Dealing With it When Our Kids Act Ungratefully

My most guttural resentment comes when sacrifices are insulted. These moments, when an unrestrained, vindictive, anger emerges from my otherwise even temperament are also when I’m most ashamed as a father.

This weekend, I have been angry so many times I have a lingering headache as I’m penning this entry. I’m lost my temper, so many times this weekend, despite it being the first beautiful weekend of the season and we haven’t had any adversity or hardship.

It goes like this.

One of our big kids will just do something mean, either to me, Robyn, or his brother. And then, I feel such acidic resentment.

I did not skip my shower today so you could pour soap onto the carpet during your nap. I did not go out of my way to buy a coconut at the grocery at your request so you could spit on the floor or on me. I did not quit a job I liked, was proud of, and found meaning in so you could throw magnet tiles at me or punch me in the privates…I actually did it so I could be a more present father to YOU.

Your mother did not work diligently to create a part time work schedule so you could intentionally pull your brother off a balance bike on our family walk. Three off your grandparents did not leave their home countries in search of a better life so you two could terrorize each other or deliberately destroy books in front of my face because you know it makes me angry. Are you not grateful? Do you know how good you have it?

It’s damning. It hurts so badly and makes me so angry when my sons - or anyone really - takes the sacrifices I’ve made, the sacrifices that I’m trying to make quietly and keep quiet, and throws them back in my face. It’s insulting, infuriating, and maddeningly saddening.

My sons don’t realize any of this, of course. They don’t realize the gravity of the sacrifices that their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents have made so they could live the life they have. Hell, I didn’t get it at their age and probably don’t fully comprehend the degree of my ancestors’ sacrifices, even now.

Most of the time, I don’t want to tell them either. I, nor my parents and grandparents, made sacrifices in our lives to be able to tell great stories about ourselves and seek the applause of others. 

I wouldn’t want my sons to feel some deep shame about their fortunate circumstances, either. After all, it’s not their fault they were born into a loving and prosperous family. And, I don’t want them to have to know what it feels like to be broke and wondering whether our family will lose our house. So yes, I don’t want to throw the sacrifices I’ve made in their face - spiking the football is not what we do, so to speak.

At the same time, hearing stories of my parents sacrifice - especially from others - gave me a halo of sorts. I felt so loved and so compelled to honor their sacrifice by working hard and not taking it for granted. It’s part of being the children of immigrants - when we hear about the sacrifices of our parents and ancestors it is a unique kind of affirming love, that motivates us to try to be better and to not let their sacrifice be squandered. Honoring their sacrifice, builds confidence and inner strength.

I often worry about this at a societal level. 

Every person knows, deep down, I think that the most celebrated people on earth; the people who are loved, respected, and admired are not really exalted because of their accomplishments. They are lauded because of their sacrifices. This is as true for common people as it is for celebrities.

Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like our species has this radar and fascination with people who make sacrifices for something larger than themselves. We don’t, after all, tend to celebrate people who are born rich or with some sort of advantage from genetics or birthright.  We celebrate people who work hard and make huge sacrifices to contributed whatever it is that they’ve contributed. We may fixate and envy the successes of others, but we don’t revere the successes themselves. We revere those individuals’ capability for sacrifice.

Making sacrifices builds character and confidence. If I can make a sacrifice for something bigger than myself, if I can endure suffering. If I can persist for the greater good, if can do deed cut from this cloth of sacrifice, I have proven my inner strength. Nobody else has to know it, so long as I know it.

Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. If I haven’t made sacrifices, I also know that. I know that I am untested. I know my inner strength is unproven. I know that I might be weak. And that’s a devastating,  absolute lead balloon for building confidence. And I would imagine that lack of confidence and inner strength has to be compensated for somehow. If I know I am weak on the inside, I have to make up for it with my outward presentation to the world.

At a societal level, I think this has huge consequences.

Imagine if one generation of parents made big sacrifices during their lifetime and prepared them to make sacrifices during their own lifetime. Imagine if another generation tried to build the most comfortable life possible for their children, protecting them from ever having to make sacrifices for others. Those two generations, I think, would leave monumentally different marks on the world.

It’s such a paradox, I think. I don’t want to make noise about the sacrifices I’ve made, but I don’t want my sacrifices to be insulted by ungrateful children. I don’t want my children feel deep shame or know intense suffering, but I also want them to have opportunities to build inner strength. In some ways I need to tell stories about sacrifice, but in other ways that’s counterproductive. What’s a parent to do?

The only solution I can think of is to tell stories about the sacrifices of others. Instead of talking about my own sacrifices, I can tell my sons the sacrifices that their mother and grandparents made. I can let others tell my story, or let my sons ask me about my story and tell them the truth when they do. This is at least one way out of the paradox.

I hope, too, that elevating and honoring the sacrifices of others helps me to relieve myself of this searing resentment I have when our kids are so unintentionally insulting of the sacrifices we’ve made for them.

Radha, My Sister

Her hair would’ve been actually black, I think, two shades darker than mine. My hair being dark-dark brown, but which most people think is black from afar. Though a different shade and sheen, her hair would’ve had equivalent thickness and vigor. And, for some reason I know that she would’ve worn that black, thick, hair of hers just above the shoulders.

Until recently I had only been able to visualize the back of her head - I don’t know why - and get a single breath, though a full one, of her essence only from time to time.

I am an only child; I literally have no siblings, but yet she is my sister. My younger sister, I should specify. She was never born, never conceived. And yet, for years now I’ve had a strong intuition that she existed, even if only as a spirit in the spectral realm. I have not even seen her in a dream, but I still knew of her in a dream, and I knew she was my little sister.

Over the years I’ve discerned more and more about her. Sometimes memories of our relationship come to me in a daydream, or I might feel her presence, usually manifested in the intermittent, but often forceful, breeze of early springtime.

She would’ve been two and a half inches shorter than me, and built with a broader, sturdier frame, more like our father’s than our mother’s. An athletic build, you could say, though she was not athlete. For some reason, I knew she was quietly enamored with art and art history. She was able to sketch and draw, and was a handy seamstress, like our mother. She is the one who inherited the wanderlust of our father, and would’ve moved to a place like New York or San Francisco so she could be close to museums, culture, and cuisine.

For some reason, I know her name is Radha, and that Radha is serene. Stoic and of remarkably even temperament. But every now and again, I know, her charm would shine through unrestrained. Flashing a smile, and patting my back after listening patiently to me vent about something irrelevant - softly but sheepishly interjecting, “That’s how it goes sometimes, big brother” before sashaying off to the kitchen to get us both a glass of water.

Radha and Robyn would’ve had a wonderful relationship. Radha probably becoming an ally and collaborator of Robyn in her pursuits to make work more supportive of caregivers and mothers. Robyn probably becoming a role model and an informal mentor to her for navigating marriage and family life. I think they would’ve been close, confidants even.

And to the boys, she would’ve been a doting Aunt, taking them to the latest exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts whenever she was in town. And she would tell them stories about her and I growing up together, and stoke their interest in our Indian heritage. For some reason, I know she is more assured in her identity than me. And, I also know, for some reason, that she would find safety in the fact that I was her biggest cheerleader and loudest supporter.

I have been thinking about Radha lately because the past few weeks have been a magical time in our family. Our sons are forming a bond of brotherhood. Bo and Myles have taken Emmett into their pack, wordlessly and without initiation. They, even though they have now been brothers for five weeks, still spontaneously erupt into a chant of, “WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT!” Without prompting or notice.

And as I’ve seen our three sons become a cohesive unit, images of Radha have come to me - because I’ve finally been capable of it. I see their sibling bond, up close. I see and realize, in them, the relationship Radha and I would’ve had. It is like Bo, Myles, and Emmett are a portal into a sort of semi-real-semi-dreamworld - the past I could’ve had, with my sister who was never born.

For my whole life, I’ve had moments where I’ve so desperately missed Radha. But I am lucky to have had brothers and sisters who were not my siblings. Robyn’s siblings treat me more like a brother than a brother-in-law, even though we have no shared memories of childhood. And it sounds corny, but some of my fraternity brothers, really have become brothers to me.

I, too, have a deep bond with many brothers and sisters - which most other Americans would call cousins - despite geography and age. In Indian culture, we call our elder brothers “Bhaiya” or “Bhaisahib”and our elder sisters “Didi” or “Jiji” - it’s a sign of respect. It is one of my great gratitudes and joys in life to have people that I can call those things and really mean it, rather than just “cousin”.

And yet, I still think longingly about the time with Radha I never had and the memories that could’ve been. She would’ve kindly but firmly reminded me who I was when I was floundering in my early twenties. And I would’ve been her rock when our father died and her stoic personality succumbed to her broken heart.

I do feel more than a few shreds of ridiculousness talking about what to many might seem like an imaginary sister. And yet, there’s something of Radha I know exists. She is not a ghost. There’s a little speck of her soul I feel I am always carrying with me, as if my spirt had a charm bracelet with a link to her on it. My words here are merely animating and coloring her into a quasi-corporeal form that she will never take. But, still, she is real.

What a wonderful thing it must be to have siblings, in the real world, I mean. It truly injures me when our sons get into childish arguments. If they only knew what it was like to be the without-a-sibling-will-be-an-orphan-someday type of alone. I know in my head they will grow out of their intermittent terrorizing of each other, but I hope they someday go beyond that and sincerely appreciate the beautiful gift - a brotherhood - that they’ve inherited.

It is a bizarre thing to have a bond with someone who doesn’t exist, but it’s remarkably affirming and comforting. For Radha and me, it was not meant to be in this life. All I can do is hope that she’s listening or reading my blog, I suppose. And that whatever part of her spirt that is able to be carried is something I possess.

And someday, maybe just maybe, I will meet her once I pass from this world onto the next. I will meet her and she will be as I’ve imagined her. Waiting, with my father, at the front door of a bungalow atop a hill. The hill is grassy, like that of a mountainous, western state. And as I climb the hill, up the cobblestone walkway, she will be there with two glasses of water. And she will flash her unrestrainable charm, and say, softly but sheepishly, as I’ve always known her to: “Welcome home big brother, It’s so like you to be exactly five minutes late.” 

A Prayer Over Our Sons (on Emmett’s Birth Day)

February 28, 2022

Today, I prayed in the early morning instead of the evening. And it was a silent prayer, just with myself, instead of out loud with our whole family before tucking in the kids. When I first had the chance to hold Emmett about an hour after he was born today, a prayer just came over me.

It started as it usually does, with “Thank you God for this day, and for the good life we have…”

But today, the day-to-day blessings of family dinner, good friends and neighbors, our family, and the fresh air outside which I usually share in prayer were supplanted by prayers for our son, still weary from his 9 month journey into our arms.

Thank you God for today, and for the good life we have. Thank you God for bringing us Emmett. Thank you for he and Robyn both being healthy and safe. Thank you for the doctors and nurses who cared for them. The opening overture of this prayer was one might expect. But then, something deeper and purer started to emerge, involuntarily in my whispering thoughts.

I pray that he has a long and healthy life. I pray that he is able to learn and grow. I pray that he is able to contribute something in his life. I pray that he has a loving relationship with his brothers. I pray that we have many days and years with him, and as an entire family. I pray that he knows love and knows joy. I pray that he is able to experience both the simple and majestic beauties of nature and our world. I pray that his heart finds his way back to you, God. I pray that we can help him grow who he is to become, teach him right from wrong, and help him see life as the blessing that it is. I pray, God, for you to help us be the parents he needs us to be. And I pray for the chance to be good tomorrow.

Though not verbatim, this was my prayer over our son Emmett, on his birth day.

Sometime around lunch time, I began realize what I didn’t pray for earlier this morning. I didn’t pray that he’d become rich. I didn’t pray that he’d get into Harvard. I didn’t pray that he’d become famous. I didn’t pray for him to become a U.S. Senator or the President of the United States. I didn’t pray that he’d become a CEO of a publicly traded company. 

I didn’t pray that he would drive a Cadillac or a Porsche. I didn’t pray that he’d live in a house 2x-3x larger than our home in Detroit. I didn’t pray that he’d be the most popular kid in his high school. I didn’t pray that he’d find his what onto a who’s who list of his profession or his metro. I didn’t pray that he’d be the first person to set foot on Mars or find his way into the scrolls of human history.

Of course I didn’t pray for all that. When we are holding our children, literally, for the first time, power, status, and riches are among the things furthest from our mind. We pray over newborn children for something deeper and purer, because we know that the truest blessings in life - the ones we ask God or whatever we believe in for help to deliver - are deeper, and purer than power, status, and riches.

But, that’s surprising in a way. Emmett, today, is literally at the point in his life where his possibilities are most limitless. He was born, today. Anything is still possible, today. His choices are most unconstrained, today. Which in some senses makes it the perfect to contemplate large, aspirational dreams and pray for them, for him. If I wanted to pray for him to have power, status, and riches, today would be the day to do it.

Because starting tomorrow, the choices we make as parents and the slices of life he begins to experience will shape, ever so slightly, his future choices and possibilities. Even after a single day, path dependency starts. Today, the possibility set of his life is at its widest and wildest.

Emmett, Bo, and Myles, I’m now speaking to you directly here. I hope someday you stumble upon this post, after you’ve grown and started to make your way in this world. Because what I’m about to say is more than just an opinion, it’s a deeply-held conviction.

When I was growing up, adults around me - my parents, my family, my teachers, my parents’ friends, everyone - asked me the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” And answering that question, month after month and year after year started to shape my worldview without me evening realizing it consciously.

All those years of responding to adults about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I started to think being something and all that is related to what we be was most important. Without even realizing it, I started to believe that accomplishments were most important. That money and status, and ultimately the power that comes from being something was most important. Because, if these adults I loved and respected were asking me this all the damn time, how could what I become when I grow up not be important?

And it will be tempting for me to keep asking this question of what you three want to be when you grow up, instead of the more benign question of “what do you want your life to be like as an adult?” It will be tempting for me, because what you become reflects on me as your father. If you three become wealthy, respected, or powerful it will elevate how our community and our culture see me. 

Even though I try, sometimes desperately, to strip myself of this ego, I am a mortal man, and I haven’t reached that level of enlightenment yet. The chance to elevate how the world sees me is still a temptation.

I don’t have the data to back this up quite yet, but I have a strong intuition that’s a substantial reason why adults ask this question - our selfish desires to be praised for the accomplishments of our youth emerge. We’re only human I suppose.

Boys, listen carefully and remember this: you do not have to achieve money, status, and power for me. You do not need to live your life to prove something to me. You do not need to become successful by conventional measures of success to validate me. It is not your responsibility to help me become a respected man because I took a role in raising impressive sons.You three are not here to justify your mother and I as parents. 

You three, beautiful, honest, intelligent, kind-hearted boys - you need no justification. You owe nothing to me, directly. Your mother and I didn’t choose to be parents because we wanted something from you.

What you owe is what we all owe through our inter-temporal bonds. These are the bonds that bind us to the generations that came before us and the generations, God-willing, to come after us. We all owe something to those that came ahead and those that will come behind our time living on earth.

We owe it to those people who came before us to honor and cherish the sacrifices they made for us. We owe it to those that will come after us, even many centuries in the future, to make sacrifices so their lives may be better. That is what we owe. You do not owe that to me, we all owe it to all of them.

And the way I see it, the best way to honor our inter-temporal bonds are to live long, healthy, lives. Or to make a contribution to our communities and broader societies. It’s to experience joy, love, and nature. It’s to devote our lives to others - our families, friends, communities, and for some, 

There is a reason your mother and I pray for your health, and for time together, and for you to know love , joy, beauty, and God. Achieving riches, status, and power do not honor our inter-temporal bonds, those things are too impermanent. The way we honor these sacred bonds is to live fully, with goodness, honesty, gratefulness and grace. 

What I’ve found in my almost 35 years, too, is that life is sweetest when we live in a way which honors our inter-temporal bonds. Our culture doesn’t seem to always understand this, and maybe I’m wrong that a life of sacrifice is actually sweetest, but I’ve found it to be true in my own life.

So please, please remember boys, the wide and wild possibilities present on your birth days. Remember that you do not need to justify or validate me with riches, status, or power. Remember to really live, during your time on this Earth. And if you feel like you’ve lost your way - if you can’t remember how to really live - remember my prayers for you.

When we are finally comfortable is when we need to dream bigger

We are in the waning days of Robyn’s third pregnancy. Our third son is so close to being here. As I write this on a Sunday, he’s due to meet us tomorrow. 

Strangely, I’ve awaited his arrival more anxiously than our previous two children, which I feel guilty about.

Looking back on when Robert was born, I suppose I was in a state of shock. I was grieving my father, still. And in addition to my struggle to grasp what it would mean to be a newly minted father, I was also working a demanding job with high stakes and high stress. And so when Robert came along, even though I wanted to devote myself fully to my new responsibilities, I was incapable of it. My head was two jumbled up.

And with Myles two years later, his arrival snuck up on me. I was 3 months into a new job and it was the middle of the Christmas season. We were planning my brother in law’s bachelor party. We already had one toddler who had just turned two. I was exhausted, physically, and mentally before Myles even arrived. I probably would’ve anticipated his arrival more, had my mental energy not been so depleted.

But this time it’s different. I have greater stability at work and have been sleeping, eating, and exercising like a responsible person instead of a young man holding onto his bachelor days. And the deep introspection brought on by the past two years of Covid-related anxiety, determination, and solitude have left me feeling an unexpected clarity about my life’s purpose.

What I feel guilty about is that I’ve had feelings of anxiety and longing for our third son’s arrival, an emotion I didn’t afford to Bo and Myles. For the first time, I feel that ache, desperate for or son to arrive. Why do I feel it this time, for the first time?

A few months ago, I wondered whether I had any dreams left. Life has been so good, even amidst the crisis of Covid-19. I met and married Robyn. We have a family. We have a home. We live comfortably and without fear of missing a meal. We are stable and healthy. We get to see our extended family, and learn through travel. Granted I don’t have expensive or far-reaching desires, but everything I’ve ever really wanted, I now have. Everything else good in my life was a bonus to be grateful for, I thought.

And yet, I’m not in a place of patience waiting for his due date. On the contrary, our third son has got my heart all flustered fluttering. He’s got me feeling unsatisfied again, which I thought I had gotten over. I thought I had gotten closer to the ever elusive mindset of joyful non attachment.

But it turns out, that’s absolutely false. I’m attached. I want him to get here. He needs to be here. Our family needs him to be complete. I have been awaiting him impatiently, asking Robyn about her contractions with sincere but anxious curiosity after every deep breath she takes.

Just 6 months ago, I was ready to call it and say that I didn’t really have any dreams left. But our unborn, unnamed, little boy has reminded me how dangerous it is to feel finished and past the phase in our life where we dream. He’s reminded me that we’re never done dreaming, nor should we ever be.

Because even if I am comfortable and happy, that’s not the same as being “done”. The big world around me, or even my little world under our roof is complete. There is more work to do. There is so much left to finish. We have so much left to dream.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was a jarring reminder of that this week.

I was just starting to think that everything was settling into place in the big world around us. With the waning of the Omicron variant, Covid-19 seemed to be in its last overture. Joblessness was starting to fall, wages and inflation starting to rise. Robyn and I have been growing steadily in our careers. Our children are healthy and growing into fine young men. The worst of winter, literally and figuratively, seemed to be over.

I thought that I could lay off the accelerator and coast a little, after the difficult season I thought we were coming out of. Things were going well. My garden was planted and the world was chilling the efff out, I thought, and now all I had to do was tend to my garden. I had 80% or more of my life’s dreams - I could focus on the remaining proportion leisurely. I could let it ride with the dreams I’ve already made real.

And then, Robyn’s due date crept closer. And I realized, the picture in our little world isn’t complete. There is more to plant in our garden. I want our son to get here, I thought. We have more dreams to realize. We’re not done yet, we have work to do in our own backyard. 

And with Russia invading Ukraine, it was a slap in the face reminding me there was a world outside our backyard that needed more and bigger dreams. 

And yes, not all of us need to flock to the realm of foreign politics. There is more dreaming and work to do in so many domains. In our neighborhood. For advancing literacy. For improving health. For creating art and music. For decarbonization. For restoring trust to our institutions. For ending gun violence. And yes, sadly, for preventing world wars.

This aching anxiety for our third son - just when I thought I could slow down on dreaming - has taught me something important. Even when we think we’ve achieved our dreams, there is so much left to dream for. When things are good and we are comfortable, is precisely when our world - whether our little world or the big world around us - needs us to keep dreaming the most.

---

Parenting is Truly Bittersweet

I rarely take naps on the weekend. But I happened to today because I’ve been getting over a cold, though I somehow managed to avoid catching Covid-19 from my sons.

This is the exact view I woke up to when I opened my eyes from this rare occasion of a nap:

It has four examples of the complex experience of “bittersweet”:

First, the item in the foreground is exactly what it appears to be: a monkey sitting on a Paw Patrol slipper. That’s so hilarious and creative, but it’s so frustrating to be jolted from a nap by a monkey bean bag riding in a slipper. That’s must be the light thud I half-asleep-remember feeling on my stomach.

Second, you an see a facial tissue on the coffee table: It’s disgusting that Bo left a tissue on the table, but it is a relief that he uses tissues instead of his sleeve like I did for most of my life.

Third, next to the facial tissue, is a construction Bo described as, “it’s something you make that has super powers. It’s called a power-punch.” It is kind of cool that he’s making his own sort of art with household objects. Kind of looks like a caterpillar. But damn kid, why you makin’ me do even more dishes?

Finally, you’ll notice a lightsaber all the way to the right. That’s right…Bo brought his lightsaber over and was cuddled up next to me as I fell asleep, which rarely happens anymore. I was so happy to have him right beside me, but now he’s somewhere else in the house. Bittersweet.

I hadn’t thought about how complex the experience of “bittersweet” was until I started reading Atlas of the Heart. In it, Brené Brown describes the science and theory behind several dozen of the most impactful human emotions and experiences. 

Her premise for writing the book is that we can’t emote or process our life properly if we don’t have emotional granularity. Not everything is happy, sad, angry, or tired and we need to have a grasp of the right words and concepts to describe what’re we’re feeling.

Apparently “bittersweet” is a cognitively complex phenomenon that develops gradually. Children don’t report simultaneously feeling happiness and sadness until they reach age seven or eight.

And damn, so many moments of parenting are bittersweet. Now that I better understand what bittersweet means, I feel it and see it everywhere. So many things happen where I’m so proud or so in awe of how my sons have grown, acted with courage or shown maturation. But in those moments, I also feel this remorse. Because with every demonstration of growth, they are closer to being grown.

So when I say something like, “wow, they just grow up so fast” I realized that what I’m actually feeling is bittersweet.

As I’ve thought about it more, there’s so much complexity to the statement, “they just grow up so fast” beneath the surface. I want so badly for my kids to be mine and belong to me, but I’ve come to accept that they don’t and they never have.

Yes, on the one hand I can pretend that my kids are mine and they belong to Robyn and me. We love them so dearly. We pour so much time into them. We have sacrificed so much for them. We are their parents. They are our responsibility. They are our children. They have to belong to us.

What makes this so bittersweet is even though we think it so, they do not actually belong to us. These sons of ours are growing and they’re going to keep growing. And as they grow, they’re going to affect the world around them. There are friends they’re going to help out of tough times. There are strangers they might touch the lives of without even knowing it. There are neighborhoods they’ll live in, companies they’ll work for, and causes bigger themselves they will progress forward. There are other children out there, somewhere in this world that they will marry and god-willing start families with someday. 

And if I’m being really honest with myself, if all goes to plan, our sons will outlive us and spend a significant amount of time on this earth while we’re not here. They’ll end up belonging to who they chose to spend their lives with and who they choose to devote their lives to. Not us.

So even though we raise our kids and it’s true that we’re their parents, they’re not ours. Our role is to help them grow so they can give themselves to others. Our role is to give them the gift of being good parents, and all the nourishment that good parents bring to a child. We’re merely stewards of this part of their journey on the earth. They don’t belong to us and they never really did.

What I pray for though, is that if we do right by them, and give them the gift of a good, strong, character-based upbringing they’ll want us to stick around. I pray that we do this right so that after they’re grown, they’ll choose to have us be part of their lives, even though don’t have to. They might choose us among the people they belong to. That would be a gift to Robyn and I.

Part of the unresolved grief of losing my father is rooted in this gift. When he died, I was fully grown, but just barely. I was getting to the point in life where I could choose, freely, to spend time with my parents. I realize now, that’s a gift children can give to their parents, not an obligation. I become sad when I realize that it’s a gift I always wanted to give back to my father, but I’ll never get a chance to.

There is, however, a silver lining that I try to remember. As I shared earlier, every moment where I think or say “wow, they just grow up so fast” it’s because there’s an example in front of me that our sons are growing. But even though I feel such joy to see them grow, I feel sadness that because I remember time is passing.

Those moments where they’re “growing up so fast” are also moments that show how much Robyn and I have grown.

Because along the way, our sons are helping us grow. By being parents to them, we are becoming more patient, more caring, and more selfless. By letting us parent them, they are pushing our hearts to open wider and to be more grateful for the lessons that come from suffering. They, too, are strengthening Robyn and I’s marriage by giving us a common purpose to work together on.

I feel an almost divine gratitude for the gifts our sons are giving us and the lessons they are teaching us. Even though every moment I notice their growth I feel a deflating sadness for the fleeting sands of time, I also feel so grateful that they are teaching my soul to be purer and more virtuous. It’s truly bittersweet.

Mentors are momentary fathers

I met Phelps Connell in 2005, during my fraternity pledge term in my freshman year at Michigan. Flip, as everyone called him, was an alumnus of my fraternity, Phi Gamma Delta, and moved back to Ann Arbor after retirement. He was always around the house for alumni matters, and our fraternity was one of the organizations he devoted himself to. 

He was 80 when I met him, but I would’ve never realized that from his demeanor. He was as vibrant and active as the collegians who lived in the fraternity house he now was overseeing as part of our alumni board. I found this excerpt of his obituary to be a perfect representation of the man he was:

Phelps was first and foremost a gentleman, adored and respected by many for his kindness, loyalty, personal integrity, and concern for others.

I distinctly remember one day I was talking to Flip, in the Fraternity’s kitchen, because I was on dishwashing duty that week. I was a Junior at the time, living in the house, and serving on the Chapter’s executive board. I had gotten to know Flip well during my time as a collegian. He had always taken an interest in me and checked-in on me often.

Flip and I were chatting, but then he asked me - quite directly - if I was going to run in the election for the Interfraternity Council’s executive board, which was the governing body for many of the fraternities at Michigan. In campus life, the IFC as it’s called is one of the more influential extra-curricular organizations for undergrads because it oversees a huge part of the greek system, which at Michigan is a major part of campus life.

I gave him a hemming and hawing answer, and basically shared some lame him excuses for why I didn’t think it was a good idea to run. To be sure, deep down I wanted to run for an office, but didn’t believe in myself enough to try.

Flip was having none of this, of course. He encouraged me to run for a post. He told me that I was a capable leader and that I would represent our chapter well. He saw that I was intimidated at the responsibility and scrutiny that would be part of a campus-wide office and convinced me I could handle it.

He saw something in me and cultivated it. He was probably the first person to do this that wasn’t a teacher or related to me.

And this mentor ship didn’t stop once I graduated college. As a young alumnus I lived in Ann Arbor and served on my fraternity’s alumni board with him for a few years. I got to know his wonderful wife, Jean, over the years I knew home. They invited me and my close friend Jenny - my roommate at the time - over for dinner. It learned the important lesson of what adult friendships are supposed to look like.

I only knew Flip for eight years, from 2005 until he passed in 2013. But in that time he had an outsized influence on my life. He wasn’t just a mentor he was a father to me for a narrowly scoped, temporally limited part of my life.

I realized only recently that the concept of a mentor comes from Homer’s Odyssey (a new translation came out recently, it’s terrific). 

In the epic, Mentor is a friend of Odysseus and counsels Odysseus’s son Telemachus to rise up against the suitors wasting his father’s wealth and courting his mother. Mentor, who is inhabited by the goddess Athena during this scene, is a critical figure guiding Telemachus, who has been without a father his entire life, while away at war.

My own father, Girish, was deeply influenced by Hindu philosophy and lived by a code: take care of yourself and then take care of your family. Only then should you help others. He always questioned my community pursuits because in his view, one should get his own house in order first, so that he doesn’t burden others in the community.

As a young man, I thought his view was selfish and narrow minded. But over the years, I’ve come to find great wisdom in my father’s approach. Getting my own house in order does come first, because he was right - we need the community to help with our burdens. But he was also right in that our own stability must quickly be followed by serving others. We cannot enrich our own households indefinitely.

This has become very real to me lately. If I’m being honest, our house is almost in order - at least once we’re out of the newborn phase with all our kids. I am much better off than my parents were at my age, mostly due to their financial sacrifices, their insistence that I get an education, and their upbringing of me. 

This is actually a scary, slightly unnerving thought, because the burden of serving others is heavy and consequential. 

In our culture today, I think we use the term mentor a bit too lightly. At their best, mentors are not just advisors, they are momentary fathers. Flip was not just a mentor, he was a momentary father to me. Moses and Roger, are not just my neighbors - they have been momentary fathers to me when they taught me how to change my car battery or offer advice on how to go on a camping trip with young kids. 

Two Police Commanders were not just my colleagues, they were momentary fathers to me when they reminded me to take a leave of absence when Bo was born or rushed me out of a situation at a community event when a dude who beat double murder was asking me a ton of personal questions. 

The father of a friend from business school, who happens to also be a writer, has been a momentary father to me when we have chatted on the telephone about finding purpose in life and work.

I think if we’re honest, those of us who feel like we’ve had some success at living life have been blessed with many momentary mothers and fathers along the way.

There is a time that comes where we must expand our sphere. When that time comes, we cannot walk away from being momentary fathers to others. I - and many of us, I think - am closer to that time than I expected.

To move us forward, faith must come from somewhere

There’s a old, simple, adage I’ve always liked: Say what you do, do what you say.

It’s essentially my moral upbringing in one sentence. The western version of what my parents instilled in me: Satyam Vada, Dharmam Chara - tell the truth, do your duty. These ideas, whether espoused from an Eastern or Western perspective have been a recurring lesson in my life - truth cannot solely be a theoretical concept, it must have a symbiotic relationship with action.

Which is to say, I really avoid making promises I can’t keep. Even little ones. If my family asks me to get grapes from the grocery store, I don’t simply say “sure”. I always respond to a simple request like this with something like, “Sure, I’ll check if they have any and get them if they’re there.”

Mind you, in the hundreds of times I’ve gone grocery shopping in my life, I cannot think of one time when the store was out of grapes. They’re grapes after all, the store always has grapes. But the thought always remains - don’t make promises you can’t keep.

But this week, I broke my rule. I made a promise, to my son, that I’m not positive I can keep.

Our older son, Bo, has been having a rough week. With Covid exposures in his classroom and the holidays coming, he’s been in and out of school. We’ve been stuck at home. His routine and support network of his friends and teachers is something he just doesn’t have now. We think this has been affecting his anxiety levels at bedtime.

The other night, after probably two hours of shenanigans I tried a different tack. Rather than barking at him to go to sleep - which I’d already tried and failed at, twice - I went up and just gave him a hug. I asked him how he was feeling, and if he was scared. 

I never got a clear answer out of him, but he did melt into my arms and lap. Clearly, he felt unsafe and anxious. We don’t know exactly what it was, but presumably his fears came from some combination of “dragons”, the dark, Covid, and “bad guys.”

Then, suddenly, he sat straight up and looked at me intensely. Eyes wide, he said nothing, but I innately understood that he needed comfort, reassurance. He needed to feel like there was nothing to be scared of, that his mommy and papa were there to protect him from whatever monster was lurking.

And so I said it.

“Don’t worry bud, you are safe here. I promise.”

And even as the words came out of my mouth I felt uneasy. Because I cannot, with certainty, 100% guarantee his safety. I can control a lot of the factors affecting his safety, but not everything. There is uncertainty at play here, this is life after all and things happen that we can’t control.

But I had no choice. I had to make that promise. This is what children need their parents for; what sons need their fathers for. And even though there was uncertainty, it’s a promise I could mostly make. I maybe felt 90% confident in that promise, maybe 95%. 

But that remainder…it doesn’t sit well, because I know it’s wrong to make promises I can’t keep. And this one was not a small promise, the stakes are about as high as it gets.

—

“Faith” is something I’ve never fully understood. It’s a foreign concept to me, a construct that’s rooted in western ideas and Christianity. There are similar concepts to faith in Hinduism, but it’s much more broadly contemplated, rather than being rooted specifically in something like Jesus Christ or salvation. From my vantage point, In hinduism “faith” is a secondary idea among many others, whereas in Christianity faith seemed more like the whole point.

This promise, made on the floor of our sons’ bedroom, was a real-life lesson in faith for me.

I made a promise I don’t know if I can or can’t keep, but had to make. I took a leap of faith when I made this promise that Bo would be safe here, in this house. And even though I made this promise, upon reflection, I didn’t make this leap of faith blindly. This faith came from somewhere. Faith comes from somewhere.

For me this faith came from the careful decisions Robyn and I made to move into this neighborhood, where neighbors look out for and know each other. It came from the prayers we do nightly, not as a free pass for a divinely intervened halo of safety, but because prayers and the belief that God is listening helps me to reflect on and improve how I think and act. 

It came from me knowing Bo is a good kid with a good heart, that will probably make generally good decisions. It came from knowing he has a younger brother who will look out for him and watch his six.

It came from the marriage Robyn and I have, I know together we are more likely to succeed at having our home be a safe place for our kids. It came from all the preparation and practice and debriefing Robyn and I do individually and together to learn from our mistakes. It came from our friends, family, and neighbors who pour love and comfort into our lives. It came from the unconditional love I have for my son and my dogged determination to honor the promise I made.

My faith comes from somewhere.

And yet, days later, I still questioned whether I should’ve made that promise. Because even with faith that comes from somewhere and isn’t blind, I just don’t know. But as I thought about it, what a sad, dull, stale way it would be to live without acts of faith. 

A friend of mine said something that was perfectly timed for this week and has been reverberating in my mind for four days straight:

“If I feel ready then it’s a sign I waited too long.” 

There are so many “acts of faith” that aren’t remotely religious. Starting a company is an act of faith. Marrying someone is an act of faith. Playing sports is an act of faith. Leading a new project is an act of faith. Standing up to a bully is an act of faith. Planting a garden is an act of faith. Reading a book is an act of faith. Ordering a cheeseburger is an act of faith.

Maybe not in the religious sense, but our lives are an acts of faith, strung together from moment to moment.

And in retrospect, I’m grateful for this. Because even though I don’t understand faith in the Christian sense, I do have a appreciation now that acts of faith are essential for human life to flourish. They help us grow. Acts of faith make us lean on each other and deepen our trust. They alleviate suffering and bond us to others. Acts of faith put us on the hook to figure out difficult but important challenges.

And that’s exactly what I’m feeling. I made a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep, to my son. And now I’ve gotta own it. I’ve got to figure out how to keep the promise that he will always be safe at our home, no matter what. And I’ll be damned if I break that promise to him.

—

I know as I write this that for many, faith is a loaded term. It reeks to them of religious institutions that are untrustworthy, and that have actually inflicted great, irreparable harm to thousands of people.

Because I was raised Hindu, with Eastern philosophy and theology baked into day to day life with my parents, I luckily have some distance from deliberately specific, Western notions of faith.

And it seems to me that, yeah, we shouldn’t make promises we can’t keep. That’s still true. But maybe I shouldn’t be so doctrinally rigid with that belief, either.

Acts of faith move us forward, when they’re not made blindly. And yes, God is one source of faith. But there are many other sources of faith that we all can and do draw from when we leap, with good intent, toward something better. What seems to matter more than where our faith comes from, is that it doesn’t come blindly from nowhere. It matters more that it comes from somewhere.

Faith must come from somewhere.

Every person has a remarkable story, and something special to contribute

One of my most perplexing parenting moments is when something like this happens:

“I can’t do it! I can’t do it!”

Or:

“It’s not working Papa! Can you help me?!”

Or, the most comedic version:

“I can’t do it! Can you carry me? I forgot HOW TO WALK!”

I originally thought, I don’t know where Bo learned this, it must’ve been at school. I don’t remember pouting and screaming “I can’t do it!”, in front of him at least.

Then, I got real with myself. I accepted that I wasn’t so perfect. I have complained, been wounded, or just been flat out pissed about the world around me before:

“I’m sick of people talking over me at work. I don’t see this happening to my white, male colleagues”

“I can’t believe someone put a brick through the window of my Ma’s shop. Why do we have to keep dealing with this?”

“Everyone keeps telling me I’m too verbose during presentations, and then they turn around and tell me to explain my thinking more when I try to be direct. I can’t win with these guys and I don’t see anyone else getting dressed down in front of the whole team”

“I just have to put in my dues. Once I get a bit stronger, confident, and more respected I can really share my opinion with authority.”

”I’m the most inconvenient kind of minority, I get all the prejudice without any of the political clout and social protection that comes from being part of a larger constituency.”

Sadly, I could go on. Upon reflection, these statements - which are selections of my inner monologue, nearly verbatim - are just adult versions of “I can’t do it! I forgot how to walk!”

For much of my teens and twenties, I dealt with this by maintaining an attitude of hidden arrogance which I fooled myself into calling “swag” Even if I wasn’t outwardly a jerk, “Eff these guys”, is more or less what I would think. The cool part was, that attitude actually worked.

Arrogance did serve me well, which I honestly wish wasn’t true. But arrogance comes with a social cost - it requires putting others down, whether it’s directly or indirectly. Actions borne of arrogance make the water we’re swimming in dirtier for everyone else, our culture worsens because of it. In my personal experience, I’ve found, for example, that the more assholes are around, the less a group trusts each other.

There came a point where I couldn’t justify my so-called “swag” anymore. It was wrong, and I didn’t like who I was becoming on the inside. The problem was, when I cut the act of swag, I didn’t feel confidence, or agency, anymore.

The longer I’m alive, the more I believe that humility is a fundamental virtue that keeps our society and culture healthy - it’s an essential nutrient for benevolence, collective action, and ultimately prosperity and peace.

Humility leads to openness and listening. Listening leads to love and understanding. Understanding and love leads to commitment for a shared vision toward a better future between people. Commitment leads to shared sacrifice. And shared sacrifice leads to a better world.

So how do we be humble and confident at the same time? How do we believe we have worth without veering darkly into arrogance? How do have inner strength without having to exert outward dominance?

This is where I’ve been wandering for my late twenties and early thirties. It’s become a bit of an obsession to figure this out since I became a father. Humility is so important, and I know it in my heart, but I want to be able to explain how to my sons, beyond saying “just be humble.”

Humans of New York is one of my favorite communities. I’ve followed their instagram page and have read it regularly for many years. Humans is one of our coffee table books and is excellent.

Basically, HONY is a photo-journalism project, where the founder, Brandon Stanton, tells the stories of everyday people, with photos, one New Yorker at a time.

Every single story is a powerful example of the human condition’s beauty and strength. No joke, every single story of every single person, is extraordinary. I’ve read hundreds of these stories on HONY. And I began to realize, every single person in the world has incredible capabilities, has unique gifts, and has endured significant personal struggle. It’s there, in everyone. If we don’t see them or can’t find them, that’s on us - because they’re there.

As I’ve moved through life as an adult, I’ve somehow figured out how to connect with people about their core stories, sometimes within minutes - even waiting in line at a store’s checkout counter. Or maybe it’s my neighbors or colleagues. Or the person waiting our table at a restaurant. Everyone has these capabilities, gifts, and triumphs over struggle.

I’ve got glimpses of people’s love for their parents and children. Or, their dedication to their work, their church. Some have overcome addiction, or grief, or the grueling journey of finding their voice. It doesn’t matter their station - it could clearly be a wealthy professional, or a house cleaner. I’ve found that every single person has something special to contribute. Every single person has gifts and a compelling story.

To me, that’s a strong reason to be humble. Every single person has gifts. Every single person has something to contribute. Every single person has something special to contribute that I don’t.

That merits my respect to every person on this earth. It doesn’t have to be earned, nobody has to earn my respect. If I haven’t figured out what that special gift or unique capability is, it’s on me. If some arrogance creeps into my heart, I’d best remember that and humble my ass down.

The real eureka moment in this idea came some years later.

Yup - everyone else clearly has gifts. That’s why I should be humble. It’s to respect the unique light in everyone and the special contribution that’s within them to make.

But, if I see this light, this special atman and soul in everyone - literally everyone else - it also means a version of that light lives in me too. It would be audacious to think otherwise; I have no good reason to think that I don’t have something special to contribute, or some unique capability to share. If everyone else does, I must too.

That’s the secret. The elusive third-option truth I’ve struggled to find for the better part of three decades. It does not have to be a choice between arrogance and humility. I can be humble and confident if I recognize that the light in everyone else lives in me too.

The bar is too low for men as parents. Enough is enough.

After four years of being a father, I’ve noticed several ways that other people treat me differently as a parent than Robyn. Here are some examples:

In the past three months, Robyn and I each took 2-3 day trips away from home. When I left Robyn alone with the kids, it wasn’t much more than a blip on the radar. Nobody we knew stressed too much about it or honestly thought much of it. 

When Robyn left me alone to solo parent for a few days, so many people offered to help in one way or another. It was a topic of some note, rather than just a passing mention. People, kindly, asked if I was scared to be home with the kids “all by myself. That was all very generous, but noticeably different than how Robyn was treated.

Robyn and I are also complimented differently as parents. Which is to say I actually receive compliments and Robyn, again, doesn’t get more than a passing mention. Robyn is an outstanding parent to our sons. I’m no slouch either, and we both love being parents so we share the load. Somehow, that leads me to get noted as an “involved dad” or “doing a great job” and Robyn gets that sort of affirmation much less, if at all.

Which, is all very kind. But it makes me feel like the often discussed example of a person of color being complimented as “articulate.” I usually feel like our culture must expect me to be some degree of uninvolved and incompetent to pay me a compliment just for being a father who isn’t a total moron.

At the same time, whether it’s school, the doctor, or even waiters at restaurants - if any person engaging in an arms length transaction needs any information about the kids’ wants and needs they almost invariably ask Robyn. Like, almost literally never am I asked about them, sometimes even by close friends and family.

It’s like the same dynamic of waiters automatically giving the man at the table the check at the end of the meal. I often feel like people assume that I’m off the hook for having any information or an opinion about our childrens’ affairs.

Finally, when in establishments that aren’t run by large corporates (like Disney World or McDonalds), it always seem like that the women’s bathroom is more likely to have a changing table than the men’s. To be sure, I don’t have hard data to back up this perception. But it’s happened enough times where the women’s restroom has a table and the men’s doesn’t that we believe it.

Net-net, in four years as a father, my experience strongly suggests that Robyn and I have different expectations as parents and are held to different standards.

To be real blunt: as a father, I have a chip on my shoulder.

Because from my vantage point, our culture is sending signals, 24/7, implying that men are beer-drinking, butt-scratching, sports-watching oafs that don’t have a clue on how to be caregivers to their own children. I feel like I’m constantly having to prove that I can be held to a higher standard than the abysmally low bar our culture sets for men as parents.

This is definitely a hyperbolic, stereotype-rooted, perhaps even ridiculous claim to make. But I feel it. Like all the damn time. It makes me bonkers that the bar is set so low.

I am not trying to get a pat on the back, or suggest that I’m some all-star father. Because honestly, I don’t deserve one. I decidedly am not.

I screw up with my kids and/or need Robyn to help me clean up a mistake I’ve made, literally daily. By all accounts, I’m a solid (but average) father, at best, with a solid performance thrown in about once every ten days. 

What I am trying to do is bring light to the fact that our culture has self-perpetuating, low expectations around men as fathers. We treat men as if they’re incompetent fathers, make fun of them when they screw up, and then lower the expectations we have. And then, we give them less responsibility, which all but assures that those men will become even less competent and confident than they already are.

This cycle is infuriating to me because a lot of men I know (myself and many friends from all parts of my life) are trying really hard to be present, competent parents. I hope that by bringing light to this cultural phenomenon it will cause at least a few people to act differently. Because I don’t think most people mean to belittle men or imply low expectations for them - it just happens because it’s the culture.

That said, I get that there’s probably an equal number of men who aren’t trying to be competent parents. But conservatively, even if only 20% of men are actually trying, we shouldn’t be setting the standard based on the 80% who aren’t. No more low expectations. The bar is too low.

And for all you fellas out there, who know exactly what I’m talking about because you’re frustrated by the same pressures I am, let’s keep on plugging away.

Maybe you disagree, but I don’t think we want or need to be celebrated as “super dads” by our friends or family, just for being a competent parent. I don’t think we need to start a social movement or get matching t-shirts with some sarcastic tag line about how we’ve been stereotyped. I don’t think we need institutional relief or recognition. I’m probably being petty even just ranting about this.

Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing, until the bar of expectations rises and this beer-drinking, butt-scratching, sports-watching oaf that’s clueless persona is a thing of the past.

Test Track

My childhood memories are sparse.

I have childhood memories, strictly speaking, but they feel so feathery and breezy, light and passing rather than vivid and concrete. I remember my childhood the same way I remember dreams, in vignettes rather than as a movie. I don’t know why that is.

One of the few vivid memories I have is when my father took me to the Test Track ride at Disney’s EPCOT Center. Because he worked for GM at the time, we got to go “backstage” into the employee lounge overlooking the ride, and had an express pass to the front of the line.

I still remember how we were escorted to a secret side door, the view of the tall-windowed overlook, and the trappings of the ride itself. I remember, too, that I had a Cherry Coke in a red paper cup. I remember my father taking out his employee badge, out of his massive leather wallet. For me, fleshy memories like these are mythical creatures, rare and special.

I remember feeling so intrigued by the whole affair, it was a glimpse into my father’s life outside our family. And I remember the rare occurrence of my father at play, relishing the speed of the ride and the freeness of the wind around us, perhaps even glowing in the humble pride that comes from getting your family a VIP treatment.

And I remember too, how the ride was a bit fast and jerky for me at that age, and that I was comforted just by my father being in the vehicle next to me, his laughter and enjoyment signaling that there was nothing to be scared of.

I wish so badly I had more memories like this - visceral and detailed - of my childhood generally, but especially with my father. I want to remember more, and more of him. I can’t understand why I don’t.

With my own sons, I want to remember so many things of our time together, too. The big stuff, yes, but also the mundane.

Like afternoons in the garden, or cleaning our house, or just having an ice cream cone on Friday nights. And I think I will. Thanks to Robyn, we are blessed to have lots of photos and lots of moments where we tell old stories - it’s like she innately knows how to preserve memories, and she does it lovingly and skillfully.

I want to remember every moment of time I can with my sons and my wife. But I too hope that our relationship is loving, strong, and cherished enough for them to want to remember time with me.

The dance of seeing and being seen

“Papa, watch this.”

I hear this often from Bo, our older son, and I turn my head to, well, watch. And then he will jump off a stool, flash his favorite dance move where we wiggles his knees, spin and wave a toy around, or do one of the many other things little boys do.

Little kids just want to be seen. Because in their world, it seems, seen means loved.

Perhaps our adult world is not that different.

I remember scanning bars in my early twenties, hoping not to miss my future wife, whoever she was, in case she happened to be there that night. I wanted her to see me. Or those times at work when I chimed in during a meeting with people who outranked me, to share an idea. I wanted them to see that I had something to contribute and that I was competent. Or even this blog, which I’ve been writing consistently for over 15 years now, to some degree I hope others see that I have something to say, and that it contributes something positive to their lives.

To be seen is to be loved.

And other times, we don’t want to be seen but want others to be seen. Like when we hold a memorial service for our loved ones who went ahead. When we put photos together on a memory board or a slide show, we want them to be seen and remembered. Or when we make sure everyone in the group shows up at a birthday party. We want them to feel seen. Or when a junior member of our team at work had a great insight, and we go out of our way to nudge them to speak up. We want their talent to be seen. 

Wanting someone to be seen, is wanting them to be loved.

And perhaps the most generous act of the bunch is when we ourselves see others, in full frame and depth. Like when we go to our kids’ or grandkids’ or nephews’ soccer practices and school plays, we go just to see them. Or when we all inevitably have friends in town at the last minute, we change our plan so we can see them. 

One of our dearest friends famously asks questions of the heart with incomparable sincerity, but also with piercing directness. Yesterday, when hanging out in her family’s backyard and chatting about her gift for deep conversation, she said with earnestness and unwitting grace, “it helps them feel seen.”

And tomorrow, Robyn and I have an ultrasound appointment, where we will find out whether our third child is a boy or a girl. I don’t truly have to be there, but I want to - it’s been blocked off on my calendar for weeks. And, there’s a reason why there’s always a big monitor in ultrasound examination rooms - parents get to see their children for the first time. Even if it’s through the blurry medium of an ultrasound photo, we get to see them. We move heaven and earth to see them.  

To see someone is to love them.

So much of how we act in our day-to-day lives as humans seems to be shaped by our desire to see and be seen. It plays out in family life, social life, work life, and public life. Nobody but perhaps the most enlightened and secure among us seem to be above the fray. It does not matter if one is royalty or a commoner, wealthy or poor, famous or not, political leader or everyday citizen, theist or atheist - every walk of life engages in this dance: to see and be seen, to love and to be loved.

Why? Perhaps because to be invisible - unseen and unloved - can feel like a fate as grim as death. What is a life if one questions whether he is seen and therefore loved? And to be unloved is to be in danger, because we all know how the unloved are treated in our culture, and perhaps worse, how they are ignored. 

And so it makes sense to me the lengths we go to be seen, even if it’s through mischief, foolishness, or outrage. The fear of being unseen makes people do crazy things. I know this because it has made me do crazy things: everything from doing a totally unnecessary amount of bicep curls at the gym to hootin’ and hollerin’ at the bar with my buddies to deriding myself into depression for not having a career trajectory comparable to my peers.

It seems like so much of the social struggles us center-left, center-right millennials often aspire to rehabilitate can start so simply, through this dance seeing and being seen.

How to camp with young kids

My wife and I took two kids across the country to camp at North Cascades National Park - and survived! Kidding aside, the trip was hard but it was terrific, special, and full of life-long memories - which you can read about in a companion post here: Moments from North Cascades.

Don’t be afraid to go camping with kids. It was well worth the challenge. Here are some things we learned that we wanted to share with other families like us. I’ve organized our lessons into four categories:

• Tips for when you’re planning your trip

• Tips for when you’re preparing / packing for your trip

• Tips for when you’re on your trip

• Tips for after you return home

Thanks to my wife, Robyn, for adding her reflections into this post!

Our situation and trip

Here’s some context on who we are and the trip we took. Of course, apply our tips with care based on your circumstances.

We’re a family of four and a half. My wife and I, Bo (age 3.5) and Myles (1.5). At the time of our trip my wife was about a trimester into her first pregnancy (hence the “half” kid). We unfortunately had to leave our pup at the kennel. This trip was the first time our boys ever went overnight camping.

Between us, Robyn and I are pretty experienced backcountry campers, we’ve been on two backcountry hikes together and I’ve been on several trips with friends. I don’t think you have to be “experienced’ to have a great trip, we just happen to have a lot of “light” backcountry equipment from trips we took when we didn’t have kids.

For our trip we flew from Detroit to Seattle and then drove to North Cascades National Park in northern Washington. We intended to spend a few days in Seattle before heading to the park, but had to cut our trip short because of logistical reasons. Instead, after landing at SEA-TAC we had a spot of lunch, bought some supplies (camping fuel, food, etc.), and drove straight to the park.

Tips for when you’re planning your trip

The first step is picking a park and making a reservation. Most of this is very easy to research from the comfort of your couch. Here are a few filters to consider when googling and some helpful tools.

• Proximity to a city / airport - we wanted to be within 2-4 hours of a major city for two reasons, we didn’t want to fly across the country and camp for two nights and come home. Since our kids aren’t old enough to be in a tent for a week, we looked for national parks near cities. Luckily, there are plenty. Take a look at a map to get your bearings or google “National Parks within 3 hours of a city” to find blog posts like this one.

• Time of year - with two young kids you want to minimize uncertainty and risk as you’ll have your hands full just taking care of them. Look at the weather for the park at the time of your trip to get an idea of the likely weather. Again, a simple search like, “best time of year to visit North Cascades National Park” or “Weather for North Cascades National Park in August” can help you get some quick tips from fellow travelers.

• “Kid friendly” - Again googling to read posts and reviews is great here. Googling “kid-friendly national parks” or “Kid-friendly activities at North Cascades National Park” will get you plenty of great posts from other adventurous families.

• Recreation.gov - Recreation.gov is a terrific clearing house for all the national parks, forests, lakeshores, etc. If you search for a park on this site, it’ll take you to the appropriate website at the National Park Service or other governmental websites. Each park has a well curated list of activities, travel warnings (like if there are wildfires or other issues going on) and usually have a list of family-friendly activities. Recreation.gov is also how you search for campsites and make actual reservations online. Recreation.gov also has a pretty decent app which you can use to make your search a little more user-friendly. I didn’t realize this until just now, but the National Park Service also has some spify trip planning tools at FindYourPark.com, they even have a neat quiz to help find parks that you might like!

• Finding a reservation - Campsites are reserved quickly at most national parks during peak season, especially at the popular ones. I almost pulled my hair out finding a campsite that worked for us - but you don’t have to! One of my colleagues at work told me about a site that scans for campsite openings / cancellations based on criteria you specify and sends you an SMS alert when an opening is found. He said it worked well for their family and the fee was reasonable (plans start at $10). Check out CampNab for more information. Alternatively, you can google “Underrated National Parks” to minimize your competition for a campsite. Campsites at National Parks can be booked 6 months in advance so plan ahead.

Tips for when you’re preparing / Packing for your trip

• Shop at an outfitter for the big stuff - we have been members at REI for a long time. And we love it. There are plenty of team members at the store that can answer questions (and they don’t make you feel dumb) and everyone there I’ve talked to gives their personal reviews of the equipment available for purchase. Go there, and ask questions to people who do it for a living. As an example, there are a million websites talking about the minimum age for using a sleeping bag and I was confused and scared. Once I got to the store and asked someone, they advised to just wrap our little guy up in blankets or a sleep sack and put him on a sleeping pad to stay warm. Problem solved. We got the easy stuff on REI.com and Amazon.

• Involve the kids when shopping - It would’ve been easier for me to buy everything online or head to REI by myself. But we’re glad we took the kids with us, because our big kid had a blast. He picked out his own socks and some of his clothes and just though REI was the coolest place ever. By being there he started to get excited for the trip and feel invested in the process.

• What to buy - If you’re a seasoned camper, you probably have a solid gear list. If you’re not a huge camper, knowing what you need can be pretty overwhelming. To start, here’s a link to our gear list for our trip. Be sure to also look at the National Park Service website to learn about any special equipment you may need (bear canisters, water management supplies, etc.) for specific parks. And of course, google is your friend.

• Damn this stuff is expensive - Yes, camping gear can be really expensive, especially for your first outing. Two tips of advice here: 1) ask a friend and 2) the stuff lasts for a long time. You know who your friends are who camp. We’re kind of annoying about it, because of how much we love to talk about camping. Ask them for advice (you can also do a lot of googling obviously) and most camping people are more than happy to lend you their gear and show you how to use it. It’s just kind of an unwritten ethos amongst people who camp - we spread the gospel, so to speak. And most of the durable equipment you buy will be built to last, so think of it as a capital investment into equipment with a long useful life.

• Do a dress rehearsal - Our kids slept in a tent for the first time on this trip. We practiced pitching the tent in our backyard which was great to get them used to the idea of a tent and getting comfortable inside it. And, I had to check it was in good working order, anyway. By the time we were done with our “test run” both our boys were so excited about camping. If you have the time, you could also do one night at a nearby state or county park to really do a more realistic dress rehearsal. At a minimum, you can find some trails near your home and go for a long walk to break in the kids’ new gear and get them used to long walks outside.

Tips for when you’re on your trip

• Getting there - A lot of the basics apply here. Pack light. Buy as much as you can locally (food, liquids that can’t be legally carried on planes). Don’t put knives in your carry on. Plan extra time because kids are slow. Pack extra clothes for potty accidents. What really was complicated was how much luggage we had - don’t try to be a pack mule or a hero. Weigh your bags at the house to make sure you don’t have to shuffle supplies across bags. We also rented car seats instead of carrying our own, which was a game changer. In retrospect, I should’ve sprung for a luggage cart at the airport because I had to haul so much stuff and was exhausted before we even got to the park. Make the transit part of your trip simple so you’re not stressed when you’re actually camping.

• Sleep - if you can conquer sleeping in a tent, everything else is easy. Our first night was rough, but here are some techniques that worked:

  • Tent Expectations - Our second night, Robyn had the master stroke of proactively setting expectations for sleeping in the tent. The second night went much better than the first, mostly for that reason. Our kids just needed some calmly communicated structure.

  • Infant warmth - Myles (our 1.5 year old) was too small to have his sleeping bag. It would’ve been a suffocation hazard to put him in one. In lieu of blankets, we put him in a large sleep sack that we had for crib sleep. It kept him warm enough when paired with a sleeping pad underneath him. Don’t skimp on the sleeping pad for anyone - at just about any park the ground will sap heat from you overnight.

  • Separating the kids - At first we thought we’d put the kids between us in the tent: big mistake. Separate them if you can so they don’t egg each other on or have as much of an audience. By a stroke of luck, our oldest had to go potty after about 30 minutes of chaos in the tent, which gave me a chance to rock the baby down without any distractions. Upon Robyn and Bo’s return, Bo realized he lost his audience and was relatively quiet until he fell sleep. Divide and conquer if you need to.

  • Parental bladder management - make sure you hydrate and pee well before bedtime and go one extra time just in case. It is seriously the worst when you have to pee at four in the morning but are afraid to unzip the tent and wake up the kids that you worked so hard to get to bed!

• Potty time - Pack extra clothes, for the trip and in your day pack, for blow outs or accidents. Also, hit the potty at the trailhead (if there is one) before and after every hike. We had to turn around just before we hit the waterfall at the end of a trail because our oldest said, “hey mommy, I need to go potty.” We were so close to the end, too!

• Options for activities - Do your homework in advance and find all the options for short “easy” hikes you can. You know your kids best, so choose the distance and elevation change that makes sense to your family. Be sure to visit the Visitor’s Center and ask the Park Rangers for advice when you arrive. We found it helpful to print off a whole bunch of guides and trail reviews from blog posts we found when searching “family friendly hikes north cascades”, the official NPS website for the park, and from AllTrails.com. We spent breakfast planning the day based on the forecast, what were feeling like doing, and how fatigued everyone was. It helped to have a paper list at hand with 10-20 options to choose from.

• Calorie and water management - When you’re outside, you have to drink and eat a lot more just to be healthy, obviously. I made the mistake of letting the kids drink from a common water bottle, which was a problem because I couldn’t make sure they were hydrating enough. Having their own water bottles would’ve been smarter. Keep a close watch on exactly how much the kids are eating and drinking, because it’s much harder for them to know how much extra they need to consume and for them to verbalize what their body is feeling like. And if they’re not hydrated enough, it can cause crankiness, or worse, cause their behavior to become erratic, which can be dangerous out on the trail. Also, buy lots of trail mix!

• Be brave enough to turn around - We were on a trail, late in the afternoon and the kids didn’t nap well that day. It was hot, and as it turned out, the trail we were on was all uphill. It had a beautiful vista at the end, so we really pushed hard. About halfway up, our kids started to fade. We pressed on for a few minutes, and I quicklyrealized that was a mistake. So we turned around immediately. I was frustrated, but it was the right decision and we wished we had done it sooner. Unlike adults, kids totally shut down when they are sore or tired, instead of just getting cranky and pressing on. Rest and breaks also don’t help them as much. In retrospect that’s obvious, but I forgot. Be brave enough to turn around, even if it means missing the great view at the summit. Because you need to get the kids safely back down to the trailhead, and that’s dangerous if they’re delirious on the trail. Turn around before they meltdown, not after.

• Cooling off - They’re so much excitement and energy and fatigue on a camping trip, which can get kids to a pretty boisterous state of mind. Taking a loop around the campsite 1-1 with a parent was a great strategy that Robyn thought of on the fly. If you need a child to cool off and calm down, taking a lap with them is a great tactic.

• Backup plans - In retrospect, I wish I would’ve had a backup plan, including nearby hotels (in case sleeping in a tent was a big failure), restaurants, supply stores, and medical facilities. Especially with Robyn expecting, it would’ve given me piece of mind to have thought of a plan for “if shit hit the fan.”

• Gear management - Camping requires a lot of stuff, and when you have kids it grows. Have plenty of extra stuff sacks and triage as you go. We found it helpful to separate everyone’s different clothes and laundry in different bags. That made it much easier to keep everything organized and have ready access to what we needed. Our approach was to have two large backpacks with lots of little bags for organization (just like a backpacking trip). We used a large laundry bag / duffel bag and put our tent and sleeping pads inside there with a backpack for the plane, which also helps to keep the gear safe through baggage claim.

Tips for after you return home

• Family Photo / Souvenirs - We took a family photo on our trip and we’re glad we did. We immediately printed a photo upon our return, and it’s already hanging in a frame on our wall. We all get to relive the trip just a little every time we see it. I feel so happy and proud every time I pass it to go upstairs. It could be something other than a photo, like a Christmas ornament, pin, map, or other souvenir. But a tactile or visual reminder made a much bigger emotional connection than I expected. And, it reminds us that we’re adventurers!

• Storytelling - We used the drive back to Seattle to debrief on the trip and ask our sons how they enjoyed it. It was so wonderful to hear how excited our kids were, 10 minutes out of the park our big guy already wanted to come back. We also made it a point to let the kids talk about the trip with friends and family (instead of us just speaking for them). Talking about the trip gave them a sense of pride, and hopefully helps them remember our time there.

• Cleanup - I tried to involve our kids when unpacking from the trip. It gave them another chance to talk about our awesome trip, and it was actually nice having some little hands to help out. And, it was a nice way to introduce them to taking care of gear which is a very important skill for any camper - junior or senior.

• Start planning the next one! - Of course, the trip was really hard but it was so worth it. The time when you’re most excited is when you’re still riding the high of a successful trip. So starting planning right away, and go find your park! You’ll be so glad you did.

What sin will end with me?

As your father, I worry about the sins I will pass to you kids. And maybe sin is the wrong word. Perhaps by “sin” I mean a combination of bad habits, character flaws, insecurities, and underlying sinful tendencies. I don’t want you to deal with my failings as a man and a father. I’ve come to terms that I will not fully succeed in this, but it still haunts me, in the deepest crevices of my intellect.

Unfortunately, the passing of tragic flaws is part of what it means to be a father.

I never spoke with him about it directly, but I know my father - your Dada who you will never meet in this life - contemplated this challenge and was motivated by it. There were certain sins he did not want to pass to me, and he worked exceptionally hard to make good on that intention.

I still am in awe of the impact he had on changing the trajectory of my life and yours, and honestly for all of his progeny. In a single generation, he outworked the poverty and struggle of his youth, emigrated to the world’s most prosperous nation, and succeeded in creating a life where his family and me, his only child, could flourish.

Even though by his standards, his outward success was only average, the impact he made on our family’s future generations cannot possibly be reproduced. I wonder often if I can do something in my life - for you kids, your mother, or for society - that is substantially good and pathbreaking enough to escape his legacy.

And yet, despite the size of the shadow cast by his love and accomplishments, he still passed intergenerational flaws to me. Even great men, of which your Dada certainly was, are still mortal men. All we mortal men can hope for, and I as a mortal man can hope for is to have the generations that follow us be modestly and measurably better people than we were.

And so I’ve been thinking. Obsessing, really, and meditating deeply; if I only have one shot to take at this, what is the one sin that I’m absolutely determined not to pass on? What am I going to wrestle with and take to the grave with me, so that it ends with me and never passes on to you kids, your kids, and their kids after? What sin will end with me?

Riley’s lesson in fatherhood

Riley couldn’t stand to be alone with me for at least three solid months after we first adopted him. Riley happens to be a dog, by the way. We don’t know exactly why, but we suspect he had some bad experiences with men before he became part of our family.

I remember one morning, I was feeding Riley before work. At the recommendation of a friend, I had been in the habit of feeding Riley from his bowl with my hand. Apparently, that’s a technique used by handlers of military and police dogs (or something like that) that builds trust between the dog and their partner.

This particular morning, Riley was refusing to eat. He wouldn’t eat anything from my palm. I distinctly remember, I was on the linoleum floor in the kitchen of our tiny apartment, literally on my hands and knees, trying to coax Riley to eat. Dude wouldn’t budge.

And so we sat there. 5 minutes went by, then 10, and 15. Maybe even 20 minutes had passed. I was fuming because Riley was refusing to eat and I needed to hop in the shower to avoid being late for work. And yet, nothing. Kid wouldn’t eat, and would just point his snout in the opposite direction, rebuffing my offer of kibble for breakfast. I was losing my mind, and getting progressively angrier.

When I was at my wit’s end, I had this idea. What if I “spoke Riley’s language” and growled and howled at him. I figured that if I showed enough aggression, it might startle him into eating - you know, put him on the defensive.

In retrospect, this was obviously a terrible idea and a horrible approach to even contemplate. Looking back on it, I can’t believe I even tried it, because it’s obviously callous. Unsurprisingly, it had no effect. Riley still wouldn’t eat.

And during this excruciatingly stupid experiment, I had an epiphany. I realized that I couldn’t control Riley. Even though he was a dog, and even though I had pretty much all the real power in our relationship, I literally couldn’t control him - I couldn’t make him eat.

But in addition to not having the ability to control Riley, I realized that I didn’t want to control Riley. Because as I growled and got in Riley’s face on our kitchen floor, I realized that to control Riley, I might have to go the distance. I might have to make him submit to me. I might have to get in his face for weeks. I might have to yank his collar and threaten him or shame him with persistence. Because in Riley’s case, I knew he wouldn’t budge easily; it was clear his issues with men were deep-rooted.

To control him, I realized, I might put myself on a slippery slope that started with a desire for obedience but ended in physical or emotional abuse. Because if Riley kept refusing food, for example, I’d have to increase the intensity of whatever control tactic I was using. And if I had to exert dominance to control him for something like food, some other behavior of obedience was probably next. And then, what would be there to stop me from crossing the line from control to abuse?

The alternative, I decided in that moment, while I was literally hand-feeding Riley on my knees in our apartment, was to treat Riley as an equal. Not equal in the sense that he was a peer - after all, I do have a duty and responsibility to take care of and raise Riley - but as someone worth of equal treatment and respect.

Which is a radically different perspective, especially for a dog. And it looks really different to raise and care for a dog if I’m trying to treat him with equal respect, rather than trying to control him. In practice, it meant that I had to earn his trust to eat from my hand, rather than trying to bully him into it. I had to be incredibly consistent with trying to calm him down on walks in the neighborhood rather than yanking him around on his leash every time he stopped to smell a rock or chase a squirrel.

As is said by Mary Poppins, in the iconic film, I had to be “always firm, but never cross.” And that takes tremendous patience, nudging, trust, and self-control. And honestly, everything takes so much longer when you’re actively trying not to control him. And it took months to even get Riley to show any signs of progress or positive feeling toward me.

And, if I’m being transparent - there have been lots of  times since that morning in the kitchen where I’ve exploded at Riley and regressed into this dynamic where I utilize control tactics instead of tactics governed by the principles of equal treatment and respect. 

And I don’t how it would’ve turned out if I had kept trying to control him, but Riley and I do have a great relationship now - he trusts me and I trust him.  Everyday is still a challenge (especially when the mail carrier shows up in the middle of a Zoom call), but it’s okay that our relationship is still a work in progress.

The lesson from all this has been profound, as I’ve become a father to our sons. I realized the situation with Riley was more generalizable: if I want to control anyone’s behavior - Riley’s, our sons’, my colleagues’, my wife’s or anyone else - it might require me to abuse them at some point. Which leaves me with a choice: try to control someone and risk crossing a line, or, let go of wanting to control them in the first place.

But actively choosing not to control someone is difficult, as any parent would probably attest. When our sons are yelling at me, kicking me, and sometimes literally trying to spit in my face, I want to control them so that they stop. When we’re late to go somewhere, I want to control them so that they pick up the pace. At these high-pressure times It’s really hard to treat them as an equal, because it’s honestly incredibly inconvenient to do so. Having control of them would be so much easier!

And this approach of treating my sons as my equal is incredibly hard, for a few reasons. For one, sometimes my children need me to take control of a difficult situation because they’re too young to assess or handle the consequences of their actions. And controlling a situation and controlling them is a slippery slope in and of itself. But perhaps more so, I feel like I’ve been programmed to control my kids, not treat them as equals. The language and concepts our culture uses around children reinforces obedience and control. We’re expected not to have our kids throw tantrums in public. We use the words “mommy” and “papa” in the third person which reinforces the positional, hierarchical relationship between parent and child, at least somewhat. And in the back of my mind there’s always this simmering pressure of wanting my kids to be “successful” so they can earn a living and be independent someday, yes, but also because I know my children are a reflection on me. So yes, I feel like there are cultural tailwinds that encourage me to “control” our children.

But that experience on the floor trying to growl Riley into eating his breakfast left a lasting impression in my mind. I can’t shake the thought that control over someone else might require abusing them, in some way, eventually. And so I’m trying to imagine, “if I parented our sons not as peers but still as equals, what would that look like?” I’m still trying to figure it out, but it’s involved a lot of “I messages”, candor, patience, and transparency.

And honestly, I’m still really terrible at this approach to parenting. I slip into control-freak mode often with Bo and Myles, especially when we’re around hot frying pans, vehicular traffic, and sharp objects. But I think it’s worth it to keep trying. 

Because what happens when they’re adults if all I’ve done their whole lives is try to control what they do? They’ll eventually have the freedom to make their own choices, would they know how to handle that freedom if I’ve stolen the chance for them to explore it their whole lives? I feel like I owe it to them to try, and fail my way through it. Hopefully, someday I’ll get it right.

Walk beyond me

Myles,

8 days ago, my boy, you took your first steps. It was a Saturday. Your mother and I were in the family room with you on the floor and we were playing with Hot Wheels or magnets I think while your brother napped.

And you were up, holding onto your mother. And then you reached out to me, with your mouth-open smile, balanced, and took four steps toward me.

And we were so proud and happy for you. You are growing, and you are starting to cleave away from us, already, and take your own path in life.

But I want you to know, Myles, that those steps are not for me. You do not need to take steps - literally or figuratively - to please me. I am your father, but your life is not for my pleasure.

And you are our second child, as you know. And as it happens, your brother took his first steps in almost exactly the same place, in our family room. And you, son, need not follow in his footsteps, either. You are your own person, with your own gifts. We already see this. You and your brother are best friends, even now and I am overcome with a deep joy that you will be able to walk together in life. But you are each your own. You are each one of a kind.

It was a very sweet memory for your mother and I to have, to see you and hold you as you took your first steps. But this letter to you, also, is not for my pleasure. I want you to remember, yes, that your steps are not for me and nor do you have to follow the footsteps of your brother. But equally, I write this so you can remember that your steps are not fully yours alone either.

I hope you realize that the steps you take, matter. I hope you realize that you have the capability to carry others forward as you walk. I hope you choose to walk toward goodness and with righteousness with every step you take. I hope you walk with conviction and take steps in a direction that push our community and the human race forward. And I hope you relish the journey of love, honor, and service that is symbolized by the taking of a long walk.

But more than anything, Myles (and I mean this for your older brother too) that one day, you will walk past me. And you must walk past me. It is difficult for me to even acknowledge that one day I will not be able to walk with you. One day, I will be feeble and my footsteps will falter and I will return to our common father.

But know this: I want you to walk beyond the rim of the mountain where my life ends. I will carry you and your brother as far as I can. But as I falter, you must continue. You must walk beyond me. And don’t for a moment believe that I resent that you will reach lands and truths I will not. I will not look upon my departure from discovered to undiscovered country as a sunset of my own life. I will see that moment as the light of morning, where the moon and night ends, yes, but are eclipsed by a greater light.

You have taken your first steps, Myles, and you are well on your way. I will treasure the steps I get to take with you. But one day, when I return to dust, walk beyond me.

Love,

Your Papa

When our kids have hard days

The first words he said to me, as he had the purple towel draped generously over his wet hair and entire frame, were,

“It was a hard day, Papa.”

And then he melted into me, and I, on one knee, wrapped my arms around him and started to rub his back - both to help him dry off and comfort him. And we just stayed there, hugging on the bathroom floor for awhile.

And that’s one of the saddest type of moments I think I’ve had - when you’re kid is just sad. And yes even at three years old and change, he can have hard days and recognize that those days were hard. 

And it wasn’t even that I felt and explosive, caustic sadness, where you feel the sadness growing and pushing out from core to skin. Like a sadness that smolders into my limbs and mind, and makes them feel like burning. 

It was a depleting sadness, where I started to feel my heart shrinking, my bones and muscles hollowing, and my face and skin starting to feel...transparent maybe. It was a sadness that made me feel like I was disappearing.

When your own children - the ones you have a covenant with God and the universe to take care of - are truly sad, it’s a feeling you want to pass as quickly as possible, and never want to have again.

And when I realized that I “never want to feel this way again”, I started to get these two primal-feeling urges.

First I wanted to “fix it”. And “fixing it” has two benefits. First, it just stops this horrible feeling of depleting sadness. Because if I fix it, my son isn’t sad anymore, and therefore I’m not sad anymore.

But also, if I were the one who failed my son somehow and caused him to fall into this genuine sadness, fixing it is my redemption. Fixing the sadness is what helps me to feel like I’m not to blame. Because if I’ve fixed the external problem causing his sadness - the problem wasn’t me, it was that thing. Fixing it gives me the illusion that I’m the hero in this story, not the villain.

But beyond wanting to fix it, there was a more insidious urge, that crept on me slowly, was to believe this falsehood of, “maybe he’s just not ready” or “maybe we need to protect him more”. 

And the fuzzy logic of that urge is this: If my kid is sad, there’s something out there that he can’t handle yet. And if I hold him back from going back out there, he’s less likely to have a hard day. Then he won’t be sad. And then I won’t feel this depleting sadness either.

But the problem with both of these responses is that if I find a way to let myself off the hook, it also deprives him of the opportunity to grow, and muddle his way through his sadness. Our kids will have hard days, and those days will suck. And on those days, we have to bring our best selves as parents. Because that’s when our kids need us to guide them, and love them, and coach them, and encourage them. And, many of those times we won’t be good enough; we will fail as parents and coaches. And they will have to muddle through that sadness for a longer. And we will feel depleted for longer, too.

But, damn. From those hard days, and that sadness, comes strength and confidence for our kids. Once they muddle through sadness, they have one more datapoint to add to their model to remind them that they can do this, they can figure this out, they can be themselves, they can be at peace, and they can rise up and through adversity. 

And even though my instinct is to help my sons avoid sadness, I cannot let that instinct win. Because that instinct is selfish. What that motive truly is, is me wanting to avoid that horrible, depleting sadness that comes when your kids are sad. 

Because these kids will have hard days. They will be sad. And even though my instinct is to make it stop as quickly as possible, and to never let this happen to them ever again, I must resist that selfish urge to fix their problems for them.

What I really need to do is comfort them, encourage them, love them, and coach them, and show them that no matter what happens I will be with them in this foxhole of sadness until they find a way out, no matter what.

And that I will be there, and support them in a way that doesn’t deprive them of the chance to come out of it stronger, kinder, and wiser.

Debrief questions for parents (and coaches)

I have been struggling for a long time thinking about how to teach our sons “character.” They won’t learn it from a book, nor will sending them to Catholic school magically make that happen.

What dawned on me this week, is that I can debrief with them. And really do that intentionally.

I attended a wonderful summer camp in high school, it was “student council camp.” And there were lots of character building-activities, that I still remember and think about often. 

When I become a camp counselor, I had the opportunity to facilitate those character-building activities. And what we always said amongst other counselors is that it’s not the activity that teaches anything, “it’s all about the debrief.”

Debriefing - the process of helping others learn from their own experiences - is a hard-earned skill. It’s not easy. But it’s essentially all about asking the sequence of questions that highlight the salient information which lead to a a novel insight.

During a debrief, the goal isn’t to tell anyone anything, the goal is to nudge them along by bringing relevant facts to the debriefee’s attention which causes them to have an “aha moment”. In those aha moments, so to speak, they learn a lesson on their own. Good debriefers don’t teach, they help others teach themselves.

Cutting to the chase, I started putting a list of questions that could be used to debrief, even with young children. I needed to write them down to debrief myself I suppose. 

I share that list here in case it’s useful to those of us that are parents or coaches. I also share it here in hopes that others share their own debrief questions. If you’re uncomfortable leaving a comment, please do contact me if you have a thought to share, I’d be happy to append it anonymously.

Debrief Questions for Parents and Coaches

• How do you feel right now?

• Are you okay?

• Can you tell me exactly what happened?

• Then what happened?

• What were you thinking right before you did X?

• How do you think this made [Name] feel?

• What can you do to make this right?

• Why didn’t X, Y, or Z happen instead?

• What were you trying to do by doing X?

• What could you have done instead of X?

• Was doing X okay, or not okay? Why?

• What else happened because you did X?

• Do you have any questions for me?

• What are you going to do differently next time?

• What happens next, right now?

I hope our kids are not happy, but rather happy enough

I think there’s a shift happening with Millennials that is still mostly invisible. It’s in how we’re raising our children. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think so. 

My parents, aunts, and uncles had a similar sentiment  when they described what they wanted for us kids. They wanted us to be happy. Since having our two sons, I’ve come to realize I don’t want that. I don’t want them to be happy. I want them to be happy enough.

Yes, I do want our kids be comfortable, safe, healthy, respected, and be able to enjoy some amount of luxury in their lives. But there was a time in my twenties where I had those things, and not only was I miserable, it was a waste.

Yes, when I was a young adult, I had a well-paid, high-status job. It afforded me a comfortable, secure, lifestyle and a lot of fun nights out at the pub. I exercised a lot. I had time to do whatever I wanted. So I was indeed happy.

But it turned out not to be the life I wanted. Every year since my father passed, my life has become harder. Like, every single year Robyn and I think it can’t get any more intense, and then it does. We’ve come to expect more pain, so to speak, with each passing year.

But even though life is more painful, difficult, demanding, frustrating, exhausting, and less “happy”, it’s somehow better. It’s because we’re having to make sacrifices - for our children, pup, family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, and clients. All this suffering brings something, but I wouldn’t call it happiness, and it’s not even always a feeling of joy. It’s something that I prefer to happiness, but I don’t know what the word for it is.

Now of course, this situation would not be possible if we were starving, depressed, ill, wounded, freezing, wet, or alone. So to have a shot at this graceful suffering, we have to avoid the senseless stuff. We have to be comfortable enough. Safe enough, healthy enough, respected enough, content enough. Happy enough. Senseless suffering makes graceful suffering impossible.

Please, God, let our children’s suffering be graceful instead of senseless.

But I see the allure of wishing “happiness” upon our children. Seeing our kids unhappy - sick, despondent, or in unrelenting pain - is torturous to me. Literally, the best way for someone to torture me would be to hurt my children. Honestly, I am on the edge of weeping when one of ours just has “tummy troubles”. And so the sentiment of a person wanting their kids to be happy makes sense to me, because it’s a way to avoid torture.

At the same time, I’ve lived a life of “happiness” and comfort, and I didn’t want it. I don’t think our kids will want that, either. So I pray for them to not be happy, but happy enough. Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way, but I think it’s possible that I’m not.

The blessing of lightness

Boys,

For your whole lives, my objective as a father is only one: to help you become good people.

Yes, you will need to learn to clothe and feed yourselves, because if you do not live you cannot become more good, so I will teach you that stuff too. But the full force of my fatherhood, my whole purpose behind being your father is one thing: goodness.

But I can’t force you to take the long, arduous walk of becoming good. You need to want to. Here are a few reasons, in their most concise form:

• To please your parents (to be sure, this is a very bad reason, but it is a reason).

• Because other people will shame you for being bad (this reason works, but it comes with great cost. And I don’t think it’s sustainable or reliable, especially if you keep poor company).

• Achieving Moksha (or reaching heaven, avoiding hell, or achieving enlightenment - insert whatever equivalent concept you want. But this reason is only for the faithful, and therefore inadequate).

• Because it’s very difficult to live in a free society if people are wicked, so we have to do our part (but this reason has such a long payoff, and is so dependent on others it feels futile).

These are all reasons, and as you can see they are all problematic for one reason or another. But there is one more thing to understand on this matter.

Lightness.

I have felt lightness three times, in my entire life. I remember each moment like it happened no more than an hour ago, so deep was the feeling of lightness. It was something that appealed directly to my soul and held it warmly for a fleeting moment.

The first time was when I was little. We were on a trip to Gwalior - where your Dada and Dadi grew up. I was with them and after 2 days of travel, we were finally coming down the street to my Nani’s house. Almost our entire family (on the Bhansali side) was there, waiting for us, to see us because in those days we couldn’t afford to visit except for every few years. They all welcomed us, yelling, singing, all of us crying because the family was together again, finally. It was as if many generations of love were put straight into my heart all at once. And in that moment, I felt lightness.

The second time was on the day your mother and I were married. I was waiting at the altar for your mother to be escorted by your Granddad down the aisle. The organist started playing, and the back doors of the church swung open. And there was your mother in her wedding dress, wearing Grandma Lou’s necklace. And she smiled at me. And it was as if my soul lifted out of my body for a moment to dance with hers, and in that moment I felt lightness.

The third was with you, Bo. It was mid-June of this year. We had been under stay-at-home orders for the Coronavirus Pandemic for several months by this point. We just had a rough few days - you were anxious and I had been losing my temper a lot. But it was a beautiful day and your brother was napping upstairs so we had a few minutes to ourselves. We were listening to The Lion King soundtrack in the backyard, dancing together. And as the Circle of Life started to crescendo, I lifted you up and spun you around. The sky was so blue, the sun was so warm, and we were smiling. And in that moment I felt so completely connected to you it was as if we had all space and time to ourselves for a few seconds. And in that moment I felt lightness.

And Myles, for some reason when I first see you in the morning you light up. As your mother said the other day, it’s like “he’s been waiting his whole life just to see you.” And I don’t know if that feeling you seem to be having is lightness, but it might be. But just the beautiful, precious possibility of being a brief and small part of creating lightness in you is one of my life’s most sacred joys.

And I tell you both this, not because I think the reward of trying to become good is lightness. Lightness is not a reason to be good. It is not a means or an end. I do not think we could conjure it up, even if we tried.

It is a blessing of the long walk, born of the ardor, sacrifice, and suffering that is inevitable if we try to become good. And oh what a blessing it is.

Love,
Your Papa

One less reason, or, People Who Look Like Me (and my sons)

Yesterday, I came across this clip of Chadwick Boseman on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. It moved me to tears.

The scene is staged with a room that contains a framed moved poster for Black Panther. Fans are delivering video messages of appreciation to Boseman. What they do not know, is that the actor is behind the curtain watching them speak in real-time. He then surprisingly pops out to say hello, and the exchanges Boseman and his fans were emotional, funny, and for me transcendent. 

I finally internalized what it meant to have people of color who look like you, who are pathbreaking.

The appropriate context here (especially if it's you Bo and Myles who are reading this many years after 2020), is that I've never had a well-known Indian-American that I've related to AND been inspired by.

There are plenty of Indian-American politicians, but many are so far outside of the mainstream that I don't relate to them. The others seem like they've anglicized themselves to win votes.

The lndian-American cultural figures, like actors, businesses executives, and television personalities, either have played caricatures of Indians or are in fields (e.g., like Dr. Sanjay Gupta or Dr. Atul Gawande) that are already associated with Indian vocations, or, they're not American-born (e.g., like Satya Nadella).

And more than that, I've never seen any Indian-Americans that have had a gravitas, grace, or poise about them that have made them exceptional (at least in a domain that resonates with me).

When I saw the Fallon clip, I realized that Chadwick Boseman wasn't just a good actor that played the Black Panther, Jackie Robinson, and Thurgood Marshall. He had gravitas. He was exceptionally talented. He had grace. He was so profoundly regal when playing king T'Challa that his playing of the role was pathbreaking, especially when so much of what Black Panther was is unique and pathbreaking on its own. He persisted through serious illness, in private, to make a gigantic cultural impact.

I remember the second Halloween we had in our home in Detroit. It was 2018, after Black Panther had come out earlier that year. There were so many young, black, men who dressed as the Black Panther. They wanted to be like Chadwick Boseman / King T'Challa. And truth be told, I want to be like King T'Challa. Boseman's work inspired me, too.

And I think there are a handful of people who were not just good at their jobs, they are pathbreaking for one reason or another. People like President Obama, or Beyonce, or a in-process example might be AOC. Or JK Rowling, or Dolly Parton, or Oprah. Or FDR, Viktor Frankl, or perhaps even Eminem. These people did not just make exceptional contributions, they have compelling character or inspiring personal stories.

A lot of people talk about how it's important to have role models that look like you. The narrative around that idea is often something like, "if they made it, I can make it." But I'd put a different spin on it: if they made it my [South Asian ancestry, but everyone fills in their own blank] is no longer a reason why I can't make the contribution I want to. And honestly, it's no longer an excuse either. And that’s truly liberating.

And why I mention that reframe is because for me (and I think this is true with a lot of minority groups) I have this soundtrack in my head telling me that I shouldn't try to do hard things, because I'm destined to fail. Because I'm Indian, or because I'm short. Or because I didn't go to Harvard. Or because my parents are immigrants and don't have a rolodex full of connections. People like me don’t do stuff like this. People like me can’t make exceptional contributions and have grace and gravitas.

These are all these stories that I know are dumb to believe. But it's so freaking hard not to listen to those stories. Or not feel like you're an impostor that has to compensate for some deficiency. And by the way, I don't think anyone (even white men) is immune to this phenomenon. Everyone needs path breaking role models that are like them.

I didn't know until recently that Sen. Kamala Harris or Ambassador Nikki Haley were half Indian. And I was even more surprised to find out that both of them (in their own ways) haven't turned away from their South Asian heritage. They don't hide it, at least in my opinion.

And I suppose it remains to be seen whether either of them are truly pathbreaking, but I don't see any reason why they can't.

And I feel so relieved. I had been without role models who look like me for so long, I didn't realize how important it was to me personally, and how much having a role model that looked like me changed my perception of my own self.

But I am more relieved for my sons. If either Sen. Harris or Ambassador Haley becomes a President or Vice President (and serves with distinction), they are both very close role models for my mixed race half-Indian sons. And my sons will grow up their whole lives with a path breaking role model that proves to them that their mixed-race ancestry doesn't have stop them from making a generous contribution to their communities.

It is a wonderful gift for me, as their father, to know that even if there are so many other reasons for them to doubt themselves, with people like Senator Harris and Ambassador Haley, they have one less reason.