It caused me to swear something entirely different, which I don’t really recall, except that it rhymed vaguely with RODDATUCKERPILLYFLOFFANSNOTT!!

You have to know that the sled is squirrely. It has three runners on the bottom, which I guess are meant to give some control to the rider, which is a laughable idea in itself unless the snow is the perfect consistency somewhere between ice and powder. This hill was ice, I should also note for posterity.

So I get on first and plant Boy 5 between my knees and we glide toward the precipice like an ice cube on a freshly waxed car. Just as we clear the lip and begin to pick up speed, there’s Dogtard Lilly standing right in the path of travel. Normally quick to move her butt out of my way, especially when moving fast and hollering something like, “GET THE *^@#! OUT OF THE WAY YOU STUPID DOG!!,” this time she inexplicably stood there and looked over her shoulder at us, as if to wonder where we could possibly be headed in such a hurry and without her.

We barrelled into her and it completely threw my balance off. Here’s where your knowledge that the sled is squirrely comes in handy. You steer it not by leaning, but by flexing one cheek or the other, thereby applying more pressure to one of the two runners on either side. You flex the cheek on the side opposite from the direction you want to turn. Balance is important. It keeps you from crashing into the trees on the right or the rocks on the left (out of the picture). Important? Nay, balance is the one indispensable ingredient, like the sugar in sugar cookies. So you see how bad it was that the stupid mutt of a Lilly threw us off balance.

We veered one way, then the other as I flexed cheeks to keep us heading down hill in a semi-upright position. My boots came out of the sled and the heels started to skip on the ground, kicking up a cloud of ice and powder that we then plowed through. Unlike us, Lilly had recovered from the collision and was barking a high-pitched, excited bark right. In. My. Ear! as she ran down after us.

Boy 5’s left mitten flew off somewhere so that by the time we got to the bottom (in one piece, and atop the sled, is my final note for posterity) and just before coasting to a stop, his hand was frozen and he was crying, snow all over his face. He held it in front of him like a thing wholly other, this numb slab that had once been his hand and its useless, rigid fingers. “I’m nevo going swedding again!” he bawled.

“Oh, come on,” I said, ever the empath. “You had fun all the other times!”

“No I didn’t!” And he descended into the irrational howling characteristic of five-year-olds who believe their limbs are about to fall off. He cried all the way home, cried as he sat by the fireplace warming his back and ears, even cried as he sipped his hot chocolate that eventually returned life and feeling to his hands, which didn’t fall off, after all.

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Old City Bar
Trans-Siberian Orchestra

OLD CITY BAR

In an old city bar
That is never too far
From the places that gather
The dreams that have been

In the safety of night
With its old neon light
It beckons to strangers
And they always come in

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The music was low
And the night
Christmas Eve

And here was the danger
That even with strangers
Inside of this night
It’s easier to believe

Then the door opened wide
And a child came inside
That no one in the bar
Had seen there before

And he asked did we know
That outside in the snow
That someone was lost
Standing outside our door

Then the bartender gazed
Through the smoke and the haze
Through the window and ice
To a corner streetlight

Where standing alone
By a broken pay phone
Was a girl the child said
Could no longer get home

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The bartender turned
And said, “Not that I care
But how would you know this?”
The child said, “I’ve noticed
If one could be home
They’d be already there.”

Then the bartender came out from behind the bar
And in all of his life he was never that far
And he did something else that he thought no one saw
When he took all the cash from the register drawer.

Then he followed the child to the girl cross the street
And we watched from the bar as they started to speak
Then he called for a cab and he said J.F.K.
Put the girl in the cab and the cab drove away.
And we saw in his hand
That the cash was all gone
From the light that she had wished upon.

If you want to arrange it
This world you can change it
If we could somehow make this
Christmas thing last

By helping a neighbor
Or even a stranger
And to know who needs help
You need only just ask

Then he looked for the child
But the child wasn’t there
Just the wind and the snow
Waltzing dreams through the air

So he walked back inside
Somehow different I think
For the rest of the night
No one paid for a drink

And the cynics will say
That some neighborhood kid
Wandered in on some bums
In the world where they hid

But they weren’t there
So they couldn’t see
By an old neon star
On that, night, Christmas Eve

When the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
And in case you should wonder
In case you should care

Why we’re on our own
Never went home
On that night of all nights
We were already there

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Exhibit B
Boy 5 (after watching something about Rudolph on TV): Dad, is Wudowf the wed-nose weindeew in the weal world?
Me: No. He’s just in a song and stories.
Two days Later:
Boy 5: Dad, you don’t know.
Me: I don’t know what?
Boy 5: About Wudowf.
Me: What do you mean?
Boy 5: You said he’s not in the weal world but you wo wong.

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When I was learning to dress myself, I wore khaki pants to work at least three times per week. Then some female coworkers told me that khakis were fashion foe paws. In fact, I think their exact words were “Khakis are gay.” No, no, it’s okay. They’re twenty-something women so they can say things like that to us geezers and it doesn’t hurt because they’ve never listened to an eight-track tape and think Iran-Contra is a Latino rock band, so who can take them seriously? You hear that, Pepper? Got it Fern? Fie on thee! (That’s how we said, back in my day, “I fart in your general direction.”)

Of course, I haven’t worn khakis since, either. Now, underwear on the outside? I promise nothing.

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Our five got along great with Samson (and Delilah?) Agonistes’s very well-behaved 3 year old and 5 year old. Here is Samson himself, reading to three of mine on your left and one of his on your right.

It’s good to have the ear of a friend who is also a conscientious father. Someone who can offer insight as well as commiseration and lame jokes. And who absolutely adores his kids. All parents do, of course, but to listen to him and watch him interact with his kids for a day is to see an uncommon level of devotion in a dad.

Where I sometimes prefer to do my own thing, he prefers to be with his boys. Where withdrawal and disengagement is the default impulse I continually fight against, his default position is on the floor wrestling. I’m going to try to make some changes moving forward, inspired by his example.

It’s not the hair. That’s just a Bible story. It’s the size of the heart that matters.

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My dad’s Thanksgiving dinners were legendary. He was the chef, Mom got clean up duty. She got the harder job, no question about it. One year we had two turkeys (one baked, one smoked), honey baked ham, a large smoked salmon, and a stuffed Cornish game hen for each individual at the feast—and that was just the meats portion of the meal. Insanity.

The big meals taught me nothing about gratitude and did not make me feel grateful. Instead, I learned that it was perfectly okay to eat yourself into a stupor on occasion, especially if someone else does the cooking and cleaning.

It’s tradition in many families to name things you are thankful for on Thanksgiving Day. The displays always make me uncomfortable because I’m actually a selfish, ungrateful jerk. No, that’s not true. I’m not ungrateful. It’s just that it feels a little contrived…a little forced. And it turns out that most people I run with are thankful for pretty much the same things. Family. Health. Family. I should be better prepared for my speech. Have my answers ready in advance.

The Fathers.com newsletter, always good for a sound byte, states: “The Roman orator and philosopher Cicero wrote that gratitude is “not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.” I’m no philosopher, but I can see that recognizing the good things we have—and expressing thanks—gives us a proper perspective on everything else in our lives. We’re less likely to complain about our situation and more likely to focus on the good in our lives and in those around us. ”

In the spirit of Cicero, then, here is the short list of what I am thankful for:

• That Boy 13 is not Boy 15, and thus has more time for his brain to catch up with his body
• Do-overs. I get to try again with the last three what I did wrong with the first two
• That George Lucas has stopped writing movie scripts
• That, as Boy 5 once prayed, no one has as yet cut our heads off
• That Her Hotness still has it, lo these twenty years

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My dad, Fathered Seven, was clinically depressed for most of his life. That was before we had a name for it, much less treatment. That means he (and to a much smaller extent, we) suffered silently, thinking that life was just naturally dark and quite often hopeless. At least I assume that’s what he meant. He didn’t talk or write about it. He knew he wasn’t the man or the father he wanted to be…he just didn’t know why. That self loathing contributed to the disease that killed him.

From our point of view it just looked like he voluntarily withdrew himself from most activities and from engaging with us. For example, I remember him going to just one of my ball games over the seven or eight years I was playing sports. None of my school functions. That’s not a criticism—he worked very hard and his health wasn’t great. And I know that getting yourself in motion while clinically depressed is no easy task, even when motion might be what you most need.

This is no surprise to me:

A parenting stress study by Florida State University professor Robin Simon and Vanderbilt University’s Ranae Evenson found that parents have significantly higher levels of depression than adults who do not have children.

It’s really a curious irony that the, um…condition known as parenthood contributes to another condition that makes one’s best parenting virtually impossible. But then, no one ever told me life would be fair.

Half of me wants to joke about this, but the better half knows it’s no joking matter. My depression is a comparatively mild form called dysthymia, which is chronic, low-grade depression. Kind of like being in a bad mood all of the time. It makes me irritable and antisocial. Makes it hard to engage with kids when engaging is what I and they most need.

Yes, yes, it’s under control. Meds, doctors, the whole bit. But it’s an ongoing battle and I sometimes lose it. I’m writing this because I didn’t know it was statistically verifiable that parents are more prone to depression than non parents.

More from the link above:

All Parents Are At Greater Risk: There is no category of parent, among all those listed above, who experienced lower levels of depression than non-parents, which researchers found surprising, especially because other adult roles, like being married and employed, are linked with greater levels of emotional well-being.

Lifelong Effects: Also surprising was the finding that these symptoms don’t go away when the kids grow up and move out of the house! Researchers believe that this is because parents still worry about their children and how they’re getting along in the world throughout their lives, from the time they’re colicky infants and tantrum-prone toddlers to the days when they’re worried about promotions at work and marital problems of their own.

And the big shocker, the surprise insight of the study? Behold:

“The researchers believe that this is because parents have more to worry about than other people do. We worry about our children’s well-being all throughout their lives, from the time that they’re tiny and dealing with colic, teething and tantrums, to the time they’re dealing with finding jobs and partners and having kids of their own. It’s not that parents don’t enjoy their children or their roles, but the emotional toll of parenting can be high…”

The study also confirms what most parents already know. It states that talking about our parenting experience and gaining support from other parents is helpful. From my experience, blogs play an important role in that regard. Despite the distance and the sometimes impersonal nature of online communication, it fortifies me to know that other parents have the same struggles, the same questions as I do. Y’all are a rockin’ bunch of folks.

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Rabbi Sandy Sasso:
I think society does a very good job of teaching us how to be consumers, and a very good job of teaching us how to be competitors. The question parents are struggling with is, ‘How do we not just teach our children’s minds, but how do we teach their souls?’ “

Looking back at some of my more substantive posts (hey, there have been some!), I realize that the most difficult struggles in my fatherhood experience are those touching moral or spiritual essence—things that are difficult to measure or medicate. Kids underperforming at school? We know how to handle that. Boy 4 becomes fascinated with and fearful about dying? Boy 8 asks, “Why does anything exist instead of nothing?” (Yes, he literally asked that.) Those things are harder to get at as a parent.

Rabbi Sandy Sasso was the guest on a radio program last spring and discussed the intersection of spirituality and parenting. You can see the site and download the podcast at the link above. It’s a good conversation, and I think it’s important to think about the spiritual lives of our children.

I think any parent who is engaged senses his or her children have spiritual selves, but it’s hard to describe. How do you nurture their spiritual lives? What do those lives look like? How do you know when you’re treading that ground?

For instance, I think a reverence toward beauty is an important spiritual skill. We have no clue from Boy 5 that he has any aesthetic sense whatsoever. Actually, that’s true of Boy 13, too. You should see his room. But Girl 2 has lately become obsessed with flowers. “Flowers,” actually, because just about anything growing in our yard that catches her fancy qualifies. She loves to gather up flowers and bring them in to us to put in water. I recently learned that petals from pansies will last about two days floating in a glass.

I don’t want them to merely obey the rules of our religious tradition. Any dog can be trained to obey. I want them to be kind and compassionate, generous and humble and giving. But how?

Here’s a good place to start: Sasso advises that it’s okay to not have answers to their tough questions. Admitting you don’t know and wondering about things with your kids shows them that doubt and uncertainty and questions are important parts of spiritual growth.

It’s not much, but it’s something. Also check out Rabbi Sasso’s recommended reading list for encouraging spirituality in kids.

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