After school, my oasis from that teasing and the constant chaos of my three older sisters was a quiet Lake Winnipesaukee cove at the end of our dead-end street. I built a rickety fort in the woods and would skip rocks on the water for hours, dreaming of life far beyond my middle-school struggle.
That dream always involved being a dad, first and foremost; I thought I’d have five or six kids at least. I wanted to be a writer since I was eight, when my sister Dede and I started a newsletter on said dead-end street, the Fenton Avenue Times. As a teen, I became even more locked in on honing my craft, pursuing this profession. I was a cliché overachiever, obsessed with going to New York and being a big-time sportswriter.
And I was well on my way, until a call in 1999 thankfully changed me. My dad, my hero, had a massive heart attack. I left my wife Debbie in New York and rushed up to Maine to be by his side. He recovered, but nearly losing him brought me back to that dead-end cove.
All the ladder climbing, the thirst for new titles and more kudos in my quest to conquer New York City—that version of me died instead of my dad. In 2001, we left New York and moved back to New Hampshire, intent on starting a family.
I had six nieces and a nephew. I was one of just a few oops boys in the recent family tree. So, when our son was born on March 4, 2003, I made the nurses show me the anatomical proof a couple times before truly believing it. I never thought I’d have the courage to ask a girl out, let alone convince a Julianna Margulies clone like Debbie to both have sex with me and later believe it to be a savvy life decision to bear my child. So, a son was a miracle.
I have always been a romantic. Even in the middle of our household bedlam with my sisters, I’d spy the tender moments between my mom and dad; I saw the love that kept them together 52 years until Mom passed and how that love, friendship and mutual respect came through in their parenting and the morals they passed on to their kids.
I’m so lucky to have found a soulmate who shared those morals in Deb. We wanted to wait until our careers were further along and we could provide for our kids. I wish we hadn’t waited seven years though. I’m glad we got away from city life and back to a slower pace before TJ came, but life is just not that segmented and isn’t that controllable.
I had to make a difficult decision a year after he was born, a career move that took me to Savannah and away from Deb and TJ for six months until they could move down. It led us to Bluffton, our married hometown, but those 180 days were excruciating.
I made that career move with the best intentions of being a provider, but that separation taught me that being there was the most important thing. I can always make money, but the moments with my kids as kids—that time is finite.
The pride I have in my oldest son could fill boundless volumes. He has fought respiratory issues since he was a baby and has spent far too much time ingesting steroids through a nebulizer. His back became beet red with every needle prick of every allergy test. He tried playing PALS sports and loved soccer and basketball, and it crushed him when he couldn’t play anymore. He has spent weeks at a time out of school, as the slightest germ would evolve into bronchitis and pneumonia. He had to do online school for two years before high school, has missed so much socializing but has persevered and excelled through all of it.
He’s respectful, compassionate, a deep thinker with an endless thirst for knowledge. Watching him struggle, seeing his tears, has broken me far more than any career setback ever could.
He has given us so many smiles, so much joy—many emotional extremes, all leading us to a graduation this month, a coming adulthood we feared many times he’d never see.
And then there’s Jake, our 12-year-old. TJ’s passions led him away from my comfort zones, a parental challenge and blessing that forced me to grow right alongside him. Jake has been largely healthy. He’s a mini-me, a goofball gamer and budding hoopster who practices relentlessly. He wakes me up each morning with a full report on last night’s NBA action, studies his idol Curry endlessly, and will debate me for hours on why Giannis is better than Lebron if I indulge him.
Despite the six-year gap, my boys are close. We’ve instilled family above all, and I take my lumps for my dated “Dallas” Ewing brothers references to make my point.
I so wish my mom, their Mimi, was here to see our boys, but I see her in them daily.
I’m more of a dad to my dad these days, helping him maneuver the past nine years without the love of his life. It’s an honor I cherish, this ever-evolving role. He’s my best male friend, my mentor, and my sounding board from 800 miles away. Making him laugh, taking him back, if just for a moment, to a time when his heart was whole makes my day complete.
And I haven’t even mentioned my black lab mutt pup, Holly, and her two pug sisters in Heaven, Pugsley and Sophie. They have cared for me, recharged my battery, given me so much love. Being their dad is mana from the universe.
The first 18 years of fatherhood have been everything to me. It has made me experience the extremes of humanity and find endurance I didn’t think I had inside me. I have plenty of moments when I want to pause time, keep my boys forever boys and my dad forever here with me. The writer and dad in me wants to write every next chapter for them. Mostly though, I revel in witnessing them author what’s next, privileged to be their mentor, friend and sounding board.
What a fabulous circle of life.
