Remembering to Laugh and Cry

"I woke up this morning to an empty sky." -Bruce Springsteen

I didn't know anyone who died 12 years ago today. I know people who knew people. That's as far as my connection to the victims goes. But still, I mourn. I think about what happened that day and I still shake my head in disbelief. How could that have happened? It's still mind-boggling, even though we lived it. Thinking about it still evokes confusion, anxiety, sadness. There was a time when we weren't sure it was ok to laugh. When we did, it made us feel normal again, at least for a moment. The first time I truly laughed after 9/11 was shortly after the first time I really cried.

I work in television news. During the marathon of wall-to-wall coverage of the biggest news event we'll ever witness, sleep was hard to come by. Few of us wanted to take a break since the brave men and women at Ground Zero were not stopping their work either. After all, we were not providing a fraction of the service, making a fraction of the sacrifice, toiling through a fraction of the heartache they were.

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Cutting Corners: Confession of a Hurried Dad

Dear Peanut,

I don't write you letters nearly as often as I'd like. This time, however, extenuating circumstances have forced me to come clean. Those circumstances mainly being my guilty conscience and... well, not much else. But before I come clean, I need to give you a warning: Be careful what you wish for.

Recently you switched your daily lunch request from chicken nuggets to peanut butter and jelly. You did so despite my mild protests. You see, my princess, it is a lot easier for me to make you a week's worth of nuggets on Sunday night, store them in the fridge, and gather four of them at a time every morning along with some peas and blueberries for a balanced and delicious lunch.

That's the special spreader.

On the other hand, making a fresh PB&J every morning while I'm rushing off to work is a mess and a hassle. The bread, the ingredients, the special PB&J spreader. (Yes, there is such a thing and we have one.) The crumbs on the counter. Not to mention the biggest hassle of them all: the removal of the crust. (Quickly followed by the subsequent ingestion of the crust because daddy doesn't like to waste food.) On top of all of that, add to the equation a spoiled dog who believes she is entitled to peanut butter any time the jar is taken out of the pantry.

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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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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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Celebrate Real Well

I plan on making the most of this Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday where there really isn't all that much stress. No costumes. No gifts. No cards, church obligations, or pictures with Santa or the Easter Bunny. There's the cooking... but Thanksgiving is usually not my holiday to cook. My Director and I are in charge of Christmas Eve. Even though we are hosting Thanksgiving this year as well, there's not much to preparing a turkey, some stuffing, and popping it in the oven for a few hours. Our guests will fill in the blanks.

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We Survive and Rebuild Because We're #JerseyStrong

"Tonight I'm gonna take that ride. Cross the river to the Jersey side... 'Cause down the shore everything's alright." -Tom Waits

At the very worst, Sandy has inconvenienced the DKL family. I use the word "inconvenienced" specifically here because so many others have it dramatically worse. In our house, we lost power for two days.

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Everything Happens For a Reason

"Everything that happens happens as it should. And if you observe carefully, you will find this to be so." - Marcus Aurelius

Thanks to a confluence of several events, I missed my bus on Monday. First, the clocks in the kitchen were set a few minutes earlier after a brief power surge over the weekend. Then, the bus probably ran a bit early due to fewer riders on Columbus Day. And finally, because of the holiday the guys I usually wait with at the bus stop weren't there to hold the bus for me.

Seeing the bus fly by my street, I shattered the pre-dawn quiet shouting, "NO! STOP!" I thought I caught a break when it stopped at the next block. I shouted, "hold the bus!" And started sprinting. It didn't wait. Crap.

Now I'm mad. Frustrated. I instantly decided to drive into the city. My Director didn't need the swagger wagon since Peanut did not have school that day either. Instead of driving to the train, My Director would take the bus to work. (And catch it on time.)

As I drove toward the Lincoln Tunnel confident I would make it to work on time, I calmed down. I thought to myself, there must be some reason this happened. I had no idea what that reason was. But believing that there was one allowed me to maintain a certain level of clarity and didn't allow the annoyance to take over. Such spontaneous introspection is rare for me. And I must say, I liked it.

Later that day, I had found my reason. I was at the gym. Normally, I have precious time to waste if I go to the gym because I am at the mercy of the train or bus schedule. Normally, missing my ride home isn't an option since I am in charge of daycare pickup. This day, however, I had no pickup obligations since Peanut was happy at home with a pre-determined babysitter. (My mother-in-law.) No need to rush for mass transit since I had driven.

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Soundtrack: New York State of Mind

"I know what I'm needin' and I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York State of Mind." -Billy Joel

I have always considered myself a New Yorker. Maybe part of that is envy, from growing up in New Jersey. As I've grown older, I've learned to wear my New Jersey roots as a badge of honor. I'm proud of it. Still, to use a line from that famous tourism ad campaign, "I love New York." I love New York even though my hometown is actually closer to Philadelphia than it is to New York.

"Some folks like to get away. Take a holiday from the neighborhood. "

I've just always identified more with New York than any other place. A lot of that is growing up a fan of Billy Joel, more so than Bruce Springsteen. A lot of that is my family being from Jersey City, right across the Hudson River. My parents grew up in the shadow of Manhattan. And let's be honest: New York is a hell of a lot cooler.

There is a framed picture of the New York city skyline as we once knew it hanging in our bedroom. I gave it to My Director for Christmas 2001, three months after the attack on our city:

I broke down in tears when she opened it. Because our city was healing, but still badly scarred. The wounds were still sore. The horror still fresh in our minds.

"I don't have any reason. I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York state of mind."

That song by Billy Joel was the last song we put on our wedding CD, the thank-you gift we gave to our guests. A compilation of songs about us, about our love and our life. Is there anything better than his slow, cool piano solo in the beginning of this song? The saxophone at the end? We were married in Pennsylvania, where My Director is from. I am born and raised in New Jersey. We lived in Hoboken, the town right next to Jersey City, at the time. But we were always in a New York state of mind. We always will be in our hearts.

"It was so easy living day by day out of touch with the rhythm and blues."

I treat New York like one of my siblings. Respect. Love. Loyalty. With full knowledge of some of its more annoying quirks and habits. Drivers that insist on speeding up to red lights. Cabs who think having the right of way means they are legally permitted to run you over. The throngs of tourists in Times Square who pose as a daily obstacle course as I make my way to the bus ride home. And whatever that appetite suppressant of a stench is on summer mornings that is so gag-worthy it makes eating anything on the go impossible.

"I'm walkin' here." (I've done this many times myself.)

Like my siblings, I accept New York's faults on most days. That's just who she is. Then there are the days it's so aggravating I lash out with an audible F-bomb of my own. But like I do with my sisters and brother, I defend New York to outsiders, even if they're right. While New York can be a jerk sometimes, she's my jerk and it's none of your business.

Most of my time in New York is spent at work. And I must admit there are times I'm walking from place to place and hear a car backfire or a crash-boom at a construction site and it'll startle me. For a split second I'll fear the worst again. But if 9/11 taught me anything at all, it taught me that our city will always be here. They can knock down buildings but they can't knock us down.

I love New York. For its strength, its majesty, its diversity. But most of all, I love it for its resiliency.

Enjoy this great live version of Billy Joel's tribute to the greatest city in the world:
 Last year I shared the story of one of my greatest professional accomplishments, and how it serves as a daily reminder of 9/11. You can read it here.

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I'm No Expert (And Neither Are You)

"Waste no time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one." -Marcus Aurelius

There's a word that I think is used too often in the media. And now it's permeating the blogosphere too. That word is "war." As a television news producer, I implore my colleagues not to use that word when describing anything other than an actual war. An argument, a disagreement, a scuffle, even a battle. But not a war. Wars are brutal, ugly, and tragic.

So all of this talk lately about "parenting wars" and "mommy wars" really irritates me. It's insulting to those who actually fight real wars. First off, let's end the "war." Second, let's everybody relax.

Ladies, ladies: you're both smart and hard-working.
And you're both making your kids uncomfortable.

The Hilary Rosen-Ann Romney spat started it. Then came the Time magazine cover meant to shock and awe. (Pardon the war pun.) In discussing these wars spats-at-best, I've seen more and more bloggers and parents calling out each other and being nasty while doing it. And it's not just moms and mommy bloggers. A militant faction of stay-at-home dad bloggers are demanding their due, their place in the parenting hierarchy. Instead of demanding attention, why don't we all just take care of our kids the best we can? Only your children need to know what a good, involved parent you are. Still, if you must, there are ways to disagree with people without being a jerk about it. That may seem ironic coming from a "ready-fire-aim" kind of guy like myself, but I am seeing a level of discourse that is just unproductive and unnecessary.

Usually the loudest people aren't the best leaders. They're just attention seekers. Unfortunately, they get a lot of attention anyway.

Found this gem to illustrate the ridiculousness
of this whole "debate."

One more thing: writing a daddy blog does not make me an expert on parenting. Blogging doesn't make any blogger an expert on anything. Too often I see posts offering parenting tips, or opinions on one way to parent over another. I think this is dangerous and presumptuous. Dangerous because no two children are the same. What works for one probably won't work for another. And I say presumptuous because no one asked you.

Look, I call my blog "Daddy Knows Less" because I DON'T have all the answers. I'm doing this for the first time. I've never had a five year-old daughter before. And if I have one again, I can assure you the same eating, sleeping, and potty training habits won't apply. I am here to share my account of my journey of fatherhood. Not offer help. When WE need help? We turn to our parents, our friends, a doctor. Maybe, but rarely, a book or magazine as a last resort. Inevitably, we go with our gut. Never a freakin' mommy or daddy blog. Please say it isn't so.

Being a dad blogger doesn't make me a good dad either. These are stories. Moments in time. Triumphs and failures. Yes, failures. We all have them as parents, no matter if we breastfeed our kids or not, and for however long. I would say most of us have way more triumphs. But we share the stories of the failures so everyone who reads us knows they are not alone. That we mess up too. (And a lot of times it's funny.)

Maybe a story about a failure inspires a conversation that ends up helping someone. But a blogger shouldn't preach. We should document, share, and engage. And we shouldn't judge or blast each other for our parenting styles or choices. Especially if someone is doing their best for their child.

Leave the advice to the professionals. Let's build a community where bloggers and readers can share their experiences. Leave wars to real soldiers.

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The Pick-Up Artist

"Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you." ~Robert Fulghum

Since I became in charge of daycare pickup a couple of years ago one thing has become perfectly clear: I have no time for nonsense. I am the whirling-dervish dad at pick-up time. In and out in less than five minutes with very little if any eye contact, let alone social interaction. You'll be lucky if you get a hello from me.

This is not social hour. It's a business trip. And my business is to get my daughter, collect her things, strap her in her car seat, get home and start dinner. I am a running back, carrying the ball with a full head of steam, my eyes on the endzone. And it's third down and a long way to go.

How the hell do all of these social-butterfly parents have time to talk? And who's cooking dinner in their house if they have time to chit-chat about God knows what at the most crucial, time-crunched, pressure-packed, stressful time of my day? (Please keep in mind that I am television news producer who faces hard deadlines and time constraints every hour of every day.)

What are these people doing? Don't they have more productive things to do? Meals to prepare? Dogs to walk? Baths to administer? I am as befuddled as I am annoyed in these situations.

Get your Baby Huey out of my way

And get your kid out of my way. It's not cute that your newly-walking bundle of burps wants to open the door by himself. It's wasting my time. That door is heavy, I have a handful of artwork that I am balancing like a circus act, and I need to get the hell out of here and get on with my life. Your adorable little Baby Huey can learn to open doors at home. 

I dont even interact with the people I'm friends with when I see them. I am a man on a mission. And most times I will stop at nothing to carry out that mission. Parking, for instance. If I pick up Peanut later (around 5:45pm), the parking lot is often packed. Annoyed, I scan the front of the building where there is room for two cars to park illegally at curbside. No such luck. Two other parents have already beaten me to it. My last resort is the spot that clearly is not a spot because it is painted as such and is located under a tree. Or, in desperate times, the handicapped spot right next to it. (I am not the only one who does this. But I don't blame you for judging.)

The sign is clear. I don't care

One day last week, I pulled into that handicapped spot, slammed the swagger wagon into park, turned it off, and jumped out. I'm half sprinting as I hit the button to lock the car. As I'm ready to take the steps to the front door two at a time to illustrate just how rushed I am, I spot a friend and her two children, one of whom is in Peanut's class.

"Mommy, he's not allowed to park there," the younger child, a 4 year-old girl, said. 

The mom looked me in the eye, smirked as if to say, "Gotcha," and relayed the message to me in case I didn't hear. Since I was on my mission, I didn't.

Without blinking an eye, I snapped back, "Sometimes ya gotta break the rules kid."

Sometimes... like day care pickup. Stay out of my way. This is no time to lollygag.

Once we're home, my mission continues with the cooking of dinner. I'm also a whirling dervish in the kitchen, as I wrote here.

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Little Wonders

Sometimes inspiration and perspective come from the most unlikely places. And when you least expect them.

Peanut was six months old when I took what I thought was the job of my dreams. I was the producer of the five o'clock news at the NBC affiliate in New York. A legendary newscast. Turns out, my dream job was a nightmare. Like any industry, mine has difficult people to work for and work with who made going to work a chore that I dreaded. Their lack of confidence in me eroded my own confidence. At one point in talking to my mom about it she said, "I've never heard you sound like this before." She was right. I was no longer myself.

My little wonder and little helper

The only things keeping me going were My Director and baby Peanut. But I definitely took the burden of an awful work situation home with me most nights. I was often distant or short-tempered. I couldn't take my mind off it.

One night during this period My Director and I were watching Meet the Robinsons for the first time. She had DVR'd it, thinking it might cheer me up because that scene with the dinosaur saying he had a big head and small arms always made me laugh when I saw the preview.

The last scene of the movie shows Lewis, the main character who is an orphan, going home with the parents who adopt him. Throughout the movie, he's trying to find the mom who left him at the orphanage when he was a baby. But the overriding theme of the movie is putting the past behind you, inspired by a Walt Disney quote, "Keep moving forward."

Lewis realizes the past he was chasing wasn't nearly as worth it as the future that was before him, and as he does, "Little Wonders" starts playing:

Let it go

Let it roll right off your shoulder

Don't you know

The hardest part is over

That song came on during this emotional last scene and the lyrics grabbed hold of us. We both started crying. We didn't even hide it like you often do when you're watching a poignant scene with someone, even if that someone is the one person it's ok for you to cry in front of.

My Director carried me those ten months. It was only ten months, but it felt like ten years. And she carried me, just like she did after my dad died.

If it's me you need to turn to 

We'll get by

It's the heart that really matters in the end

Peanut doesn't know it, but she carried me too. This perfect little happy baby. She was so good and such a joy to be around. So easy to please and appease.

Meet the Robinsons is now one of Peanut's favorite movies. It's one of those movies we don't get tired of if she's on a streak of watching it consecutive times on consecutive days. She knows I love that part with the dinosaur. And she knows her mom and dad will always be there, helping her move forward when she's stuck in a rut. My little wonder helped me out of one of my biggest ruts.

Sometimes we get wrapped up in ourselves, in our issues, in whatever is plaguing us at that particular moment in time. And to a large extent, I did too. But I was still able to embrace our little wonder. Enjoy her. Be there for her. Because she was there for me.

All lives are made

In these small hours 

These little wonders 

These twists and turns of fate

Time falls away

But these little wonders still remain

Thankfully, I found another job at an unlikely place, producing a financial news program at a national network. And I've thrived. I've never been happier professionally. I'm still here almost four years later.  

I have a playlist on my iPod with Peanut's name on it. Songs she likes. Songs I sing to her or used to sing to her. Songs that remind me of her. This song is the first one that playlist:

This post is part of a musical writing challenge posed by my friend Chris who writes a great blog called ...from the Bungalow. This is my favorite post of his.

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Count the Similarities

"When I'm alone, I count myself. One Count." -Count von Count, Sesame Street

I have a cool job. I am a television news producer at a national financial network. Naturally when I tell people, they are curious. They want to know the behind-the-scenes gossip. "What is so-and-so like off camera?"

I am lying to them. Kind of. That's because I am a vampire. Yes... a vampire. Mwahaha. I am a producer... but for The Count. That's right... this guy:

So yes, I work in television. And yes, I work in news, in that I am providing essential information in an interesting way and with a certain, shall we say, spin. And being that my portion of the show involves counting, I consider that financial.

Let me tell you, it is a pleasure to work with The Count. He needs very little hand holding and requires very little research. He's just that good. Trust me, I have worked with prima donnas and jerks. I could tell you stories about Count Chocula that will make you switch to Franken Berry in a heartbeat. The guy's a nightmare. Literally.

We won an Emmy for this

The Count and I just jive together. We're always looking for new and interesting ways to present the content. Using the organ in his castle to reveal the number of the day? My idea. I was also the one who said we should work with Cookie Monster and try to count apples as he's eating them. The end result was TV magic.

When we're done taping for the day, and I'm finally back at my desk, I call my wife, the Old Bat.

Rare photo of me & Old Bat: Halloween 2002

The Old Bat works full time at a local college, the Vampire College of New York. She's totally turned VCNY around. Since she took over as head of student affairs, NTDs are way down. (That's neck-transmitted diseases.) She says it's all about educating the students to use protection if they're going to bite each other. They try to promote abstinence too, but let's be honest: how many horny young vampires given the freedom of college for the first time are really going to abstain from biting?

She's now tackling the problem of  preying on the human students at NYU and Columbia. Because there are few things a young mischievous vampire loves more than liberal student blood. So sweet and idealistic.

This particular day, the Old Bat tells me she had received a call from the Peanut's daycare. One of the teachers was reporting an "incident." An incident of biting. We were so proud. And at the same time, a little sad and disappointed. We had missed her first bite.

Apparently, another boy wanted to play with a toy hearse she was playing with. When he went to grab it, the Peanut flashed her fangs and sank them into his arm.

When I shared this story with The Count he shouted, "One! One bite from the Peanut! Mwahaha!" He was so excited. Such a good guy.

Just remember: you and I - human and vampires - aren't that different after all: 

I get up before dawn and go to work in the dark. (I work an early shift.)

I spend a lot of time every day with zombies (me and my sleepy fellow commuters on the bus and train.)

At twilight I roam the Earth with an imposing, dark-haired beast. (I walk my dog, Luna.)

I am a slave to my family’s unending thirst and hunger. (I do the food shopping and cooking.)

My family has an aversion to water. (We all despise bath time.)

See? Vampires are people too.

You can read my reaction to the Peanut's REAL "biting incident" here

This was my entry for Week 7 of Blogger Idol. The assignment: a day in the life of your family if you were vampires. I thought it was fitting to save it for Halloween.

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9/11: A Constant Reminder

"I woke up this morning to an empty sky" -Bruce Springsteen

An Emmy sits on our mantle. Not many people can call themselves an Emmy-winner. But I can.

That gold statue serves as a constant reminder... of an accomplishment. And of a tragedy.

I won my only Emmy for my work covering the first anniversary of September 11th. That statue is so bittersweet. It almost seems like there shouldn't have been awards that year.

There was a feeling of helplessness when the attacks hit, and the towers came down. I especially felt helpless because all I wanted to do was get into work. I couldn't at first because the city was on lockdown. There was a bigger feeling of helplessness from our inability to provide any information or comfort to the countless families whose loved ones were missing.

I remember our reporter standing there live at the Armory, interviewing relative after relative awaiting word. None came. All he could do was comfort them. Temporarily. Momentarily. And all we could do was watch through the screens in the control room and not loose our sh!t, and concentrate on the next shot to go to.

It seemed every waking hour, for that entire year, was about 9/11. The firsts. The first month. The first Christmas. The six month anniversary. The wars. Then summer, and the planning for the one year anniversary.

Leading up to the first anniversary was like opening an old wound. I remember pouring my heart into that special. Not for me. But for them. The victims. Their families.

Obviously, I didn't do it for any award. I did it because it was my job. And I did it because I - we - felt that somehow we were serving these people in some way. We were easing their pain however slightly by telling their stories.

That night, when we signed off at 11pm, we all went out. Everyone at the station. Talent, bosses, technical crew, producers. Everyone.

We got hammered. I got really hammered. We were blowing off steam... a year's worth of steam. There was so much work to do from the moment that first plane struck to the moment Seinfeld (Seinfeld of all things) rolled right after us on the one year anniversary.

We all took a deep breath. And finally exhaled. I don't remember much about that night. I remember a friend put me in a cab to send me home... from the East Side of Manhattan to New Jersey.

Then I remember collapsing into a heap in the bathroom of our apartment maybe 45 minutes later. Kicking and screaming and crying and punching. My wife (who was my fiance' then) came in. I had obviously woken her up because it was late at night/early in the morning.

The tears started flowing, fueled by the alcohol, and they just didn't stop. She came in to console me. I remember yelling, "I can't do this anymore." And "I shouldn't have taken on this project. I can't handle it."

Over the next several years, I earned the job of 9/11 producer at each station I worked. Despite my drunken pronouncement in the bathroom in the early morning hours of 9/12/02, it became my thing.

But I could never forget that first time. When all of those memories came rushing back. When I finally let go and let loose.

Ten years later, I still wish there was more I could have done to help those who lost someone. Something more than wall-to-wall coverage. Something more than producing an Emmy-winning show.

But I can't. Nothing I can say or do can take away their pain.

9/11 taught us about the strength and triumph of the human spirit in the face of unspeakable tragedy. A daily reminder of that sits on our mantle. It is a testament to them.

And that is why I'm proud of that Emmy. But I'd trade it in a heartbeat if it would bring them all back.

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The Write Stuff

This was my week 4 assignment for Blogger Idol 2011: "Why do you write/what does it mean to you?"

Why do I write? That's like asking why I breathe. I can't help but to write. I need it to survive.

Writing is my catharsis. I want to let out my aggravations to put them behind me.

When I witness something out of the ordinary, or I find something extraordinary in the ordinary, I need to write about it. Whether I am happy or sad, angry or frustrated, writing is my outlet. I want to share my joys and document them forever. 

Nothing can stop me from writing

I need to see it written. Sometimes my hands can't type fast enough. That's how passionate I am about writing.

And yes, I want to become a blogger with a huge following and ink a book deal and all of that. So, there is part of me that does it for some kind of validation. To stay relevant at least to a modest group of followers in this gigantic world. Maybe I think what I have to say matters. That it might make someone's day or change someone's perspective.

I am also grossly self-absorbed, needy, and narcissistic. This is also why I write. 

Sometimes your writing won't be received the way you wanted it to be, the way you expected it to be. These times are borderline devastating.

On the other hand, when a piece that you're not crazy about gets rave reviews, it's exhilarating.

Good or bad, there is no time I feel more vulnerable as a writer than when I know one of my pieces is out there being read for the first time.

I experience this every day, not only in my writing, but also in my job as a television news producer. I am fortunate that I get to do a lot of writing at work. I challenge myself to be funny, or interesting, or both. I want to captivate my audience. I want to compel them to sit through that three and a half minute commercial because you absolutely have to find out the one thing you need to leave at home if you're traveling with a child this summer. (Don't worry, the answer is at the bottom.)

There are times when I think I've nailed something I wrote for my show, and in the commercial break my anchor will look into the camera and simply say, "that didn't make any sense." And I want to jump through the screen from my seat in the control room and smack him. But maybe he's right. Sometimes he is.

The beauty of writing, and of working in television news, is that there is always another piece to write or another show to produce tomorrow. So it's non-stop. You're always getting another chance.

It's also so subjective. The same amount of people can love and hate this piece. I want to high five the people who love it and ask them what they loved about it. I want to shake the people who hate it by the lapels and ask them what they hated about it. I want to try again, harder, for both groups tomorrow.

Writing is a part of me. As a boy I would go on adventures with my imaginary friends. As a teenager I would write song parodies to "Piano Man" based on our drunken escapades on the weekends. I've written wedding vows and eulogies. When I finally decided to propose to my wife, I wrote her a poem that contained a scavenger hunt that led to me with the engagement ring. I now write my wife blog posts instead of birthday cards. And I take the two or three lines that I write in a wedding card, a graduation card, a sympathy card very seriously. I want it to be memorable.

As for the one thing you need to leave at home when you're traveling with a child this summer: it's the word "no." I wrote about that here.

Writing. It's what I do.

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Freaky Friday

"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." -Theodore Hesburgh

The alarm sounds. The bright green numbers read an ungodly hour. Ungodly even though it's an hour and a half later than I normally wake up: 6:00. Did I oversleep? Wait... that's not my alarm clock. And what am I doing on this side of the bed?

I rub my eyes, thinking I must still be dreaming. I'm not. Something feels different. My hands feel smaller, smoother. The knuckles are less hairy and clunky. I think I'm just overtired. Imagining things because I would swear I feel different.


Smaller. Prettier?

I go to scratch myself, as I would any morning. Left hand to right 'groin' is always the opening move of my personal game of scratch-and-wake Twister. And... it's different. It's not there.

This is every man's worst nightmare. Worse than the naked-in-front-of-an-audience one. Worse than the haven't-been-to-class-in-weeks-and-finals-are-coming one.

My man parts are gone. Not only are they gone... they've been replaced. By lady parts. Holy good God, what have I done? What did I say? Did I touch a cursed idol and recite the wrong thing at the wrong time? Did I switch bodies with someone? Who?

I jump out of bed, panicked. I throw on the switch, and look in the large picture mirror that hangs over our dresser.

In it, a familiar face is staring back at me. Oh. My. God.

The face in the mirror

I'm gorgeous. I love this person so much.

I pinch myself. I'm definitely awake. This is no dream. Ok... where is she? For a brief fleeting moment, I think of the ridiculous statement I've made the few times my wife and I have joked about 'being each other for a day.'

"I wouldn't leave the bedroom," I've said. "And I'd have a lot of fun."

I now know how ridiculous that statement is. I've got so much to do, so much to figure out, and the last thing on my mind is sex... let alone with myself.

At that moment of clarity, the phone rings.

"We got our wish," she says. I hear her grinning as if she were planning this all along. "What? Where are you? Are you me?

"Yes. I'm in the city, on my way to work. Your work."

Once again...Oh. My. God.

"How the hell are you going to do it?"

"Like you always say," she answered. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she says. "Immensely."

We hang up. OK... focus. I can do this. Can I? I have no choice.

Shower. Do I need to shower? She doesn't shower every day. She's that clean and pretty. I shower twice a day. I'm that dirty and disgusting. I decide to shower, just in case.

This exercise is a maze of confusion and tribulation. I wish I had the time to enjoy myself loofa-ing my wife's body. But I need to get myself to work and my daughter to daycare.

Holy crap... the peanut. How am I going to trick her? Nothing gets by her.

I decide not to wash my hair to save time (knowing that my wife does this is very helpful). I throw my hair in a shoddy ponytail. I get dressed. I choose an outfit from the year I was adventurous enough to go into Anthropologie and buy her some clothing for her birthday. She loved all of it. Still does.

I put on a white skirt with green floral designs on it. A matching blouse. A pair of blown glass earrings that we bought on our honeymoon in Venice. A necklace that matches that. Shoes? Definitely not heels. Sandals.

Makeup. Makeup? My wife is pretty enough without it. I skip the makeup.

Do I look fat? That's something I ask myself every day. She has no such issues.

Of course not. I think I look amazing. (I think she looks amazing.)

The peanut stirs. Luckily, I know enough about their morning routine to get through without incident. I get her into the car. I've offered her a cookie to distract her from my awkward and petrified state. Drop off goes smoothly.

Now off to work. On the bus ride to the city, I look at my hands. Still perfect, but I wish I had time for a manicure. Same with my feet. A pedicure would be nice.

I think about my rushed time with the peanut. And the doubt starts to creep in. Do I pay enough attention to her? Am I working too much? Do I spend enough time with her?

Am I doing the right thing?

These are the things a working mother must think of before she tucks away the family obligations and starts focusing on the career ones.

The work day is, luckily, uneventful. It's summer and my wife works at a college. While there are a few issues to deal with, they are all by phone and email. There are a few strange interactions with her assistant. I actually snap at her with some of my trademark sarcasm at one point. Then quickly cover it up with an apology. "Don't mind me," I say. "I'm not myself today."

Literally.

It's still a full work day. Midway through the afternoon, I realize I hadn't even peed yet. Another mini adventure since even when my daughter goes, I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to wipe. And if I am causing irreparable emotional damage as a result.

On the bus ride home, all I think about is how badly I want see my family. I enter the house around 6:00 pm, exactly twelve hours after I boarded this roller coaster.

She's a momma's girl

My daughter excitedly yells "mommy!" as I come through the door. And despite the unfamiliarity of this affectionate greeting, it still feels good.

We hug. We kiss. We snuggle.

Then, the moment I've been waiting for. I go out the back door to find my wife, grilling hamburgers. But I'm staring at my own face. I look a lot more put together than I normally feel I am.

We smile. Hug. And I say, "You're pretty impressive."

"So are you."

Somehow we manage to endure the motions of the rest of the evening. Dinner, bath, walk the dog, bedtime.

We close the door to our daughter's room after 'one last hug and kiss.' My wife turns to me and asks, "Shall we turn in too and end this craziness early?"

"Actually, why don't we watch last night's Grey's Anatomy on DVR and then go to bed?

A lot in common, a lot in love

An hour or so later, as my head hits the pillow after an exhausting day on so many levels, I reflected on my day in her shoes.

She works hard. She worries sometimes she works too much. She loves her family more than anything.

She would like a manicure and pedicure.

She looks forward to new episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

Turns out, we're not that different after all.

I originally wrote this post for my Week 2 assignment of Blogger Idol 2011: "If I were the opposite sex for a day."

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