boy turns thirty

That Day

2006-09-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

This morning, at 7:46 AM CST, I sat at my son's preschool in Liberty, Missouri, and tried to coax him into playing with the playdough. Five years ago, at that exact moment, I was standing in line at the Chase Manhattan Bank on 3rd Ave in midtown Manhattan. Relatively speaking, I wasn't anywhere close to the World Trade Center on That Day.

At the time, I didn't know anyone who worked in the towers. To this day, I don't know anyone who lost a loved one. But I can still smell the horrible fumes. I remember the fliers with the faces of the missing. And I can still hear my mother sobbing when she finally got in touch with me at work. I still remember walking up a deserted Park Avenue at 5:30 PM. I still remember feeling trapped on the island, and buying whatever food was available at our neighborhood cafe. I still remember how safe I felt inside Park Avenue Christian Church, yet so vulnerable at the same time.

To this day, I am still learning how I felt That Day. I am still learning how my wife felt That Day.

This morning, though, as I sat with my son and quietly noticed the time ... I didn't know how to feel. It seemed everything around me was telling me that time marches on. My son is only 2 and a half years old and will probably never believe where his mother and father where when the planes hit the towers.

There's still a part of me, though, that refuses to forget the emotions of that day. I worry that if I don't watch the clips and look at the pictures that I will somehow eventually gloss over what happened. I'm afraid that it will somehow get sanitized in my mind.

I do know that day is a watershed day for everyone. For me, it seems so much of who I am has been shaped by the events of those days.

This blog started out with the goal of learning who I was at 30. Obviously, the answer to that question begins with a story of who I was at 25 and how I dealt with pain, anger, fear, frustration, love, kindness, hope and growth.

I believe the greatest impact, though, has been on my spirituality and what I believe. A direct result of That Day is this simple belief: God's grace is for everyone.

Trust Yourself

2006-05-07T23:26:00.000-07:00

Last year Steve Jobs gave a commencement speech at Stanford. Transcripts of the speech are now circulating around the world. If you want to read it, just Google "transcript commencement speech Steve Jobs." You'll find it, trust me.

The first portion of the speech is about trusting yourself because at some point in your life, you'll be able to look back and connect the dots. At that point, everything will make sense.

It reminded me of one of the most powerful lines I've ever heard: "Where there is no faith in the future, there is no power in the present." I would give proper attribution, but I couldn't tell you where I heard it. Despite what you know about copyright law, some messages are more important than the messenger.

I was reminded of these messages today as I sat in church. It was around this time last year when my wife and I came to the conclusion we needed a new church home. There were many reasons, but we both knew it was true.

We trusted our instincts. And looking back, the power in that moment is stunning.

Today our son is attending the day care at our new church (he loves it). My wife and I have found new friends and a Sunday School class we love. And our minister is amazingly dynamic and intellectually challenging. The bottom line is we feel more at home in this church than we have since leaving our church in New York.

Trust yourself. There is power in the present.

What happened?

2006-04-30T20:12:00.000-07:00

If this blog was meant to create a snapshot of who I am at 30, then it is safe to say I am someone who can lose an entire month with a blink of an eye.

I meant to post something. Honest.

It would seem silly to try to sum up a month in one post -- especially with a two-year-old son sleeping upstairs. Needless to say, a lot has happened. Most significantly, the aforementioned son turned two.

We also went on vacation to Florida to see the Cardinals' Spring Training (my birthday gift from my wonderful wife), and it seems as though I've been trying to catch up at work ever since.

I've tried to finish a paper for a law journal (It's coming tomorrow, Rich. I promise!). I've obligated myself to co-author another article (The outline is coming this week, Joe. I promise!).

And that's just the fun stuff.

Can someone mow my yard?

A New Bed

2006-03-19T22:41:00.000-08:00

My son is growing up quickly. Of course, as I told my wife, children tend to do that.

It is a rare day that goes by when my son does not amaze me or my wife. On Saturday, after I went into the garage to get the last of the groceries, my son called out “Dad. Dad! … Russ!” It was the first time he had ever referred to me by my name.

When I came back in, my wife was in absolute awe as she told me the story.

It then dawned on me that I had heard him calling for her by name two nights earlier – the pacifier had obscured the clarity of her name at the time, though it now rang clear in my mind.

As I told her the story of his calls for her by name, he looked at us and said, “Russ. Lauren.” He had proven his point. Not yet two, there is little that gets past him.

Another hurdle in his development was cleared on Sunday night when my son moved from his crib to his toddler bed.

We’ve been prepping him for the transition for a couple of weeks. It started with a new nightly routine of reading books in our bed from 7:30 to 8, then lights out. After he was fast asleep, I would move him to his crib.

Today we got the mattress for his new bed and finished the room’s transition from a nursery to a toddler room. At 7:30, it was time to read books in his new bed.

After lights out, I watched him try to get comfortable in his new bed. As he settled in, I prayed that this bed would one day be the most comfortable place he could imagine.

One of my most cherished memories from my childhood is waking up on a summer day, with the sun shining through the Venetian blinds. I can still feel the warmth of my water bed – which my childhood friends would swear was set at a temperature just a few degrees shy of boiling.

I felt safe and secure in my bed. I hope one day, my son feels the same about his bed.

Why We Spoil Our Children

2006-02-28T22:45:00.000-08:00

I'll say up front this is not meant to be a story of avarice. I will be the first to admit my blessings and give thanks for each and every one of them. That said, I bought a soccer ball on the way home from work today because we were kicking a volleyball around the back yard over the weekend.

When I gave my son the new soccer ball, his delight was obvious. It's hard to forget the big smile as he hugged the ball and waved it back and forth.

I will say, I thought I had picked out a good one. It's a red ball with black and silver stripes. It's pretty cool.

Even though it was well past time for his bath and to the point when he needed to be winding down for the night, he was ready to put the new soccer ball to good use. His delight quickly turned to displeasure with me when I told him we couldn't go outside. "Tomorrow," I promised him.

Even despite the rebuke, the gift was clearly well received -- which is why I think parents can find it so easy to spoil their children.

Here's hoping there is more joy in putting the ball to good use.

Fun in the Sun

2006-02-26T22:45:00.000-08:00

This weekend the weather warmed up enough to allow us to play outside. So we dug out the t-ball set and a ball to kick around. My son so enjoyed the chance to run around on Saturday that he eagerly agreed to reprise the activity on Sunday.

After about 20 minutes, my son was less inclined to play any sort of structured game. Instead, he was content to just roll in the grass like it was a million dollars.

It took a few minutes for my inner child to shout loud enough to drown out the adult struggling to get my son's attention. Just roll in the grass with him!

Here's to letting the inner child win and living in the moment.

The Sadness of Sport

2006-02-19T23:40:00.000-08:00

During a rough stretch -- for instance, a three-week stretch at work where you're hopelessly overwhelmed by the volume of work and mired in a chain of unfortunate circumstances -- we naturally look for diversions. To many, sports provides a two- or three-hour escape from every-day pressures.

That's supposed to be the upside of sport.

The downside is often people put as much focus and importance on something even less under their control than their day-to-day lives. As a consequence, what should be a nice escape only fuels otherwise escalating pressures.

I've known this truth for a long time. It was one of the reasons I chose to get out of sports journalism and go to law school.

Even though I know this truth, and try to keep a healthy perspective, I still find it had to escape the sadness of sport.

I was reminded of this following the Men's National Team's 4-0 win over Guatemala. I was reading the game stories on-line, when I notices some of the International headlines. Managers under fire, fan misbehavior, etc.

I thought to myself: I'm glad that hasn't hit U.S. soccer.

Then it hit me -- fan support is a dual-edge sword. On one hand, U.S. soccer is growing its fanbase to ensure viability. On the other hand, without the unwashed masses, it avoids some of the ugliness that invades the "major" American sports. And therein lies the sadness of sport.

Of the games I watched this weekend, the one I enjoyed the most was the one I don't have to talk about on Monday.

Don't get me wrong -- I still love the shared experience sports provides. I love the time and connection it can provide with friends and family. What I could do without are those fans who turn sport into more than what it is, and the fans who make the shared experience some sort of intellectual challenge only they have mastered.

Birthday

2006-02-07T21:09:00.000-08:00

To date, three other birthdays stand out in my mind.

The first was my 13th birthday. I'll never forget it because it was the first time that I truly felt "a year older." The epiphany came when my Dad looked at me and said "You're a teenager now."

The second was my 16th. Beyond the obvious reasons, it was a special birthday because of the surprise party my friends orchestrated. To this day, it still means a lot.

The third was my 21st. Again, beyond the obvious reasons, it was the first birthday I spent with the woman who is now my wife. It was also celebrated as part of a massive only-in-college party. The night just happened to be the convergence of three good reasons to throw a big party -- my 21st birthday, the beginning of another friend's 100-day-countdown to graduation, and the end of Ramadan for our Muslim friends. It was a quaint party with about 250 of our closest friends.

Today's birthday joins the list.

Life Lesson No. 143

2006-02-01T08:37:00.000-08:00

On the eve of 30, it seems reasonable to ask why I am a different person than I was five, 10 or 15 years ago. The answer, of course, is that my experiences have changed me.

I have come to the conclusion that every experience has shattered my sense of self. In the aftermath of each experience – large and small, good and bad – I have been left to piece together my sense of self. The end result of each experience has been a new sense of self that vaguely resembles the previous sense of self. Slowly, though, I have been changed into something far removed from who I was so long ago.

At each turn, it has been up to me to sort out the most important qualities and retain those to the best of my ability. To that end, I believe I am who I am based on choices I have made.

To the extent that I have become less trusting, I believe it is because any negative experience has forced me to piece together the bits of self with an adhesive of skepticism. Some might call it naivete, but I once was far too trusting of others. To become an effective adult, I had to replace that trustfulness with a healthy dose of skepticism and doubt.

Fortunately, I have a part of me that is capable of storing all of the fragments of trust that once bound together my sense of self. In my love of those closest to me, I can place those once-broken pieces. It is for this reason that I believe humans cannot be solitary creatures.

I may a different person than I was 15 years ago. Fortunately, with the love of those closest to me, I am not as different as it may seem.

Suedehead

2006-01-23T21:36:00.000-08:00

On Saturday morning, my wife and I took our son to a music class. The basic purpose of the class, of course, was to encourage parents to involve their children with music. In explaining the benefits of music on the developing brain, the teacher told the story of how she distinctly remembers her parents signing songs they remembered from their youth – and signing with a passion that had clearly left an impression.

Her story rang true.

It has always been easy to get lost in the right song. Even in the midst of a crazy busy week, packing for the latest business trip, the right song can take you back to a January 24th now nine years gone. The right song can take you back to the night you knew she loved you, too.

You had to sneak in to my room, just to read my diary...

Blog Interrupted

2006-01-16T12:57:00.000-08:00

About halfway through my first semester of law school, my torts professor finished up class by telling us a story from his days in basic training. He told us that he and some friends had failed to master the monkey bars, believing it was a test of strength. Once they figured out that momentum had a more direct correlation with success, they were able to master the monkey bars and move on.

In telling us this story, he analogized the monkey bars to law school. Once you learn to get the force of momentum behind you, the task becomes more manageable.

This being my first post in more than three weeks, I am reminded of that story as I look back and wonder what happened.

Last night was a perfect microcosm of what happened. With the greatest of intentions of writing again, I was called into a more important task – caring for an ill toddler.

Beyond last night, there is the long litany of usual excuses – busy week at work, rec league volleyball, football on television, too tired, etc. Sadly, when the pace of life does pick up, it is often the more enjoyable tasks that go to the bottom of my list.

That’s when I was reminded of the monkey bars analogy. When the pace of life does pick up, you just have to get your momentum behind you and hang in there.

Merry Christmas Michael Clayton and Marcus Spears

2005-12-22T18:05:00.000-08:00

This year we're spending Christmas with my wife's family, and I am reminded of my first Louisiana Christmas.

It was December 2000, and we had been married only six months. It was, obviously, the first time I had spent a Christmas away from my immediate family. My indelible memory, though, is of my father-in-laws euphoria over two high school football recruits who committed to play for LSU that week.

The key to this story is to remember just what football means to a Southerner. To quote the G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised in the South) book, there are four seasons: Recruiting, Spring Training, Practice and Football.

LSU was in the process of building the team that would win the 2003 BCS National Championship. The Tigers were coming off a good year and headed to the Peach Bowl. The week of Christmas, however, Nick Saban landed two of his biggest recruits -- Marcus Spears and Michael Clayton. Both Clayton and Spears were ranked as five-star players coming out of high school in Baton Rouge.

Generally speaking, I put only a little bit of faith in high school player rankings. Highly ranked players often make good on their potential, but just as often they can fail to live up to the hype. Clayton and Spears, however, have lived up to the potential. Both players were major contributors in their time at LSU and played predominant roles in the championship season. Clayton, who declared for the NFL draft after his junior year at LSU, is now in his second season with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Spears is a rookie for the Dallas Cowboys. So, in hindsight, landing these two players was a big deal for Saban and LSU.

Where this story becomes a light-hearted memory is the reaction of my over-joyed father-in-law. "Clayton and Spears, Momma. We got Clayton and Spears," he would say over and over again. "Clayton and Spears, Momma. We got Clayton and Spears!"

So Merry Christmas Michael Clayton and Marcus Spears. Thanks for helping make my first Christmas with my wife and her family a memorable one.

My New iPod

2005-12-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

Here are my first 14 down-loads. You tell me what it says about me...

"Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab For Cutie; "The Sound of Settling" by Death Cab For Cutie; "Swing Life Away" by Rise Against; "If I Can't Change Your Mind" by Sugar; "Helpless" by Sugar; "Your Favorite Thing" by Sugar; "A Good Idea" by Sugar; "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash; "Rockin' In the Free World" by Neil Young; "Layla" (the original version) by Eric Clapton; "My Generation" by The Who; "I Wanna Be Sedated" by The Ramones; "Sweet Home Alabama" by Down By Law; "21st Century (Digital Boy)" (the original version) by Bad Religion.

Mission: Accomplished

2005-12-14T18:10:00.000-08:00

My wife returned from Germany on Monday. My son has been giddy ever since. I can't blame him, nor does it make me feel underappreciated – I'm just as happy to see my wife.

After just two nights last week, it had become obvious to me that my son was desperately missing his Mom. The first two nights were rather smooth – I passed the time with him by coloring, playing with Legos, and reading all of his favorite books as many times as necessary. On the third night, however, he pulled all of his toys into the middle of the front room. The second I turned my back to sit down, he cried the saddest "Up!" I've ever heard. He hugged me tight and fell fast asleep – a full hour before his normal bedtime.

When he began to act out the next night – albeit in only the most minor of ways – I knew he was ready for the extra attention that would come with a trip to see Nana and Papa. True to form, my son was thrilled to see my Mom and Dad.

By Monday morning, I knew I was in the clear. The house was relatively clean, the bills had been paid, the laundry was put away, and I had even gotten to work on time every morning. After work, I would pick up my son and race to the airport.

A co-worker had previously assured me that the week would be a special time for me and my son. The week was not without its challenges (see the previous posts about the snow, the "lost" milk cup, and the shattered glass baking dish). Nevertheless, I do feel the time was a blessing.

Sometimes what is lost in the hustle of every-day life is the realization that your child is quickly growing and learning. What amazed me most was seeing his creativity as he colored and played with his Legos. It was clear that his mind was fast at work as he pieced the Legos together or chose the next color – the perfect color – to add to his drawing.

He's a good kid, and I feel lucky to be his Dad.

Update

2005-12-08T07:38:00.000-08:00

It snowed a little bit after I went to bed...

Day 3 (Wednesday, Dec. 7)

2005-12-07T23:34:00.000-08:00

It may be the cumulative effect of getting up earlier. It may be the added stress from the snow. Whatever it is, I'm exhausted.

When a snow storm last hit town mid-morning, my 30-minute commute became a three-hour ordeal. Naturally, that was on my mind today when I dropped off my son at his day care.

By 1 pm, it was clear my office was going to close early to allow people extra time to get home. Even with the extra time, however, another three-hour commute would have me arriving at the day care at closing time. I know the day care staff would understand, and my son would be in good hands. That would not, however, have been desirable -- especially considering my son is starting to cling a little tighter with each day.

Fortunately, I arrived at the day care by 4:15 -- slightly more than an hour after leaving my office.

By Friday, temperatures will be in the 40s -- meaning there will be hardly any snow left on the ground. By the time my wife returns on Monday, she will think I've made up this entire story (see evidence above). For now, I'm going to bed.

Day 1 (Monday, Dec. 5)

2005-12-05T19:35:00.000-08:00

My wife left for Germany today, leaving me to be the sole care-giver for our child (save day care and, this weekend, my parents).

As we drove to the airport, she told me not to worry -- I'd find a rhythm to the schedule. But it is not getting my son to day care and myself to work that worries me. What worries me is being woefully unable to perform the duties of two parents for the better part of eight days.

The advantages of having two parents present are numerous. Most tangibly, at least for the parents, is the ability to break away when necessary. Mostly, my wife and I break away for menial tasks -- laundry, bills, cleaning, a Zen moment. When we're both home, it's easy.

It seems the most tangible benefit for our son, however, is the combination of parenting efforts we provide. While we each have our strengths, my wife is better at coming up with activities that entertain our son.

For the next eight days, when it's just me and my son, this is what I want:

I pray for patience. It is too easy to become frustrated when things don't move with military precision. While alone, I hope I can be patient enough to let things go as they may.

I pray for creativity. More precisely, I pray for the ability to come up with enough entertaining activities that I don't simply resort to the closest Elmo DVD.

I pray for energy. The days will be long, no doubt. What would be more boring for a toddler than to come home to a sluggish dad?

Finally, I pray for insight. The words sound clear to him. Hopefully they will to me, too.

Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails

2005-11-30T16:43:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, during the sixth consecutive hour of college football, my wife said under her breath "This has to be punishment for how we treated Daddy."

My wife was one of two girls -- meaning her father for years had been outnumbered three to one.

The day after Thanksgiving, the numbers were not in my wife's favor. As I was recovering from being sick the day before (as a friend said, there should be a law against getting sick on a holiday), there were not a lot of options other than sitting at my parent's house and watching college football.

At that point, it struck me that I have been wrong when I have teased my wife that knowing her for 10 years has only prepared me for dealing with our children in the future. Instead, I should be teasing her that for the last 10 years I have been failing to prepare her for life with a son.

When you are raised in a house dominated by females, as my wife did, you are woefully unprepared for traumas of raising boys (as opposed to the dramas of raising girls). I'm not just referring to being stuck watching football for hours on end.

When I was a child, a friend's family nicknamed me "Whoops" for my propensity to knock over, spill and otherwise botch things large and small. By the time my wife met me in college, I had somewhat moved beyond the klutziness of my childhood and teenage years -- though not so much that my wife didn't know my truly clumsy nature. For years, she has blamed it on my size, claiming I'm an above-average-sized adult stumbling through a normal-sized world. It's a touching sentiment, but not 100 percent correct.

By and large, I have skirted disaster for 10 years -- thereby failing to prepare her for the adventure of raising a boy. Only recently has a string of accidents sent me to the emergency room -- broken glass in the trash is terrible for your legs, and a torn muscle from a flag football game can have some odd consequences.

The most recent torn-muscle escapade had my wife on high alert as I went off to play in the Thanksgiving touch football game. Three hours later, as my body forced anything and everything from my stomach, my wife was convinced I had taken a shot to the stomach that was now a part of a massive cover-up. There was no way in her mind that a stomach bug could be unrelated to a game of touch football.

So when my wife muttered something on Friday about punishment for her father's years of suffering, I wondered if she really does know what lies ahead.

Don't worry darling, boys are resilient. Lamps are replaceable. Grass stains come out. Bones heal. And you can hardly see my scar.

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T00:06:00.000-08:00

What’s not to like about Thanksgiving? It’s the perfect holiday – family, food and football.

For years, my family has been part of an annual touch football game. With three boys in my family and a family of five boys down the street, an annual game was a no-brainer. Only occasionally has a ringer or two been brought in – but even then it was all in good fun. Toss in the semi-regular appearances of some close friends, and we quickly outgrew my parent’s back yard.

In recent years, as travel plans have trimmed the number of players, basketball has become a more manageable game for the number of players.

Nevertheless, the game – and the attendant muscle strains – has become as much a part of the holiday as the turkey and stuffing.

I think the physical exertion, however, also clears the mind so we can truly appreciate the meaning of the holiday. After an hour of running, the requisite down time is rife with thoughts of thanks – for my family (near and far) and for the blessing of home and food.

P.S. – Brandon, I’ll drop an easy touchdown for you.

Pizza for Mitch.

2005-11-20T23:45:00.000-08:00

Nostalgia can be a wonderful gift – wrapped in past to be opened in the future by any one of the five senses.

Oddly, this weekend ended up filled with more than one bit of nostalgia, but the first came with dinner on Saturday night. My wife and I decided to reprise a college favorite – pizza with green olives and pepper jack cheese. It was a creature of our collective imagination and perfected for us by Shakespeare’s.

For those who’ve never visited my home town, Shakespeare’s is a local treasure that, for better or worse, never grew beyond the city limits. Normally, I’m not one to bemoan the homogenization of American culture. Generally speaking, I’m in favor of some measure of reliability when I travel (read: Brand awareness? Accomplished). But on occasion, it is nice to have certain amenities that are unique to one local. And when it comes to nostalgia, it’s convenient to be able to tie a certain food to only one time or place.

Nevertheless, Shakespeare’s has grown their business since our college years and has expanded into the frozen pizza market – making it possible for us to recreate our pizza on Saturday night. Throw in a Woodchuck for good measure, and you could almost smell the old heater in the old studio apartment on Hitt.

As we ate our pizza – our son just ate the green olives, which is another story for another time – I could only hope that our son would be lucky enough to find his true love in college. In the end, the pizza was a reminder of the long list of shared experiences that have shaped and added to our friendship and marriage.

How much for that 1966 Corvette PCV valve?

2005-11-17T22:24:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was talking with an old friend about a mutual acquaintance whose new hobby is refurbishing classic cars by buying the original parts on-line. According to my friend, the actual work is done by a real mechanic; the mutual acquaintance just goes to visit the cars. Whether he actually drives the cars is still an open question in my mind.

I told my friend, this sounds like a man who either makes too much money, has no children, or both.

With a look of true understanding, my friend said “He certainly has no kids.”

By no means do I begrudge the acquaintance – he’s worked hard to get where he is and, no doubt, now works even harder to stay on top of his profession. He is a very intelligent person and deserves a lot of credit for his success.

I have to wonder, though, how rewarding that hobby is for the acquaintance.

Putting aside the extremes, all parents have the chore of managing a budget and providing for their children. It is a chore fraught with sacrifices, difficult choices and compromises. You pray that in the end, it will work out. All you can do, though, is your best.

Taking a glass-half-full approach to expenses, I believe children are a rewarding expense. I say this, of course, with a 19-month old. My wife and I have yet to experience the joys of “Everyone at school has this kind of shoe and that kind of shirt.” Once we reach those years, making everyone happy may be a little tricky.

In the end, I believe the reward comes in the form of self-satisfaction that your hard work meant something. The difficult choices, sacrifices and compromises make you stronger and, by your example, give your children the tools they need to one day achieve the same reward.

They say children change everything. Until you have them, you have no idea.

Far From Home

2005-11-12T14:53:00.000-08:00

HALIFAX – The question seems simple enough. Where are you from? The answer was anything but simple.

I posed this question to a gentleman over lunch in New York. He chuckled as though I had asked some deeper philosophical question. As it turned out, his answer was quite complicated. He was born in Bermuda. His mother was from Argentina. His father was born in Northern Italy. His paternal grandparents were from Russia and Argentina – providing, I suppose, the ultimate link between his parents.

“Where am I from? That’s a good question. I think it has more to do with where you feel at home than where you are born. I suppose I’ve lived in New York long enough to say I am from here.”

I didn’t mean to stumble into such difficult waters, but I found my self thinking about the issue as I traveled from New York to Halifax – my first trip to Canada.

By this morning – road weary, tired and missing my family – I was anxious to be finished with my work obligations and free to curl into the hotel bed and watch the LSU-Alabama game. Somehow, I get the feeling I may be the only person in all of Nova Scotia tuned into CBS at 4:30 Atlantic Standard Time. But it brings me back to the question posed by my lunch companion two days ago.

How much of our persona is determined by where we happen to be born? Even born to the same parents, imagine how different we would be if we were born half a world away. Everything that seems to make us tick would be derived from some other cultural experience.

Imagine, then, what it was like for our ancestors who immigrated. How much courage did they have to muster to take everything and move some place that had to have been unimaginably different? How much more courage did they have to muster to stay?

All this brings me to my final musing before settling in for the football game. For those who do not know a true Southerner, I long ago concluded the most charming thing about a Southerner is the absolute conviction that they were born in the best place on Earth. To a true Southerner, the question “Where are you from?” may be a deep philosophical question. The answer, however, is simple.

Geaux Tigers.

T-minus 90 days

2005-11-09T00:05:00.000-08:00

I turn 30 in 90 days.

Later today my work is taking me to New York, a city I truly love. Four years ago, we lived in Manhattan for a year. At the time, we had been married for slightly more than a year. We took the opportunity presented by a one-year fellowship to put every dime into living in the city. And aside from my wife's job stress, it was a wonderful year. We lived near the U.N., saw some musicals, plays and an opera. We ate as much Indian, Italian and Two Boots pizza as possible. I also developed a love for fish and chips -- try the Fried Mars bar before your doctor tells you otherwise. We went to see the Knicks, Yankees and Mets. We would take the subway out and walk back home, stopping for lunch in the most quaint restaurant we could find. We hit the museums and explored the neighborhoods. We also lived through September 11th.

Oddly enough, my wife has not been back to New York since we moved away on August 30, 2002. Maybe we'll have dinner at Felidia's for her 30th in a few years...

"...from a man-to-man to a zone."

2005-11-06T22:23:00.000-08:00

My son woke up at 2:30 am Saturday. We thought it was because he's teething. After four restless hours, he feel asleep again. A few hours later, he was also running a temperature of 102. Having been down this road enough, my wife and I knew we had to schedule an appointment with our doctor and cancel the photoshoot. Our son is prone to ear infections when he is teething, and this time was no different.

By 3 pm Saturday afternoon, everyone -- including the cat -- was fast asleep.

Sunday morning, I woke up with a sore throat and exhausted. It was one of those moments that makes me feel old. I used to do a lot more on as little or less sleep.

It's also one of those weekends when I am amazed my parents raised four children.

Don't get me wrong -- I believe every child is a blessing and I could not imagine my life without any one of my siblings. I'm thankful my parents didn't stop at one, two or three. But how did they do it? Four children born over a span of six years means an awful lot of weekends like this. Am I just weak? Selfish? Both?

I suppose in the end, it's not these weekends you remember when your children are grown. It's not these weekends that make or break your decision to have children. I know this weekend will be of no consequence when we decide to try for a second. More likely, instead of remembering how tired I was Sunday morning, I'll remember the pacifier game Collin made up Saturday night to entertain everyone while we were watching the football game (and how he remembered it Sunday night).

Maybe the lesson from the weekend is to respect the hard work parents (no matter how many children) put in to caring for and raising children. A friend of mine told me her parents said they changed from a man-to-man to a zone when their third child was born. After a weekend when two-on-one was tough enough, here's to parents.

Who am I?

2005-11-03T23:38:00.000-08:00

Putting aside the existentialistic nature of that question, I am a husband, a father, a son, a son-in-law, a brother, a brother-in-law.

I work in Corporate America. I live in the Midwest. I have a cat. I have a house in the suburbs and a yard with grub worms.

I love watching sports. I love cooking for my family. I run, though not with any great speed and therefore not competitively.

I am not a morning person. I probably drink too much coffee.

Most importantly, at least for the purposes of this blog, I am 29 years old. I turn 30 on February 7, 2006.

Four years ago, I had a fellowship and my boss referred to me as "kiddo." That seems like so long ago, in part because a lot has happened in my life since then.

I have an 18-month-old "kiddo," and my wife and I struggle with balancing career and family. Sometimes we have to stop and remind ourselves that these are the years everyone looks back upon with fondness – despite the struggles in the here and now. It might just be latent anxiety over turning 30, but I sense changes are coming in my live, and I thought it would be a good idea to record this year of my life. Maybe I'll learn something about myself. Maybe, just maybe, after a year of doing this, my answer to the question "Who am I?" will be a little more existentialistic …