Blessed Days Like These (PinP is back in Town)

PinF is in Pennsylvania; and has been for nearly three years.  So technically speaking, I'm now PinP, which in so many ways, is really right where I belong.  As I've come to realize, both through my increasing years and just as many laughs and tears, is that we always are, right where we belong.  This really is the very essence of all our lives; in that we all walk our own paths, hit our own roadblocks, and if only slightly lucky, will taste the sweet nectar of success - emotional, financial or a healthy family, or maybe all of them --  if only once in our adult lives - tough hopefully many, many times.

This set of life realizations have increasingly become more and more focused in this crazy, fearfully uncertain, and uncharted and scary world we all seem to suddenly inhabit in the same space and time.  No matter where you live, be it on a beach on a tropical island or on a gritty N.Y. street; or on a farm in Iowa, for once we're really "all in it together".  Republican, Democrat, White, Black, Muslim or Jew, rich, poor, wise or ignorant; no matter your salary, our occupation, your wealth or lack thereof; whether a you're a kind human or a complete asshole; we're all in this mess together.

Yes that's the real take away.  Nothing really matters now more than the one's we hold close, the one's we cherish, the people we truly hold dear.  Period.  The house, the cars, the job--nothing would really matter if we didn't get through this together.  "Existential threat".  This is probably the most hyperbolic comment we've heard tossed about for the last three years.  Though now we really do have an honest to God "ET" on our hands.  This threat is probably the most helpless feeling I've ever felt as a parent.  Get through, we surely will, but God only knows that these coming days will be something my children, and your's too, will carry for the rest of their substantially longer lives than mine or your's.


Today I came home from a limited work related appointment, to continue my Family Closeness time.  "Social Distancing" just sounds so much more harsh and disconnected.  I'm choosing to get closer, hold tighter, and love more fiercely. I did that by playing basketball today with my daughters, and then we broke out the big chalk set on the front pavement.  And is was bliss. Something I believe was partly due to the strangely altering events of their lives -- a time that for my two younger daughters will indelibly be etched into their sweet carefree memories   Playing hoops on a Wednesday afternoon in March with their Pops, doing chalk in the blazing warm pre-spring sunshine.  I hadn't really taken it all in until I returned from walking our dog at sunset, and the gentle glow of dusk greeted me in vibrantly dancing colors -- all of them displaying the joy and innocence of a childhood, protected from the reality of substantial fear.



These cement, oasis pads of of love, and joy, instant sources of overwhelming love, pride, and fear, all mis-mashed together in my gut as I stood there and studied their art and words before me.  I knew in that minute I had to write this feeling down; as much so to not forget that wave of love and fear colliding; but also, so that my daughters might some day read my words.  Someday when they too are parents, filled with dreadful fear and so much love during a sure to come time of great trials and faith.  My wife, my partner and creator in crime, the one I couldn't live without, our two daughters both free and pure souls. Full of joy, kind of heart, and as easy to raise as any children should be.  I studied their words, their images, and their hope.  Words like "magic", "be happy", and "welcome" pierced into my unsuspecting heart.  I chose to let this message, their joy, and my deep love for them to be my guiding thought today, and hopefully each day forward.  I am so blessed,  my incredibly beautiful and kind wife, my three healthy and thriving daughters, my still beautiful and vital mother at 81, and my four uniquely gifted and special brothers.  Yes this virus shit is scary.  But somehow being close to, surrounded by, and invested in - my girls, my brothers, and my mother make it all tolerable.

GUESS WHO'S BACK?

So, I've been getting a bit nostalgic for the PinF days.  So I thought I'd check been in......stay tuned

LETTING GO

Holding is on is what we're accustomed to and almost always programmed to do in life.  Letting go of the things and people we hold is dear is never easy.  Holding a dying parent's hand, saying good-bye to a dear friend, or maybe acknowledging the end of true love and what we thought were forever feelings.  This is something none of us ever really become good at.  And for good reason. That which we truly hold dear and treasure is almost always fleeting and short lived.  In reality, our time with each other really isn't all that long. Just ask any couple who've dropped their youngest child at university, or perhaps buried their life long mate, or parent.

I realized this so achingly clear yesterday morning as my wife and I had to hand our 13 month-old daughter Natalie over to the surgical nurse and "let go".  Natalie had to have surgery for a bladder/kidney condition that is only too real to my own past, and yet something I've had the misfortune of having to watch as two of my three daughters have had to experience as well.  Without doubt placing your infant in the arms of a stranger despite knowing that she will ultimately be better for it, is the single hardest act of trust a parent can bestow.

Natalie came through her surgery and continues to heal.  Her mother and I are healing as well.  The ding to the heart that you take as you walk away from a child whose bewildered look and whimpering cry begs not to be left behind is a tough thing to take.  When you know you're doing the right thing it makes it a little easier, still the parent in you wants to not "let go" and just hold that child.  But we know we cannot, and should not. Children will grow, they will leave, maybe even make bad decisions and eventually even fail.  But let go we must. For it is natural, it is normal, and it is the right thing to do.  Learning this is what's even harder.  We all know people who for whatever reasons who have not, will not, or can not learn to just let go.

In essence, it is our inability to let go that inevitably hurts us more than actually doing so because the balance of nature becomes divided, and we place pressures and unhealthy examples on our children's lives.  We let go yesterday, and it was damn hard.  But so was letting go of my dying father, or a failed marriage.  It is not by what we lose that makes us weak, rather it is what we fail to gain by not letting go that in the end makes us weaker. 

We let go, and now Natalie is both stronger an soon to be healthier.  

Tired Hands

His hands are still chiseled and strong, long since forged from 50-years of hard work. His body lies weakened and drawn, tired from fighting these past few weeks. While all manners of his physical being are being depleted, it's his hands I notice. Though I cannot be sure if he even knows I'm here, he responds with a squeeze that seems to replace the words he cannot utter. He's unable to communicate other than squeezing my hand when I ask if he's comfortable, cold, or if he needs anything. After a lifetime of words, its all come down to the touch of a rugged hand.

He's tired. Tired of fighting, tired of what time has done to an overworked, and probably undercared for body. I assure him it's OK to just let go, he squeezes harder. I do all I can to comfort him, wiping his brow, cleaning his face, massaging his legs. I establish a rapport with every nurse immediately, learning their names, where they are from; I take as much interest in their lives as I want them to take in my father's. It seems to work. They are kind, pleasant, and seem to genuinely care about him, at least when I am there. I post a photo of him on his bulletin board surrounded by his five sons, just so that they see that this is a "real" person, one who has a real life, and people who love him too. This is an attempt to keep him as humanized as possible while the familiar traces of his being begin to fade ever so slowly.

His smile, his laugh, even his baby blue eyes, are all but fading now; all that remains is the physical shell of the man. When he wakes at all it's usually with a look as if asking, when? His eyes bespeak his need for relief, comfort, and freedom, as he's always dreaded and protested any hospital stay. All I can do now is be a presence in his room, not being too sure of how aware he is of his surroundings. All our existence's are circular, his present condition illuminating this fact daily as I see him slip more and more into the reliancy of others. And when all else has been given, all you can give is the love. I cannot take his pain away, nor can I make him well. All I am left to offer is the loving assurance that he is not alone and that he is very loved. I am his advocate, educating myself as I go, asking the questions that need to be asked, and always weighing them with what he's instructed and told me he wanted. I am wrestling with how far I go, what procedure is "too much", and as I do I seek balance both from within and above in my decisions. I recognize as I sit and look at him that despite his almost foreign appearance, what I feel now is not unique to me, the pain may be - the feelings are not. We all will experience this on one level or another in our life times. In a strange way it almost makes me feel more alive to experience such sadness and loss; having never lost anyone in my immediate family makes this event a sort of uncharted territory.

I've stayed as long as my absence from my own child would allow, and then I returned to my still cold-on-the-plate life that I ran out on after the hurricane. My father is nothing if not the toughest man I know. After everything he's been through and all the physical ailments, his spirit yields nothing to his condition. He fights, and I hold his hand. Occasionally a tear wells up in his eye and I'll dab it before it falls, making me wonder if he really does know what is going on around him. Because of this fact I will not cavalierly discuss his condition or my options in his room with the Doctor's and nurses, choosing instead to always step outside. I operate on the assumption that the body is weak, but the mind and spirit are still alive probably in ways we cannot understand until the day when it will be our turn. Still it all goes back to his hands. The hands that held mine when I was too sick, or lifted me through the endless summer waves of my youth at the shore. These are the hands that may have occasionally been used in anger, though I cannot ever remember that they were. He is weak for sure, but his hands speak of the 72 years that have sculpted them, as if the hands are the odometer of one's life.

I am gone now, and I wonder if he misses my presence, I know I miss his. I shall return soon though, as I suspect he has very little left in the tank. I want him to go, to be in peace, to finally be free of the ravages of illness. Yet his stubborn nature in life seems as if it will accompany him in death. He will not give up without a fight, maybe when I return I can convince him to loosen up that powerful grip of his. No one wants to see their parent die, however I've kind of prepared myself for this moment through my father's other recent bouts with mortality. The selfishness in me wants to hold onto that grip as long as I can, though the compassion in me wants to see his suffering end. Problem is, I'm not sure who has a greater grip on whom at this point.

The Wisdom of Sophia

PinF has always been surrounded by boys; four of them to be exact, and of course one man-- his father.  The only personification of femininity was represented by PinF's wonderful mother.  Girls didn't figure into PinF's path until about 8th grade I suppose.  This has quite obviously changed for myself and my brothers with the birth of 8 daughters in the span of 21 years.

Observations of parenthood are often littered with one's own parental admonishments and memories as a child.  This, like all facets of becoming an adult person are one of the many mysteries of becoming a complete person, one who not only can see, know, and understand their own path, but their parents' as well.  To feel such complete love for a child explains and demystifies our own parents' many declarations of love, fear, and protection for us as the child we once were.  First loves, old loves, or any other love you may worship or enjoy in youth can neither be compared nor replaced with the love we all feel for our own child.  Still we tend to tell our children constantly of this love, understanding full well that they too will not know entirely of what we speak until the door of  such wisdom might open one day for them too.  Again, this is life's circular acknowledgement that we're all on the same ride, learning the same lessons, and experiencing the same feelings.

For my part I admit to my rather selfish and almost cavalier disregard for my parent's love for me until my time came to "open the door".  July 9th, 1998 was the day that much of what I had lived, seen, and learned all came to make sense, it was also the day  I experienced the true nature of love and completeness of the heart.  Sophia means wisdom in Greek lore and language; rather fitting in many ways as her arrival was the herald of my personal wisdom.  The wisdom I've gained over the past 13 years of being a parent is something that I could never have learned, felt or experienced no matter how many books I could've read.  To truly understand the emotions of protection, responsibility, empathy, sharing, sacrifice and love one must truly feel the weight of his or her child's gaze back upon their face or the clutch of their little soft hand in their much larger and calloused one.

I admit that my Sophia's arrival on that auspiciously hot day 13 years ago ushered in an era of these and many other emotions and lessons--all of which I still continue to learn today.  The most wonderful aspect of parenting is when you are no longer exclusively the teacher, but rather you too become the student as you learn from your own child how far to push, when to admonish, when to praise, and when to just shut up.  Yes the love one will feel for a child is a love that cannot be experienced by any other means other than by truly living it.

I remember well speaking to another couple in a park when Sophia was about 4 months old.  They were in their forties and their child was clearly Asian, and I assumed adopted.  As it turned out they had just arrived home from a month in Beijing, China where they had been  living in order to visit the orphanage every day in order to build the bond of trust and love with their soon to be adopted daughter.  They related of how they had tried and failed invitro 3 times, but that their desire and love to be parents was so great that they turned to another option.  As each of them spoke I could see their eyes becoming moist, and their emotions raw as they recounted the moment the 747's wheels left the ground in China.  Their baby in tow with her new American passport, they told me of how their love was as great if not more than if they had given birth to their own child.  In that moment as their beautiful little girl looked up at them, the father said he realized the gravity of his responsibility and love, as he and his wife then became the sole force of protection and love for such a little soul in this enormous world.  They described the moment and just how emotional it  was after having spent untold thousands of dollars and time in foreign country while their whole life back home had been placed on hold while traveling around the globe to become parents. 

Powerful stuff.  It too leant credence to the power of parental love--proving that it isn't really the act of physical birth that binds us to one another, but rather the spiritual bond that seems to take place--one in which parent and child forge as one. 

 And so it goes, my beautiful daughter enters the "teen" years, as beautiful and as glowing as when she entered the many other phases of her life.  To her mother and me she is so much more to us than she will ever understand.  But understand she will one day when if by God's will she too experiences the wonder of parenting.  For now she is a burgeoning young lady of character, grace, infinite wisdom and happiness of which her mother and I give thanks to God and celebrate on this day--her day July 9th, 2011.

Reading the "Signs" of Spring

How many of us are guilty of missing the signs our lives place before us, or perhaps taking for granted what we cherish and covet the most?  PinF knows too well how often he makes this mistake, though he makes equal attempts at staving off life's complacencies; trying instead to be in the present, full of thanks.  Easier said than done no doubt.  Still, as we turn our sights to a new a new Spring season like the earth turns its tilt towards the warmth of the sun, it's important if not necessary that we occasionally stop from our busy, worrying ways and days and really count our blessings.  Cliche for sure--but ever so true, as we are but on this earth for a short, short time.

PinF's blessings have been many and often as of late.  After a particularily hard "winter" in my life where I saw the end of my first marriage, the death of a parent, and the inevitable fall out these changes would have on my most cherished daughter Sophia, I was able to rebound and blossom my life anew.  I met the woman that would be my new mate, saw my daughter emerge from the darkness and into the light of hope after these changes.  And blessings of blessings my new wife Julia, and my beautiful daughter Sophia and indeed PinF would come to be blessed with a new baby daughter/sister, reaffirming yet again that life does indeed go on, and often in ways and directions we could never really see or anticipate from our once "low" vantage points.

And there it is my (PinF's) life in a 12 month nutshell.  Soon after the arrival of our daughter Alice, we would as a family face another reality: life is precious and fragile.  Alice was taken deathly ill and admitted to hospital at 6 weeks old.  Her diagnosis would again come full circle to my own life after it was confirmed that her affliction was a genetic gift from me her father.  PinF lost a kidney as a result of this condition as a child and spent a fair amount of time in hospital recovering from the subsequent surgeries that would eventually set me on the path of health and normalcy.  Of course Alice's condition was compounded by her tender age of just shy of 50 days.  Still my wife Julia and I were assured that despite the dire diagnosis that there was a surgical fix and that Alice would have it once she turned a year old.  It's been 8 months now and Alice continues to amaze and thrive---she has a sister that is both paient and loving, as well as two doting parents.

So life is good.  Life is full.  Life is indeed worth living having been married, had a new baby, and bought a new house all within a year.  Of course the cosmos always has a way of yanking you back into your life's true course, and PinF is no exception to this rule.  Last Sunday whilst up on the ladder painting the new house spring was looking really nice all around my neighborhood.  My wife and daughters were out shopping and I was enjoying the last vestiges of a lovely spring night.  The "signs" were all around me--flowers blooming, birds chirping, bees buzzing.  This all came to an abrupt and scary stop when I realized the low and dull pain I'd been feeling all day in my side was not that of a 48year-old muscle pull, but rather the beginning of a kidney stone blocking my renal function.  And just like that I was swept from the ladder and into the emergency room full of dread and uncertainity for myself, my wife and my two daughters.  I was scared, not so much for myself, but more for my girls.  I didn't wan't them to see me in pain or weakness knowing full well this would cause them alarm.

As I sat in the emergency room, not sure how severe this would be, I began to really castigate myself for not being more cognizant, more thankful, and more appreciative of the "moments" of my life.  Surely it wasn't over in a sense of the word, but it was definitely a sign.  This was a sign of many things--middle age, the loss of my daughter's Sophia's innocence, my wife Julia's worrying over "what if's" that we all naturally consider in times such as these.  I'm home now and probably more thankful and humble than ever.   I saw fear in my daughter's face and in her writing as well on the get well card.   I saw my wife just stop her life and her job and rush to be near my side until she was convinced I'd be OK.  I heard the voices of my brother's and mother as they relived a sort of fear of my past illnesses as a child, not to mention my father's kidney related decline in the fiinal years of his own life.  These were all signs---of how loved, cared for, and vital I am to others as they are equally unto me.

It's been over a week of tender frailities and humbling pain, but I am now regaining the physical strength I took for granted just a week before.  I am also through my good nature and sense of humour, reassuring those around me that I really will be OK.  But I'd be lying if I said I'm not looking at my wife and daughters differently, or thinking about the time we all have together and how best to serve the time, as we serve eachother.  I'm trying to "read" the many signs of this Spring in my life--counting my blessings and enjoying my days, one by one.  As I do, I realize now like I did 5 years ago what's really important, and as we all know it isn't what's in the bank account, the house, the job or the car---they're just "things".

And as we all know, "things" can be replaced.

Alice

The Gifts of Life

PinF welcomed his newest addition on July 12th---hence the silence for too long now. Alice Valentina Paynter was welcomed into this world by her mother and I and has consumed the majority of our time since. More to follow....................

Time does Fly

The metaphors of life often speak more clearly to the realities of our lives than we realize.

"Time Flies" comes to mind. I watch daily as my once little girl transforms into a more mature, independent, and individual person; one who seeks to define her identity not as my daughter so much as by who she as a burgeoning young lady is. Today PinF was offered as concrete an example of this fact as one can get. "Time" literally flew, as we walked through the airport where my daughter and I have walked literally dozens of times, hand-in-hand as we embarked on our many trips to my town, Philly. Her dimunitive smooth hand curled in my much larger one, full of wonder, questions and excitement.

Difference today was that my little girl no longer holds her daddy's hand, and she no longer looks like a "little girl". Today as her mother and I looked on in melancholic disbelief we watched as our once little girl walked down the rampway of her own flight; both of us recognizing that time has indeed "flown". And then she was gone; flying alone for the first time in her eleven years to Philadelphia. A truer metaphor I couldn't imagine. Time flew right out of our lives. Her mother dabbing tears, Sophia nervously excited to go, and me in a kind of stunned pride at her confidence and poise.

Sad as I was to see her go, I was equally proud of the young lady she's become. I could hardly imagine at age eleven having either the luxury or confidence to fly on my own. But this is what life really is; we're training our children everyday to be independent, confident, and unafraid to accept new challenges--and instead-- facing their fears, and taking those steps even when they may be uncertain. I'd be lying if I said it didn't have that familiar "first day of school goodbye" feel to it. It was hard, but it's also very necessary in the development and education of a complete person.

Sophia is nothing if not confident; and so now she's off and I'm left with a strange feeling of void right now, something I'll most likely have until my mother calls from the other end and lets me know she's received my precious cargo. But what a great feeling to have a child who wants to strike out on her own and fly to see your mother, her grandmother? She'll be spending days of such quality and joy with her grandmother that I'm pressed to imagine how I couldn't have let her go.

So there it is. The son leaves his mother only to have his daughter leave him. The symbiotic balance is found in the continuative cycle of life and love. My daughter is with my mother for a whole week of exploration, learning, and fun in the "big city". I couldn't think of more fulfilling memory for Sophia when she's older than this experience of learning more about the wonderful mother that made me the competent father I am.

I told Sophia what my father once told me as I boarded a flight "don't forget where you came from". Because in life it's never really "where" you are or even where you're going so much as it is where you've come from and all -that's gone into making you who you are.

Time flew today; metaphorically, and literally--and with it, so too did my daughter. Luckily she's flying in the right direction in life as in destination.

Reeling in the Years.......

A year ago I was 40,000 feet in the air closing in on London for a long overdue visit with some dear friends. Four years ago I was shattered by the loss of my father after a protracted illness and the toll it took on all who cared for him right up to the end. Five years ago I finally emerged from the hell that was divorce after the rigorous toll it took on my health, heart and daughter.

March 13 holds significance for sure. And even though it still has me looking in my rear view mirror at those long cold days spent at my father's bedside as all the familiar traces of his being slowly ebbed away before my eyes in hospice, things are for the most part--ok. And despite the pain, the tears, and the sadness life indeed has gone on, for the better. I have a wonderful woman in my life, my daughter is flourishing before my eyes, and though I miss him terribly; thoughts of my father evoke more smiles than tears now.

Of even greater significance is the fact that my daughter will have a sister in July and I a second daughter. Funny how much difference a year makes in our lives, I certainly would've never imagined the blessing of another child this time last year. And though I haven't posted on here much lately, most likely this is a good sign, as my life has become busier, and in turn it has become whole again after losing so much-- in such a short span.

Spring awaits just around the corner both figuratively and literally in my life today. I can say for sure that I still miss my pop a lot, but I know now better than I did then that the course of life is generally 85-90% joy, happiness, and love. The other 10-15% is heartache, pain, loss, and tears. If we're lucky in this life we get to space that 10-15% of pain over the span of our lives so as to not feel the awesome totality of life's losses. I know now how lucky I've been. And after a particularly nasty little spell, I too am back in the happiness, joy, and love.

My daughter continues to be the eternal spring of my life's joy. Sprinkle in a special someone and the pending birth of our daughter and you have the ingredients for another good run on happiness. So for all those who ask me when/where has PinF gone, or will I post again soon, trust me--it isn't because I haven't the stories to tell--on the contrary. I'm living the stories, so much in fact that finding the time to write them is the challenge now................

Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

I like to think I'm a good judge of character, motives, and the genuineness of people. I also like to consider myself a compassionate person, though these days, when out and about one can never be too careful. PinF has always had an ability to talk to all people-irrespective of race, color, or station in life, knowing well that there's good in all of us and that none of us is immune to the pitfalls of life.

And so it was yesterday that I would find myself in one of West Palm Beach's less than picturesque neighborhoods while working--you might call it "seedy". I think you can get the picture no matter where you live when you consider the economic climate and of the profound effect it's having on those less fortunate than you. This is a neighborhood that by day looks innocent enough, but by night you'd be sure to avoid. Where scruffy men drink beer out of cans in paper bags, and women of nefarious intent prowl the main street. Edgy for sure, but nothing where you feel endangered by daylight.

I had stopped into 7-11 to grab a paper and a coffee and had just gotten in my car and took a phone call. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him. Three clear plastic bags with what appeared to be his life. Reasonably well dressed, newer sneakers, clean shaven--he didn't look the part. For in that instant our eyes met--and I knew instinctively what this often means---he was going to approach me like so many other unfortunate people for any "loose change". Seems Florida has a disproportinate amount of street and homeless persons--due in large part to the climate.

As I spoke on the phone with a wary eye to my car's side and rear view mirrors, I saw the man take a shaking, almost spasmatic step from the curb. As he moved closer I recognized his Palsy-like symptons and watched as he struggled the twenty-feet or so to where I sat in my comfortably idling, and locked vehicle. He was putting forth each clumsily paralyzed foot and willing his body to follow; strained, almost pained looks filled his face. By now he placed his bags on the pavement in front of the 7-11 in an effort to better navigate his way towards me.

Clearly he was zeroing in on me, our brief glance moments before setting the scene for this encounter, now made much more dramatic by his arduous approach. He mimed for me to rolll down my window, though ever so politely, as he was acknowledging I was on the phone. I finished my call, rolled down the window and I as I greeted him with good morning, he began to slur his words to me, struggling with emotion. "Excuse me sir, I'm a Marine with Cerebal Palsy and I need help".

Like I said, I've seen my share of homeless drunks with far flung stories. But something on this guys face, the way he was dressed, and the way he struggled so mightly to take three or four steps told me this guy was for real, and he needed a little help. I asked him what was going on? He said he was Veteran who served in the Marine Corps, and by the look of him he didn't seem much older than myself. He said he was diagnosed a few years ago and has been in and out of the VA hospital. He admitted he maintained a one bedroom flat in this dubious neighborhood, but that he had no money and was in need of a meal.

Normally I'd take what ever loose change in my console and dump into a grimy hand. Not today, he looked too hungry, too desperate. He asked if I could spare some change so he could get a "donut or something". I handed him a five dollar bill. A stunned look came over his face and he started muttering "..Oh my God, oh my God..", "thank-you and more God bless you's soon followed, and how "I didn't know how much this meant to him". And as he struggled for the right words, I watched as a tear that had been welling in his eye finally broke free and ran down his brown weathered face leaving a track of pain. I told him him God Bless him too and to stay strong. With his he turned to struggle back to his three clear plastic bags that held his belongings.

Just as he got to the door of the 7-11, he turned to me and said he was going to go to the Publix supermarket, "because he could make his $5.00 go further there than at the 7-11 and get something he could put on the stove". I told him good idea.

Problem was---the Publix was another 2 blocks away. Kind of put my day, my life and my world into a much needed perspective.

The Long Days of Time

We sat at an outdoor plaza, its fountains dancing in the late day sun as laughing children streamed about tossing pennies and nickels into the water as father's stopped to pose for photos with their children. I mentioned to Sophia as we enjoyed our dish's at her favorite Italian restaurant that today was the summer solstice--the longest day of the year. And as I told her this I thought to myself what a wonderful metaphor for this-- my father's day with her that it should fall on a day that is longer than any other, since what we all seek is more time. More time to live, experience, laugh, and enjoy.

I had 44 Father's Days' with my dad and I wondered as she spoke so animatedly and passionately about everything a ten year-old girl discusses with her dad, whether I too would get at least 34 more "Days" like this. We all want to live long and healthy lives, filled with rich experiences and satisfying days. Yet 34 more years seems so "soon", though in reality my daughter would be almost 50 in 34 years.

And so it was as we enjoyed each other's company gabbing about everything and nothing, my little girl not looking so "little" anymore as toddlers caught my eye tying to touch the splashing water of the fountains. Still, as the sky painted the evening in pastel colors over her shoulder, I was able to drink in all that this one day really means. We so often stumble through the days, weeks, months and years until one day we wake up and our parents begin to look like our grandparents, we begin look like our parents, and our children all of a sudden look like us. Fitting indeed that I had the extra daylight, the extra hour, and extra time to appreciate my beautiful daughter and stop to appreciate that which I try not to take for granted.

Being a father is one thing you never really think too much about until you are one. Though once you are, you struggle to recall a time when you thought of anything else really. It's one of life's riddles in a way. So there we sat, enjoying an Italian gelato and still gabbing, only now we were discussing our upcoming vacation. It felt good just being in the moment especially since by virtue of the calender it was an extra few moments on an extra glorious summer day.

Time Surfing

I'm often struck by the many contrasts of my own childhood and that of my daughter, especially since I was raised in the northeast as one of five children as opposed to being an only child growing up in the year-round warmth of Florida.


Case in point, my daughter attended surfing school all last week. When school would end for PinF after 5th grade back in 1974 the BIG focus would the local swim club, something my brothers and I loved mind you, though it certainly wasn't 'surf school". My brother's and I would of course also have two weeks of coastal bliss to look forward to usually down at the beach at Sea Isle City, N.J., with all the wonder and excitement of playing on the beach and the boardwalk while literally lost in the time warp of youth. So it was, all last week I had a week of surf lingo: "shredding, gnarly, and surfing the line".....etc. I couldn't help but to think to myself how I would've died for such an experience at age 10.

While pondering my own childhood I realized that it was really all bout "time". How we spend it, how we waste it, and ultimately how we all pay little attention to it, especially as children, because what real significance does time have other than "bedtime" or "dinnertime"? Something I find myself saying more and more as my child becomes a part of consumer America is "....when I was a kid....", trying to make her realize how lucky she is to spend a week on the beach with nothing more to do than learn to surf, not to mention her affinity for computers, cell phones and MP3 players. I'm often transported back to the long hot summer's of my youth playing stepball in front of the house with the neighborhood kids all assembling with my mother acting as referee/nurse/commisioner of the many leagues and disputes that would arrise from such concentrations of kids on her doorstep.

"When I was a kid" comments have about as much effect on my daughter as they had on me by my father, still the temptation to try to make a kid appreciate, realize, and be grateful for their daily lives is great and often irresistable. Making a child of today understand the fact that there were no computers, MP3's, and cell phones, not to mention 150 TV channels and endless amusement parks back "in the day" is like trying to convince Dick Cheney that waterboarding was torture.

Still time ebbs ever forward and we soon fall back into the routine of living in the moment, not the past. I'm grateful that my daughter can do things and go places I may not have as a child, because afterall this is what is supposed to happen. The challenge is trying to compete with the many external distractions of youth that exist today. Aside from television, there wasn't as much of a social disconnect from my parent's generation to my mine. Sure, social mores and attitudes changed, but the world in general wasn't turned upside down with regard to what kids were doing, expected, and wanted. The life of ten-year old me, was the desire to play in a pool, play little league baseball, and go to the beach. Life was simple.

So it was that as exotic as "surfing' camp sounded, Sophia found her "simplicity" of being. Arriving each morning at 8:30 to the glistening ocean front park where a day's worth of water excitement waited, either surfing, tubing, jet skiing, or just plain old beach games. No cell phones, MP3's, or computers for a whole week? The result? A very happy, tanned, and satisfied little girl who got off the techno roller coaster and got on the slow "wave" of fun.

The changes taking place at age ten are so stark and contrasting to the little girl who has up until recently needed/wanted her papi is both a bit sad and exciting all at once. I see in her a

confidence that comes from both maturing as well as wanting to be seen as fitting in, and not tethered to her "daddy". Oh sure, she's still papi's girl when we have time together, but I see through my own past what she is thinking and feeling as she attempts to spread her wings and fly a little further each time. Stretching the boundaries is now the norm, either in asking if she can do another sleepover, or meeting her friends in the mall. These are all natural developments I know, still they are stark reminders that we are all growing apart physically in life, depsite the increasing emotional investments.

I've often commented that the key to being a good parent is quite simple. Remember what it is to be the kid. That's all there is to it. Empathy, coupled with memory and a touch of some thicker skin as the child grows into the adolescent is all it takes to be a fair, fun, and good parent. Of course you have to temper this with strong disciplinary judgement since the child is constantly testing the rules/boundaries/and expectations. My belief is that most of us know how to be authority figures, the key is in learning to be trusting parents, despite knowing what we all know by the time the child is them self a reflection of paths we've already walked.

To this endeavor I am still learning, evolving, and trying to be. For her part, the child is still lost in time enjoying her summer.

As it should be.

A Sage at 70

The more I parent, the more I remember and understand, and the more I appreciate how I was raised and by who.

Today was school picture day, as if I don’t already own 6,000 images of my daughter; I now need to write a check to purchase more with an artificial background included as well. Last night I was up until 10PM with my little lovely putting the final touches on this year’s science fair submittal.

Yesterday I sat at St. Paul’s with my daughter and brother listening to an Easter homily while remembering the many Easter Sunday’s of my youth while wanting nothing more than for the mass to end so that the candy eating might commence. As I sat, listened, and looked around I saw many poignant reminders of my childhood. Fidgety children reprimanded discreetly by their mothers in the pews. I could, and I believe my brother did also, remember many a Sunday were our mother in an attempt to receive the message, would have to rearrange the order of her five sons so as to minimize the church antics of five little boys bent on antagonizing one another.

Here I was now, the parent. Of course being a parent to one daughter hardly compares to shepherding five sons through an hour of silence and good behavior. Still I have great respect now as a parent for those who do. All of which brings me to the point of this post.

One of the most influential and admired people of my life is celebrating a true milestone today. And as much as it an event to ponder, rejoice, and celebrate, it is equally if not more, a moment to reflect from whence I’ve come. If we’re really lucky in life; and many aren’t, we get two loving, fun, and truly caring parents. If we’re even luckier we get them for our entire childhood. Luckier still, would be that they stay together and grow old, each watching over each other despite the other’s faults and hang-ups into the golden years of their lives. And of course one of life’s truest gifts is to have your parent(s) well into your own adult years; this of course serves two purposes depending on whose perspective you get, though perspectives aside, this is when the true friendship blossoms. For no longer is the parent serving the strict advisor, teacher, and disciplinarian role; but rather they become more of a contemporary, and if we’re lucky they open up and allow us a glimpse in the mysteries of our past.

For the child, this period allows a certain candor that really doesn’t exist as a child or even a young adult; this candor can only be earned through experiences of the heart. These experiences are of course well known to all; death, marriage, childbirth, divorce, depression, triumph, achievement, and loss. For all that we think we know at twenty or even thirty for that matter, we still know very little when compared to our parents. So like the maturation of sapling, so too is maturation of a person; you must be weathered by many storms, and caressed by the warmth of many summers to truly understand the joys and pains of our lives, and the fact they too will pass quickly. This is the luxury of having a parent into your middle age. You can now as an adult admit your impetuousness, your naivety, and your mistakes, since you are hopefully at a place where the candidness of truth outshines the pompousness of ignorance and pride.

Now for the parent, I imagine the truest advantage to having the child reach middle age is in finally being recognized as having known what the hell they were talking about all bloody time the child was not listening, or at least not wanting to admit they were. They say the greatest revenge of a parent is in watching the child become one them self. This I can attest is true. The sage wisdom of the parent is much like wine, it cannot, nor should it be, enjoyed or even appreciated by the child until such time as the child has come to understand the lessons that go into the grapes.

Like any relationship we have in life, the parent-child relationship needs to be nourished; yet unlike our friendships which are relationships of choice, our family, specifically our parents, are relationships of chance. We are given no choice in which we are given-- both parents and children. Yet inextricably we are mirrors of each other. For there is no greater gauge of who a person is than by speaking with the person who raised, taught, and guided that person. Of course there are exceptions, maybe the person who rose up despite parental addictions, or shortcomings of character, but for the most part our parents are our blueprint if you will. And rather justifiably, we too leave our mark on our parents as well. Either in teaching them tolerance, patience, or laughter we’re all affecting each other in some form; hopefully it’s in the positive form.

Today is my mother’s 70th birthday. She isn’t your average seventy year old though, and many of you who know PinF know this already. Never having been defined by traditional labels, she has raised five sons, a good part of which was done as a single mom, educated her self at night while working full-time, and then gone on to return the goodness she acquired to so many others who’ve been touched by her love, knowledge and experience. We all love our mom’s, or at least we all want to. I’ve been blessed in that my experience has taught me that good parenting comes from steady, consistent, and loving lessons, doled out with equal parts of self responsibility, sprinkled with letting the child fail or fly on their own when the lesson is at stake. It isn’t easy, yet nothing in life that’s worth a shit ever is.

On this day exactly six years ago, I sat with my mother deep in the heart of Central America at the Yohoa Lake at a pretty much empty lakeside resort. We were as alone together as two people possibly could be. She was living and serving the impoverished people of Honduras, all the while questioning whether her commitment and sacrifice were her true calling, all while her sister slowly expired to cancer. I too was questioning many issues as well; as I navigated through the land mines of a dying marriage, while trying to hold onto the lessons and ideals of being a responsible and loving parent to a little girl who I knew was facing a changing future. So there we both sat, each kind of broken inside, yet still each trying to be the stronger one for the other. Incredibly I came away recharged, and refocused ready to face whatever may come, and for her part she felt reaffirmed in her decision to spend 2 ½ years away from her family, friends, and home to fulfill her mission in the Peace Corps.

This trip for me was a very candid and powerful two weeks of talking and really listening to one another. I think I could speak for us both when I say that we learned more about each other as adults in that two weeks than we had in the years leading up to us meeting in the middle of a third world country. Strange in a way, how we often must travel many roads metaphorically, and here we were alone in a tiny country, with no TV, no outside interaction; just the two of us fulfilling our metaphorical destinies. I remember well my pride in seeing her, as she had literally blossomed into the person she had wanted to be, and indeed was all that time, but now with the opportunity to separate, face an incredible challenge, and make a difference, she was more than just “mom”, she was someone I was so proud to have as a friend and confidant in my life. I remember telling her that the seeds she was sowing in Honduras may not take root for twenty years, but that her presence in so many young girls and boys lives as an educated and empowered woman, teacher, advisor, and mother, would surely pay dividends and live on long after her life to affect and hopefully change many more lives for the better, and how many people can say this?

So today, April 13th I celebrate one of my truest and certainly oldest friend’s birthday. She just so happens to be my mother as well; a fact that makes her special day also mine, as without her I’d have never known the fullness of the life I’ve lead and enjoyed as a brother, father and a friend.

Words, Places, People, and Faces