Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”

I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.

There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.

I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.

“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”

“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.

“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”

I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.

When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”

I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”

He said, “Your lullaby.”

It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.

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By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.

The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”

But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat  you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.

Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.

“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”

And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.

Then, it ends.

Your employer goes out of business and there’s no more job for you. They say it’ll take six months to close the doors for good. It takes two. Three months pass and you haven’t found a job. Then six. Then eighteen. You find small ways to earn a few dollars but it’s not enough.

You see your wife’s smile fade, and the lines in her face seem deeper. Where they there before? Around her mouth? You can’t remember. She smiles when you come into the room but from the corner of your eye you see a change when she thinks you’re not looking. The smile is gone and you wonder if she’s losing faith. Losing faith in you. You wonder if you’ve failed.

You wonder if you’re a man.

At night you go into your kids’ bedrooms as  you’ve done countless times before, to check on them one last time before heading to bed yourself. Their little mouths breathe in and out and you hear yourself talking. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry. I have failed you. I have failed your mother. I have failed this family.”

And you walk out, and close the door, and get into your own bed and you wonder, “When will this end?”

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1. School Daze

“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil

“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader

I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.

I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).

My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.

As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.

Exhibit A

I love to watch How It’s Made on The Discovery Channel. If you haven’t seen it, I’ll tell you what you’re missing. Each week, they take their cameras into a factory and shoot the process of constructing several products. One week you’ll get pretzels, cymbals and computer mice. The next, honey baked hams, light bulbs and sail boards. Sound awesome? It is.

Recently, the kids wandered in as I was watching. They were instantly riveted to the screen. Unblinking. William stared at the TV as if it were about to dispense chocolate bars. Now, when I offer them some TV time, I ask, “What would you kids like to watch?” “How It’s Made!” they scream. “How It’s Made!” I tear up a little.

Exhibit B

They’re insane for electronics. When I get the laptop out and plop it on my lap, the kids sprint over. Not only because they think they’ll get a chance to play Starfall, but because they get to press buttons. Tiny fingers peck at the keyboard like seagulls. I decided to test my theory buy giving them a busted computer keyboard to bang on. The love it so much, it’s in the toy box to this day.

Exhibit C

This is the most telling of all. The have an unquenchable thirst for information. I know that’s part of being a toddler, but it’s like they actually derive life-sustaining nourishment from facts and figures.

For example, William’s favorite words are “What’s” and “that.” He never stops asking, nor is he ever satisfied with the answer.

“Daddy, what’s that?”

“That’s a bird, honey.”

“But what IS that?”

“Um…oh, a toucan.”

“But how can that be a toucan?”

“Well, a toucan is a kind of a bird.”

He scrunches his face. “But what IS that?”

Exactly, my young nerd. The world is a knowable system. You may anticipate a future of Sci-Fi, logic puzzles and more. It’s going to be awesome.

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And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

The picture was taken in December of 2005, on the first of three nights we spent without power, following a terrible wind and ice storm that tossed a pine tree onto my wife’s Nissan. Ah, New England. It’s so nice here.

Grace was just 2 years old at the time and William was an infant. The only candles we had were scented, so our dark, frigid house smelled powerfully of “Fresh Linen,” “Lilac,” and “Mountain Breeze” all at once.

“This must be what it’s like to visit a brothel in northern Alaska,” I told my wife. She didn’t think I was funny.

The house got very cold as soon as the sun went down. We stuffed the children into their entire winter wardrobes, and to quote Jean Shepard, Grace “looked like a tic that was about to pop.”

I fretted about the kids being uncomfortable (or worse), I obsessed about the food that was going bad, I worried that the pipes might burst. The darkness made me increasingly stir-crazy. And I couldn’t bear the uncertainty: How much longer would we be without power? An hour? A week?

‘Ol Dave was coming unhinged.

Staring at that photo of Grace shivering and chewing American Cheese slices by flashlight, I couldn’t help but think of the cold mornings of my own childhood.

Our house in Pennsylvania was heated by a coal furnace. The basement of our thin home had a dirt floor and stone walls, and even as a 9-year-old I had to stoop to avoid scraping the ceiling. At one end was a great blazing furnace that sat next to the “coal bin.” This was no more than a boarded-up corner of the room, filled to the top with apple-sized chunks of coal. A corkscrew device pulled coal out of the coal bin and into the furnace as needed. The spent ash fell into a steel “ash can” beneath the fire that had to be periodically swapped out for an empty one.

If there’s one thing coal fires like to do, it’s extinguish themselves. They’re the most suicidal of all fires. Some mornings I’d wake up and smell smoke, and I’d know my father was in that dank basement, trying to get a new fire going. In the kitchen, my sister would be wrapped in a blanket, perched on a chair in front of the oven, its door wide open and the heat blazing. Pots of water simmered on the stove top burners. I’d climb onto the empty chair that awaited me next to my sister.

My mother would call us to the kitchen sink one at a time, where she’d have us stand on a chair and lean in. She’d wash our hair with just the right blend of warm water from the stove and cold from the tap, and I’d listen to my own breathing in the sink while she scrubbed my soapy head. Then, with our hair washed and dried, we’d eat our Cap’n Crunch or Rice Krispies back in our stove-front seats.

Eventually, my father would return to the kitchen (the basement could only be accessed by first exiting the house, which made these winter morning surprises that much better), covered in soot and aggravation. The fire was lit and soon the house would be warm.

I was jolted from my memory by Grace’s voice. “Remember that, Daddy?” she said, pointing to the picture of herself with the flashlight.

“Yeah,” I said. “What a weekend.”

“That was fun,” she said.

Fun!?! I thought. I was a nervous wreck! I though you two were going to freeze to death! I was going bonkers in all that darkness!

“I like those flashlights,” she said, and then wandered off.

I guess I make a lot of assumptions as a parent. Not only about what the kids’ll want to eat on a given day or what games they’ll want to play, but also about how they process our shared experiences. I wonder if my father did the same.

I really loved those frosty mornings of my childhood — the soap smell and the swirling water; the blue flames in the oven and that hot, dry air on my face; my feet dangling above the cold linoleum. My father, I know for a fact, did not. It’s a funny thing.

And I still haven’t sorted my pictures.

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1. Your father’s music
2. School Daze

1. Please stop sending me dress-up clothes

Well-intentioned friends and relatives have been sending us dress-up clothes. A bevy of princess dresses can trash a bedroom in less than five minutes. The cleanup time is substantially greater, and accompanied by a soundtrack of whining and negotiation:

“Honey, you clean up these dresses and I’ll help you zip it.”

“But I caaaaaan’t. I’m too tiiiiired.”

“You pick up these pink ones, honey, and daddy will help with the rest.”

“But daddy, it’s too hard.”

“If you weren’t tired enough to make this mess, you aren’t tired enough to clean it up.”

“But I caaaaan’t. Waaaaaaaaaaaahh.”

Please. No. More. Dress up clothes.

2. Frack isn’t a swear word, except when it is

I’m a huge fan of Battlestar Galactica on the Sci Fi Network. The characters use the made-up word “frack” as a swear word, and I’ll admit it’s infiltrated my own vocabulary. I say it to amuse myself with a private reference to one of my favorite shows.

That was fine until Grace said, “What’s ‘frack’?”.

Try explaining that one to a five-year-old (or the parents who hear her use it on the playground). That’s it, “Frack” is officially a swear word.

3. Further evidence found of my increasing age

Is it me, or is TV really, really loud lately? I have to keep the volume at 3 or 4, or else I can’t even stand it. It must be those advertising executives, because I’m still a 22-year-old kid just out of college with a 32″ waist line.

4. Confusion at the playground

So the kids and I were at the playground, and Grace and I were driving “cars” (actually sticks) in the sandbox. She made a road and a tunnel, and parked her car inside. Then she told me, “I’m hiding because I love you.”

Um, ok.

5. Daddy’s dinosaur rock

Which fact should be the most embarrassing?

1. I got really excited when my iPod started playing “Lay It Down” by Ratt
2. I still knew all the words
3. I even have “Lay It Down” on my iPod in the first place

Just in case you’re wondering, I was waiting out my daughter’s swim class at the Y when this happened.

6. Girl clothing is ridiculous

My wife and I had this conversation.

“…Just put these under her skirt so she’s not flashing her Friday underwear all day,” she said.

“But those are pants.”

“No, they’re ‘footless tights.’”

“Also called ‘pants.’”

“No.”

Uh, yes.

7. Good night, poo poo

William: “The potty is where poo poos go if they’re sleepy and they want to go night-night.”

8. I’m officially a “Soccer Dad”

…and my wife, a soccer mom. We celebrated by buying Soccer Mom Barbie (yes, it’s real). All I need now is an emasculating mini van.

I will say this, though. Five-year-olds in soccer gear is about the cutest frackin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Oops, sorry.

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In lieu of today’s pic, here’s an old video. The off-camera voice that’s cracking up? Yeah, that’s me.

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Son:

Ah, you’re growing up so quickly. It’s been a few days since our last man-to-man. We’re a little older, a little wiser — and a little closer to the years when you’ll want nothing to do with me. Thus, it’s time for another talk. Like I said last time, this is important, so pay attention.

1. Learn how to make a decent paper airplane. Don’t scoff, this is important. A good paper airplane will allow you to entertain yourself, impress your friends, annoy your teachers, and even amaze other kids once you’re an adult like your old man. It requires only a single sheet of paper, so you can whip one out almost anywhere — the airport, a restaurant, Easter Sunday Mass — and often for free. What’s more, you can use almost anything you find lying around, like a place mat or a parking ticket.

There’s more to it than simply folding a piece of paper into a triangle and tossing it onto the floor. First, fold a lengthwise sheet of paper in half, then lay it flat again. Fold the top two corners to meet the seam you made, then do so again. Next, re-fold the paper in half along the lengthwise seam. Finally, fold each side in half so that the top meets the bottom edge to make wings. Throw and enjoy. Note that putting a paper clip on the nose doesn’t really help, despite what people will tell you.

2. Every public swimming pool contains at least one Band-Aid. You’ll probably find it upon opening your eyes underwater, where it will be floating inches from your nose. When this happens, do not touch it. Just to swim away. Most importantly, forget was released into the pool when that Band-Aid was expelled from its host.

Now for some bad news. You may not like this, but I feel I’ve got to let you know.

3. You’re probably going to go bald. Take a look at your dad, your grandfather, and your great-grandfather. We’re like three cue balls (don’t be fooled by great-granddad — that’s a comb-over). When it happens — and it will — don’t get upset. Lots of cool guys are bald, like Michael Jordan and Patrick Stewart. Instead, go to the drugstore, buy one of those hair clippers, and shave your noggin down to the skin. People will respect your honesty, you’ll have one less thing to worry about when you’re getting ready in the morning, and women* will ask if they can touch your fuzzy cranium (hint: Say “yes”). Just remember to wear a hat in the summer because a sunburn on your dome is no fun.

Now print this out and store it with my last bit of advice. You can thank me in your Harvard graduation speech.

*Or men, if that turns out to be your thing.

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1. Father to son, Pt. I

December brings lists, and MSNBC has published the top baby names of the decade. Thanks to celebrities like Gweneth Paltrow, afflictions like Apple and Nevaeh (“heaven” spelled backward) are more popular than ever. Fortunately, classics like Emma and Emily, Jacob and Matthew are still in the top ten.

I agree with George above: Nine times out of ten, Nicky, Vinny and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker.

Top 10 girl baby names of the decade

Emma
Emily
Madison
Sophia
Isabella
Kaitlyn
Ava
Hailey
Hannah
Olivia

Top 10 boy baby names of the decade

Aiden
Jacob
Ethan
Matthew
Nicholas
Jack
Joshua
Ryan
Michael
Andrew

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1st dentist trip and not happy about it. Click to view full photo. More daily pics.

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3. Gulf of Mexico

“But…”

“No ‘but.’ Go.”

I looked at my mother through the dirty screen door. She wore bright yellow elbow-length rubber gloves and a look of determination  — “You are NOT coming back in this house.” I turned around and walked into the yard, defeated.

A few hours later, when my mother was again talking to me through the screen, the conversation was quite different.

“I said come in here now! It’s time to eat”

“No! I want to stay outside.”

“David, I am not kidding…”

Such were my childhood summers. I spent a lot of time outside so that my mother was able to get things done unburdened by a whining, needy kid.

Today, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every waking moment on the floor, exploiting every educational opportunity that presents itself. I recently read an article that described this phenomenon as a generational thing, more prevalent among parents in their thirties than previous generations.

Call it The Parenting Guilt of Generation X.

What’s going on, Gen X’ers? Is it the parenting shows on TV? The magazines? The repeated viewings of Reality Bites?

I don’t know when it happened, but at one point someone impressed upon me the notion that my kids’ development and education is all-important, and something that I should ensure at any cost — even my own happiness. “Parenting is about sacrifice,” is the mantra I’ve somehow gotten in my head. But how much?

My mother had no problem letting the kids play on their own, so why can’t I?

Anyway, 30-somethings, tell me I’m not alone. Do you struggle with this as well? Life was so much easier when we were wearing Dr. Martins and black T-shirts, listening to The Smiths, and sulking. Ah, the good old days.

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