to her form, My Director could care less about the favoritism. She is not remotely amused by my tactics, however. On the other hand, I am loving it. And what do I do when she calls me out on my negative message? Call her more names, of course. "Mommy, stop being so crazy."

"Yeah, mommy," Peanut will echo. "You're being crazy."

This may make me a horrible parent and husband but I'd be lying if I said it's not awesome to be number one. It took more than five years, but Peanut finally realized how much fun I am. How cool I am. She finally sees the value of a good sense of humor. That's all it boils down to really. I make Peanut laugh. I make her laugh hard and I make her laugh often. I sometimes do it at the expense of others. Most notably her mom, who gladly serves as a constant straight man to my lunatic vaudeville act. I'm a funny guy and Peanut is a very good audience. Eats it up, in fact.

When she was a toddler,  I would tease Peanut like I do now. She, in turn, would freak out. It often led to a meltdown. Or if she was upset and I'd try to make her laugh, it would make her more upset. I was at a loss. These were not my shining moments as a dad. (As a result, there weren't many blog posts during that period.) I didn't understand my daughter and she didn't understand me. "She doesn't want to laugh," My Director would say when my efforts to cheer her up would fail. "She just wants love." My Director was good at that. And with her guidance, I became good at that too. Now Peanut knows when I'm teasing her. "Are you joking daddy?" She'll ask. "Or are you for real life?" (Yes. She says, "for real life.")

Peanut is no longer a baby and is an actual person who recognizes humor, sarcasm, and the skill of of delivering those things with perfect timing. And therefore, I am number one. She knows comedy and daddy is the king of comedy. You name it I use it and she gobbles it up like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Physical humor, props, jokes, song parodies. When she spontaneously busts out with one of my versions of a song, I beam with pride. In turn, I repay her with a dance party to her favorite song:


My daughter and I finally get each other and it's the best thing I've ever gotten from her.

There was a day when I wondered when my time as the number one parent would come. I never thought it would, as I wrote about here. 

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Snap, Crackle, What the Hell Is THIS?

Just when I think I'm not giving myself a fair enough shake with the whole Daddy Knows Less thing, I go and do something like this:

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The Game Changer

"Simplified spelling is all right, but, like chastity, you can carry it too far." -Mark Twain

This is it. I am done for. I have lost my ability to effectively communicate with My Director... in front of Peanut. We have been speaking the same language pretty much since Peanut was born. And now, the kid's in on it. Peanut just started Kindergarten, but she can already spell.

This is the game changer.

Tastes a lot better that it spells

One night last weekend I asked My Director if we should "go out for I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M." And Peanut immediately jumped in with, "We're getting ice cream?!" Yes, apparently we are.

Now, granted, when you spell ice cream it SOUNDS a lot like "ice cream." So Peanut is no prodigy aiming to be the youngest ever to compete in the National Bee in Washington, D.C. next year. There are plenty of words she can't spell. And there's that little detail about not being able to read yet. (Although: she did just read a book to me last night, almost all herself.) Still, the game has changed.

It's only a matter of time. What am I going to do? Once she's able to spell, how am I going to name people, then disparage them, in front of her? How am I going to swear? How am I going to have any thoughtful or even mildly controversial conversation with My Director with our burgeoning little blonde-haired dictionary monitoring my every letter?

That's not even the worst of it.

While we already have a code for - ahem - "the bedroom," there's nothing in our secret lexicon for, "Your mom is crazy." There's "Why does she have to be so C-R-A-Z-Y?" There's no code for "Should we just order Chinese food?" (Because Chinese food is Peanut crack.) There's "Should we just get C-H-I-N-E-S-E?" And as if on cue, as I write this My Director just said, "He's a D-O-U-C-H-E," while watching a story about about Michael Phelps. Soon that's all going to change.

Thanks to spelling, words like "stupid," "idiot," and "a$$hole" now roll of my tongue one letter at a time like a familiar Starbucks order. I've even grown accustomed to spelling E-F-F-U instead of "f*ck you" because, you know, it's classier.

Peanut's got brains and she knows how to use them. It's only a matter of time before our spelling language goes the way of Sanskrit. But I do have a solution. It's not going to be easy, but we have no choice. We're going to have to brush up on our Pig Latin. For the sake of our S-A-N-I-T-Y. We need to ixnay on the ellingspay.

This post originally appeared last month on You Know It Happens at Your House Too. For another one of my snarky takes on one of Peanut's milestones, check out this post from her Pre-K stepping up ceremony.

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#PayItForward: Thoughts on Marriage and Parenting from @MyPatheticBlog

Most Fridays, I will share with you a post from another blog that I find particularly moving, interesting, or funny. They will be posts that fit the DKL mold... ones I think people who read this blog would enjoy. Another blogger I follow started something similar. I also wanted to do this because someone paid it forward to me, giving me tons of new followers. So this is the least I can do...

Sometimes someone writes something so amazing, it actually makes me mad because I didn't think of it and write it myself. My friend Kevin at My Pathetic Blog has done that to me several times. Despite the anger, I just can't quit him. Kevin writes with a self-deprecating humor that's funny and and a humility that's touching. Most recently, he wrote about his children, and the sometimes overwhelming responsibility being their dad carries:

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Making Sweet Music

"How sweet it is to be loved by you." -James Taylor

One night this summer, My Director and I went to a James Taylor concert. I had bought her the tickets for Valentine's Day. Attached to the tickets, I wrote a note with the lyric I quoted above. Aren't I just a peach? Ah, but that love does indeed need to be sweet, in so many ways... and especially in times of stress.

As we drove to the concert and exited into the venue, the gas light dinged on the dashboard. Unlike My Director, I am never concerned when this happens. However, unless you arrive super early, the traffic getting into the parking lots at these events is always maddening. We inched along for twenty minutes, burning fuel like it was nothing. I opened the windows and turned off the air to save gas.

"It's rare that neither of us looked at the gas gauge all day," I offered. I knew that one would come back to haunt me eventually. After all, My Director had not driven at all that day. (For the record, after reading up to this point My Director stopped and insisted she DID suggest we pull off for gas before the light went on. We agreed to disagree. You can believe whom you choose.)

NOW I'm worried

The needle crept dangerously close to the last line before E. Now I'm worried.

So I devised a plan. An exit strategy. We would leave the show early. An hour and a half after he starts playing. That way we won't sit in traffic on the way out and run out of gas.

We sat on our beach chairs on the lawn and enjoyed James Taylor like we always do. During the intermission we used an app to find the nearest gas station. It was three miles away, off the first possible exit. We bolted three songs into the second set. We jumped into the car, which was smartly parked right by the exit, and with the air conditioning still turned off I made sure not to gun it. Even on the Garden State Parkway, I didn't go above 40 mph. I was a turtle-paced menace hugging the right lane with my hazards flashing.

As soon as I coasted off the exit, My Director stumbled with the directions that she was reading off her iPhone. (She disputes this too.) As a result, I missed the first turn. Now I'm mad. And totally spaztastic. And the best she could offer was a panicked, "Now we're driving aimlessly on this random road." I knew it wasn't a random road. It was a somewhat major highway in New Jersey, the state in which I've lived my entire life except for my four years in college. A gas station was inevitable. (Turns out, there was one on every corner.)

"Don't tell me anything anymore," I barked. "I'm taking over." Then I actually used a work/blog analogy to bolster my new-found position of authority. "Sometimes the producer needs to just produce and the director just has to follow along, trust him, and keep up." As a point of reference, My Director doesn't take any lip from anybody, especially me.

Now here's where my comment from four hours earlier finally comes back to haunt me:

"YOU started it when you said neither of us checked to see if we were running low." And there it is. I KNEW she would bring it up. It was just a matter of when.

I had little defense. So I offered, "You're always checking the gas gauge from the passenger seat."

"I can't even see it from over here."

"You lean over constantly to check the gas." (And see how fast I'm going.) "That's your job as My Director." (Now I'm back to letting her direct.)

We eventually found a station, filled up, laughed at our lunacy and fell in love all over again by listening to some classic James Taylor on our way home. No matter what life throws our way, especially minor spats over running out of gas, the one constant is always us. How sweet it is to be loved by you:

I needed the shelter of someone's arms.  

There you were. 

I needed someone to understand my ups and downs. 

There you were.

Please take some time to catch up on some DKL you might have missed. I've been doing this on summer Mondays, telling a new story and then following it with links to a list of posts about that subject. Previous topics included My Director, Christmas, our Disney trip, and our swagger wagon. This week, I'm featuring songs, AKA "The Soundtrack of our Life." Enjoy:

Earlier this month I wrote how Thunder Road became Peanut's lullaby of choice.

There is a song from a movie that helped me through the toughest time in my professional career. It's called "Little Wonders."

A few months ago, Peanut and I were obsessed with a song by Rihanna of all people. It was perpetually The Song in My Head. (There's crazy Peanut-dancing video in this one.)

Whenever we're in the car, it seems a song by one particular band will always come on the classic rock station I listen to. It's important to me that Peanut Hears The Who.

Here's another Springsteen song that got me thinking about the role we play in the dreams of our children. He tells a story during a live performance that made me realize we are their Dream Keepers.

The story of how I came to call my wife "My Director" starts with our struggle to pick a wedding song. It's all in "Allow Me To Re-Introduce..."

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The Coolest Birthday Gift Ever

One year ago today, My Director gave me what I still consider, as you could tell by the title of this post, the coolest birthday gift ever. She wrote this guest post - the first ever on DKL - in honor of  my 36th birthday. She is not a writer, says she had no fun doing it, but did it anyway because she loves me. And she hit it out of the park. Today I'm 37, but this post is still just as awesome. Enjoy:

Does Daddy Know Less?

Who is DKL really? He writes freely and honestly, but how honest can anyone truly be about themselves? Well, in this first ever guest blog post, I, his wife, am here to tell you on this very special day- his birthday, who he really is.

He is indeed all of the things he says he is: narcissistic, needy and self-absorbed. But he sells himself short. He is also sensitive, kind, and loves me more than I ever thought one person could. Does he have a temper? Yes. Is he moody like a woman at that time of the month? Often. Self critical? Too much. In fact, he asks a little too often for a male if I think he looks fat (a side effect of being a fat kid growing up). But what I have always been drawn to is what is underneath that gruff exterior once you scratch the surface.

He truly is a 36 year old man.

If asked, I would have to say that one of my favorite traits about my husband is that he is a big kid at heart. He becomes whatever character the Peanut asks him to and allows that character to consume him. Whether it's Zurg from Toy Story or Aladdin her prince. It does not matter how foolish it may be. He stays in full character.

He often gets annoyed with my mom when he comes home from work and the playroom is staged from their latest pretend world. But you know what? On the days when he is home with the Peanut, what do I come home to? A pretend world and a mess. Most recently it was a train made out of chairs with all of her stuffed animals in the seats with him at the head as the conductor:

All aboard the Mess Express!

Oh, he and my mother are more alike then he would ever be willing to admit...

No one is funnier than dad.

What only enhances his being a big kid is that he is also truly very funny. No one, and I mean no one, can make the Peanut belly laugh harder than he can. Our house is filled with the echoes of "More Daddy, do it one more time" until they are both on the floor laughing. Exhausted. One of her favorites is when he collapses on her and pretends to be asleep until I come to save her and tickle him.

During a recent tour of the Ben and Jerry's factory in Vermont, the tour guide was having some very embarassing technical difficulties when trying to show a movie. The crowd was hushed. That's when my husband asked the group if anyone had checked if the TV was on Channel 3.

He got more laughs at that moment than the tour guide did the whole tour. What warmed my heart the most is how my daughter turned to me and asked with a smile on her face, "Were they all laughing at Daddy?" She was so amused by that. In that moment, I was reminded of one of the many reasons I love him.

I see his humor in her and will be forever thankful that she got this from him because laughter will always allow us as a family to enjoy each other and for others to enjoy us.

Always reminding us that
there is no reason to cry
over spilled milk.

DKL is also the person who grounds us and keeps us real. At times I have a tendency to get worked up over the smallest things. He is always the one who brings me back to reality. Reassuring me that we can handle anything.

One of my favorite pieces of advice MY father ever gave me was right before we became parents. He told me as long as we put each other first as a couple our family will remain strong and intact. He said, "Your children are of course important and you will love them more than you ever thought possible. But it is your relationship as husband and wife that is the most important. If your kids see that you are a unit and are always there for each other, your family will be stronger for it."

Now, I don't mean to brag, but those who know us often say that one of the most obvious traits DKL exhibits is his love for me. It is for this alone, that I know our family will always be alright. His ability to love. I know he has the largest piece of his heart reserved for me and next in line is the Peanut (and Luna).

We are definitely a couple who bickers, but our ability to move past our differences and always work on making us better is what will allow us to live a long happy life together.

DKL and me: Best Friends.

I don't mind that our daughter sees us in our best and worst moments together because she also sees the commitment we have towards each other.

Over the past four years, I have loved being able to see my husband express himself to all of you through this blog. I worry at times that his writing for the masses may cause him to lose himself and write to please all of you. My promise in all of this is to always be the one behind him making sure he is true to himself because to me, DKL in his purist form is the man I love and the blogger who is going to go far.

Happy Birthday to a Daddy who says he knows less, but knows a lot more than he thinks.

I have a new post of my own appearing on You Know It Happens At Your House Too today. It's a funny post about the moment I realized we can't spell in front of Peanut anymore. You can read it here.

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The Junk in My Trunk

My phone rang on an otherwise routine Tuesday. As they once joked on Seinfeld, Tuesdays have no feeling. But that was all about to change drastically. On the other line, My Director hit me smack in the face with a pungent problem:

"The car smells really bad. Are you sure you cleaned all of the milk that spilled?"

When I came home from grocery shopping on Sunday, I opened the trunk only to find a grocery bag filled with milk. The plastic gallon jug had cracked open somehow. I performed what I thought was a thorough cleaning. Apparently not.

"I think I know what happened. I probably missed some of the milk that got into the crevices of the molding." 

"Can you COME HOME EARLY to clean it?" (Mind you, she's home.) 

"Are you serious?" (When did I become Mr. Belevdere?) 

"It smells really bad. Peanut says it smells like garbage. And it really does."

I was later informed that upon pickup from camp, the swagger wagon smelled so bad that Peanut actually cried when she got back into the car. Regardless, I arrived home at normal time. After getting dinner started (Reminder: I'm a catch, ladies), I checked out the car. This is what I found:

Quoting Shawshank:
"Smelling Foulness That I Can't Even Imagine."

This is why doctors don't like to make a diagnosis over the phone. Because once I saw it for myself, I could see and smell that my initial assessment was WAY off. The milk had seeped under all of the beach chairs and toys I had stored back there for summer. (You see, I always like to be prepared in case a spontaneous beach emergency pops up. Who needs to waste time carrying all of that stuff fifteen feet from the garage to the car?) But here, my readiness backfired because I had no idea of the real mess the milk had caused. On Sunday, I just  cleaned what I saw, ignoring the principal law of spilled-fluid dynamics stating that milk goes anywhere it damn well pleases, especially where you can't see or reach it.

My Director hosing off the emergency beach supplies.

Since I do not have the capital to install smell-o-vision technology for you here on the DKL site, let me describe it the best way I can. Disgusting, rotting, fermenting death. Or, as I stated on the DKL Facebook page at the time, I officially knew what Henry Hill felt like after moving the body of Billy Batts in Goodfellas:


Cue tons of Resolve, baking soda, hours of vacuuming, and then an overnight fabric softener mask:

Thanks to my my friend Dave at
Musings of Munch for the suggestion.

The next morning the swagger wagon smelled considerably better... until it got hot out. More baking soda, more vacuuming. There was still a smell, but it wasn't nearly as foul as the day before. And those dryer sheets did help big time.

As My Director and I drove to an appointment later that day, I said:

"I kind of feel like this is what it's like to drive in a dryer."

"Or a garbage truck." 

"Yeah. Or a garbage truck IN a dryer."

Every morning, My Director and I have a quick phone conversation as she's starting her day and I'm putting together my show. My first question is always some form of, "How's Peanut?" Now? My first question is, "How does the car smell?" Suffice it to say, as we approach its second birthday our beloved swagger wagon has forever lost its new car smell.

(Please take some time to catch up some DKL you might have missed. I've been doing this on summer Mondays, telling a new story and following it with links to previous posts about that subject. Today's story allows me to reintroduce a topic I don't often bring up: our swagger wagon. Enjoy:) 

Inquiring minds wanted to know how we survive as two working parents with one car. So I answered with Dude, Where's My Car?. (This post is nostalgic now, since My Director took a new job in our town and now does pickup herself.)

I do have what some might describe as an unhealthy love for my swagger wagon. It's all because I sometimes wish the rest of life could be as easy as my minivan makes things, with The Push of a Button

We almost lost our beloved swagger wagon during a destructive autumn snow storm last year. See how close we came in The Joys of Homeownership: Jersey Chainsaw Miracle

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I Don't Want It All (Guest Post by Mary Tyler Mom)

This is a proud moment in DKL history right here. There are no adequate superlatives to describe how I feel about the person who wrote this post, Mary Tyler Mom. So I'll use some simple, old-fashioned nouns: Respect. Reverence. Love. Admiration. Awe. She tackles issues head on, with grace and dignity, eloquence and elegance.

This week, the subject of an article in The Atlantic that's making the rounds this summer came up as My Director and I sat on the beach with friends. I implored her not to read it because it would just make her angry and frustrated. The title alone made ME angry and frustrated: "Why Women Still Can't Have It All." In this blog post, MTM responds to the article in a way only she can. As always, she is able to channel what I'm feeling and put it much better than I ever could:

I DON'T WANT IT ALL

by: Mary Tyler Mom

If you are a mommy blogger on this here Internet, you can't shake a keyboard without hitting a response to the cover story of the latest issue of The Atlantic (July/August 2012). Anne-Marie Slaughter boldly offers an explanation as to why women still can’t have it all.

My gut reaction? I don’t want it all.

Oh. That feels good to say. Imma do it again: I DON’T WANT IT ALL.

“All” is defined as the trifecta of career, children, relationship, and more specifically, career, children, relationship in perfect balance and harmony. Slaughter offers a diagnosis of why having it all is not possible and presents her readers with a prescription for how to fix it so that ALL becomes achievable.

Her diagnosis is an interesting window into the lives of working women 20-30 years older than me. I honor these gals, as they did not have it easy. Because of them, I had it easier. After my first child was born, I opted to return to work on a part-time basis. My Dad, a working class white man and 72 at the time, embraced the arrangement I had created - “You’ll be away from your daughter just enough to appreciate her more when you’re with her.” If a man like my father can be converted to embrace a woman’s right to choose her path in life, your movement has been successful.

Dr. Slaughter notes that personally, she felt caught between an older generation of feminists and a younger generation of women more often opting to remain at home and raise children full time, abandoning their professional selves in the process. She believes in and is working towards striking that elusive balance which will allow her both personal and professional selves. The personal self, it should be noted, appears more related to being a mother rather than a wife. Dr. Slaughter wants it all and believes she can have it, but only if her prescription is followed by the larger society.

Quite honestly, reading this article made me feel anxious and panicky. And I am not prone to either of those things. And full disclosure, Slaughter appears to be addressing her concerns and solutions to women and others like herself – white, privileged, super achievers. She says as much herself. Now granted I am white and privileged (and simply being white is its own privilege), but the whole super achiever thing is what gets me going.

I used to be on a path to stardom. I had a graduate degree, worked in a gracious setting doing meaningful work and was recognized for my achievements. I had a good life. Really good. I married at 31 to a man that is lovely in so very many ways. I was fast tracking my career (clinical social work) and placed enormous pride and identity in my professional self. My husband was ready for children long before I was. I bargained with him occasionally – “Soon,” or, “We’ll talk about it this summer.” I honestly believed I didn’t have space in my very rich and full life for children; that I would suck as a mother because I was too self-involved.

And then I moved to Cancerville.

My Mom was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor (GBM) in March 2004. The day after she bled out in front of a slot machine in Biloxi, Mississippi, I was scheduled to present at a professional conference alongside one of my rock star mentors. I womanned up and got through it, but there was a cosmic shift for me in the weeks that followed.

My folks moved back to Chicago and 4-5 nights a week I left the office and drove to their home – a rented apartment close to her hospital. I cooked, I cleaned, I carted their laundry home. I bathed and toileted my Mom as her hemorrhaging tumor would leave her paralyzed the last year of her life. I woke up one day a few months into this new routine and realized I wasn’t nearly as selfish as I thought I was. I was a caregiver. It was an epiphany – if I could care for my Mom, certainly I could care for a baby.

No longer did I stay at the office until 6:30 or 7 every night, feeling more than faintly superior towards my colleagues. No longer did I book speaking engagements or submit conference proposals. No longer did I supervise a University of Chicago social work intern, seeking his or her own fast track to clinical stardom.

I cooked and I cleaned and I laundered and I wiped and I carried and I shopped and I loved and I cared and I laughed and I listened and I cried and I stopped. I stopped wanting the next thing. I stopped thinking that thing was somewhere outside my orbit, or even my home.

I stopped wanting it all, or even imagining that was possible.

When my daughter was diagnosed with her own aggressive brain tumor in March 2007, I knew the caregiving drill. I left my career immediately, only half-way looking back at the big promotion I had achieved – my first(!) just seven weeks earlier. In the face of my daughter’s cancer, having it all held no relevance whatsoever. None. For me at that time, having it all would have meant a cure for my Donna, but in Cancerville, as in life, having it all is simply impossible.

Donna died and I had another cosmic shift. I am still finding my way. I returned to my career, such as it was, fourteen months after burying my girl. I no longer do clinical work, as I no longer have the capacity to listen to the problems of strangers. I do good work for a meaningful cause, but the emptiness I live with goes with me to the office, just as I carry it everywhere else.

And this is where Slaughter’s prescription raises my blood pressure. She seeks to create an environment where happiness is valued, where family responsibilities are acknowledged and accommodated, where having it all – career, children, relationship – is not the struggle it is today. And how does she do this? In a nutshell:

• Allowing women to work from home using flex time, evenings, and weekends;
• Integrating technology enabling a worker be involved without being present; 
• Encouraging remote work locations; 
• Changing school schedules to accommodate working parents; 
• Recognizing “mandatory setting-aside of work” times, e.g., a Friday Sabbath; 
• More strategically planning children’s birth to accommodate a professional “arc”; 
• Scheduling “professional pauses,” like a year in China so your children can learn Mandarin; 
• Eliminating business meetings between the hours of 6-8PM to accommodate family meals; 
• Embrace a “national happiness project”; 
• Integration of non-work lives with work lives; 
• Bringing our men along for the ride (oh yeah, men are part of this equation, too).

You see what I mean? Even as I typed that list, my blood pressure rose. There is so very much wrong with Slaughter’s prescription that it makes me want to slap her then run home to hug my child, whispering sweet nothings into his toddler ears while I bake him chocolate chip cookies.

What Dr. Slaughter is proposing is a complete blur of boundaries between personal and professional selves. Somehow, some way, she believes “face time,” as she calls it, is optional for both office and family. She values a two-hour slot for family meals every day from 6-8 PM, but makes no mention of commute or cooking. It is as if a parent can transport home and press their Jane Jetson button in the kitchen that will produce a fully cooked and no doubt nutritionally balanced meal. Slaughter wonders in amazement at the Jewish professional who can set aside work responsibilities every Friday to recognize his Sabbath. For her, this is aspirational – the act of not working for a 24 hour period on a regular basis. Oy vey is all I can say.

So, no, I don’t want it all. I want none of what Dr. Slaughter is selling. I reject it in total and will leave it to the super achievers of the world to find that balance. I embrace my mediocrity and feel in my bones that having it all is not humanly possible. I require a separation of personal and professional selves and value it as strongly as our forefathers valued the separation of Church and State.

If I were a super achiever like Dr. Slaughter, I would have discussed where men fit in this whole question. I didn't touch on the whole premise that "having it all" assumed a wife was in the picture. And I didn't mention how plain exhausted I feel at the end of the night after putting my kid down. Or Slaughter’s contradictions in the article, and there were several. I didn't mention how rarified the air this woman breathes is or how she didn't once mention a nanny or the help she relies on or the quality of her marriage. I didn’t go near the concept of a 40-hour work week and how quaint that is these days and how that concept can be kissed goodbye. Ugh. If only I were a super achiever like Dr. Slaughter, I would have done that, too. But I’m not.

Sheila Quirke blogs under the moniker Mary Tyler Mom (http://www.chicagonow.com/mary-tyler-mom/) for ChicagoNow and under her own name at Huffington Post. She directs Donna’s Good Things (www.donnasgoodthings.org), raises her son, and supports her husband. At the end of the day she prefers to go to bed rather than head back to the office for a meeting.

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