I Don't Even Know Who I Am Anymore

In my capacity as Director of Development for FanSided MLB, I have taken up covering other baseball teams as needed. My old site has really taken off with all the new staff members there and we had a few holes elsewhere, so I took over our Padres coverage at the beginning of November. That lasted only about two weeks before an editor was hired and at that point, I became a Rangers writer.

Covering the Rangers has been much easier to do for me as at least I was familiar with the major league roster. Afterall, the Tigers had just played Texas in the ALCS, so I knew who these guys were. I've been at it for a little over a month now and a strange thing has happened. I didn't really notice it until last night, but I think I'm becoming a Rangers fan (gasp!).

No, don't get me wrong, I still love my Tigers, but since I'm not covering them anymore, I've become much more invested in Texas. Yesterday afternoon, the excitement I had for the Rangers was all based on the traffic to my latest site. Japanese pitcher Yu Darvish had been posted and the Rangers were one of the teams rumored to have placed the high bid. The anticipation caused my traffic to spike to an all-time high, which I was very proud of.

Then a funny thing happened: the Rangers were announced as the high bidder. My reaction was anything but un-biased. I was genuinely happy and excited that Darvish would be pitching for Texas. The Rangers, a significant threat to the Tigers' chances of getting to and winning another World Series, just got markedly better and I was happy about that? I feel sick.

I hope I can attract a new editor for our Rangers site soon. Otherwise I may have to shell out some serious dough for the MLB Extra Innings package. You know, so I can watch my new favorite team. Ugh. Let me get back home to Detroit, soon.

Won't Anyone Think of the Children? Oh Wait, Those are Dogs

Sometimes, the purpose of this humble forum become a bit cloudy. Sometimes, I feel like I need to write something here for no reason other than to vent. This, I'm afraid, is probably one of those times.

My dad and step-mom, Vickie, moved away from Lima some 15 weeks ago. Vickie is now a traveling nurse and her new job takes her all over the country. I speak with my dad often on the phone and apart from being obviously bored, he seems to be enjoying his retirement. They have a break of about two weeks before Vickie's next assignment and they have come home to their old house for Christmas. That great, right? Of course, but it's very obviously not how I envisioned things happening three months ago.

It began in early September. They made the announcement that they were leaving and all of a sudden they were gone. There had been plans in place for my sisters and I to split up many of the bigger items that our parents own, as most of that couldn't fit into a fifth wheel camper (their new home). As the only son, I was to have gotten all of Dad's tools, which made sense, since most of those he got from his father. Unfortunately, the move was so quick that a time couldn't be arranged to gather anything. That wouldn't have been an issue but for my younger sister moving into Dad's house. I have no problem with that, of course, I have my own place and someone certainly should keep that place warm in case Dad and Vickie were to decide that this new life of travel wasn't for them. I could always just arrange a time to come to Jen's new home and gather what I needed.

Very quickly, however, that proved to be a problem. I needed an edger and Dad has one. Of course, he didn't take it with him, so I called Jen to see when I could come and get it. The neighbor had borrowed it and long story short is that between getting a hold of the neighbor and finding a time when Jen would be home, I had to wait more than two weeks to edge my sidewalk. It happens. Not a huge deal.

Then our grill finally really began to fall apart. We have a small two-burner model and a family of six (soon to be seven), so when the rust began to give way to gaping holes, Valerie and I decided it was time to buy a new model. When looking through the ads, I recalled that Dad had a giant stainless steel grill in his back yard. I was certain he didn't take that with him so I called and he assured me I could have a grill from his house. He didn't specify that it would be the same one, I guess, but that's what I assumed.

I called Jen to see when I could come get it. Of course, no matter what day or time I suggested, she wouldn't be home. Finally she agreed to leave it out for me (she had installed a locking fence after our parent's moved out, so I could no longer simply access the shed in the back yard.), but when I got there I found a small two-burner model not dissimilar from the one I already had. Gee, thanks, Jen. She is not married, she has no kids. I took her old grill home and while it works great, I still have to use the old one as well in order to cook for my entire family at once. She cooks for one, maybe two if her boyfriend is over. But yeah, obviously she needs the jumbo grill more than I do.

The biggest gut-punch came about three weeks ago, however. Jen stopped by my work to drop off stuff for my wife. While she was there, she asked how Dad was going to host Christmas, as that had been the plan. Dad and Vickie would be living with Jen at their house (at least I assumed it was still their house) and we were all going to come over for the holiday. But Jen has pitbulls and I don't want my kids around them. Jen noted that her dogs would be there, so Dad couldn't host Christmas. I knew where she was going with this and I didn't bite on her attempt to engage me in an argument; we've gone rounds on that one before. She would be unwilling to put the dogs in a bedroom or a cage or the garage or anywhere else for the hour and a half that the grandchildren would be at "her" house. I simply smiled, biting my tongue, and said I didn't know how that would work out.

A few days later, Dad called and told me that they would be coming to my house to visit and drop off gifts when they got home. He said it was because our van wouldn't hold all the gifts and all the kids together, but it sure felt like a convenient excuse to allow Jen's dogs the free reign she wanted for them. I know she is certain they would never bite and they probably wouldn't. But if they did, my kids would be mutilated for life, or worse. That's not a chance I'm willing to take. If they did bite, her dog would also be destroyed, and I can't believe that's a chance she'd be willing to take. But whatever, I guess. I mean, I get it. Her dogs are like children to her. But the thing is, they aren't children; they're pets. She can leave them home unattended; if she did that with kids, she'd have them taken away from her. There is a difference whether she likes it or not. But I digress.



Vickie sent me a text this morning that informed me that Dad has a kidney stone that's being removed late this afternoon. Once that's done, they'll be home, to their old house. I didn't respond to the second text, the one in which Vickie told me where they'd be. I'm sure that Dad will be in no shape to travel, even the 20 minute drive to my house. I would love to bring the kids over to see them instead, but if Jen isn't willing to put her dogs up for a full-family gathering like Christmas, I'm sure asking for an impromptu visit is out of the question.

The sad thing is that the tools and the grill, those are just things. I'll never fight about things. I didn't have them before, so I won't fight about having them now. If it means so much to her to keep them, then let her have 'em. It's silly and childish, but if it makes her feel more loved or favored or whatever, then she can have 'em. But Dad and Vickie always told me, no matter what I did or needed, I'd always be welcome in their house.

Now, that's not true either.

My parents will be home for just a couple of weeks. I wonder if we'll see them for more than an hour while they're here. I'm beginning to think not.  And that's not the way it should be.

The End of My Rope

Thanksgiving is upon us once again and while the start of the holiday season is often times a joyous occasion for many, it has become a time that only causes stress, disappointment, and anger for me. Don't misunderstand, everything in my house is always great. I wouldn't say I enjoy the loading up of the kids to rush from one house to the next, hoping while we are wherever we are that they'll behave well enough to avoid a scene, but I understand it as a necessary evil and the time spent among family is enriching nonetheless.

No, the issues that I have during holiday time aren't related to my wife or my kids, not to my in-law or their families either. The problems arise when dealing with, talking about, or even thinking of my mother and her side of the family.

I don't want to get into the whole back story here; suffice to say that my parents were divorced when I was very young and though my dad was just down the road (literally), my mom raised three kids basically by herself. For much of that time she struggled to find work as a teacher, but eventually landed a full-time job. We never had much money, but we had enough. She did a wonderful job of instilling morals and all the other things a mother should teach her kids. I am forever grateful that she was as hard on me as she was; I deserved every spanking I got.

To say that my mother and I had a close relationship wouldn't be accurate, I don't think. I had thought that we did, but when it came time for me to move out and go off to college, it became evident that I was wrong. In the 10 years that I lived in Bowling Green, which is situated an hour north on I-75, my older sister lived in Florida and then in North Carolina. During that time, my mom must have traveled to see Courtney at least twice a year every year, often times more. She came up to see me in BG exactly once. In 10 years.

I eventually moved back to Lima, just a handful of blocks away from her in fact. Things didn't change much. I'd see her when I went to her house or at my Aunt's place every now and again, but that was it. When I got married and started my own family, we grew even further apart.

A couple of years ago, it became evident how little my kids would see their paternal grandmother. My younger sister has two kids of her own and she frequently leaves them with Mom. My kids, however, have never been there together without my wife and I. She comes to birthdays and we were expected at holidays, but apart from those handful of times each year, we neither see nor hear from her. I have tried several times to arrange time and days for us to visit her, but no matter how much notice we give, it rarely happens. In fact, I think the exact number is once. Eventually, I gave up trying.

Last year, I drove to Lima on Thanksgiving day, with every intention on going to my family's gathering. Instead, I chose to go shopping and return home. My mom called me at one point, asking where I was. I told her I wasn't coming. I saw no reason to do so. If she can't make an effort to see the kids during the year at all, why should I bring them to her, begging her to at least get to know them?

So, of course, as it's that time of year again, she sent me a text the other day asking if we would come to Thanksgiving. But my wife has to work and the two older kids have to be with their bio-dad during the day, so I declined. It was not an easy decision at all. I suggested to her that we could come to her house during the week leading up to Thursday, but as a teacher, she had conferences and wouldn't be home. Knowing bio-dad would be in the picture again on the weekend, Valerie suggested we could visit her on Friday evening instead. I told my mom we wouldn't need fed and that we could come by around 6:30 pm that night.

She responded that she would be busy shopping and then putting up her tree. She asked again if I would just come on Thursday and then asked if I was coming to Christmas. My response: "No. Just forget it." Clearly, she can't be bothered to make any kind of time, so why should I?

The sad fact is that when Valerie and I were discussing things the other day, Sebastian overheard us. He couldn't contain his excitement to go to Grandma Judy's house. More sad is that Amity, who is almost 2, has seen my mother less than three times in her life (excluding birthday parties when there are dozens of other people there). Leyton, I'm certain, couldn't pick his grandma out of a lineup.

I have a wife and four kids, two of which also have to make time for their bio-dad. She (my mother) has only herself. She doesn't work weekends or evenings. But her life is somehow too busy to include seeing four of her six grandchildren even once a month. That's really all I have ever asked of her. She always thinks it's a great idea, but the idea never ever comes to fruition. Instead, she's apparently comfortable seeing my kids only on their respective birthdays. I really see no point in continuing to try. I'm no longer going to beg her. I'm no longer going to present my kids to her as if she's a queen. I'm far too busy and my efforts only lead to disappointment.

The last time she saw the kids was on Leyton's birthday (in October), when she came and was at the house for about a half hour. Before that it was at Sebastian's party in July. We live 15 miles from her house and we are more than willing to come to her, but she can't be bothered.

Obviously, shopping and Christmas tree assembly are vastly more important than seeing her grandkids. I just don't know what else I can do at this point.

I want to be clear here, just in case she reads this, that every single time her name comes up, I feel only sadness. She's my mother. I miss her. I want her to be a part of my life and my children's lives. But I cannot make her want to be a part of our lives. She has always come to the birthday parties dutifully, but I know she does it only because she's supposed to. How do I know that? Because unless it's a birthday, we won't see her. She operates toward us as if she lives 3000 miles away. My life is full and complete and busy and satisfying. I want her to add to it, but every time I even think of her, I am no longer happy or satisfied; only sad and disappointed.

Unless something changes dramatically (and by that I mean that she contacts me and sets a time and actually comes through on seeing the kids), I won't be going to Christmas, either. Beyond that, however, I no longer have any plans to keep her informed of what's happening with them. I no longer plan to contact her regarding birthdays at all. When my wife gives birth to our fifth child in March, I have no plans to alert my mother. I'm sure it would just be a bother for her to come to the hospital anyway.

If there's one thing she's made perfectly clear to me and my family over the past few years, it's that she can't be bothered to make any kind of significant time for us.

I miss you, Mom. I can only hope you realize someday soon that you are missing out on getting to know some incredibly great kids.

Those Who Blame Joe Paterno are More Than a Little Misguided

It appears as if I jumped to some incorrect conclusions in my last post regarding the issues at Penn State. It that post, I basically stated that Joe Paterno didn't do when he needed to do because he didn't alert the authorities. It turns out, I was wrong.

Upon hearing whatever it was that he heard from Mike McQuery, JoePa contacted not only the Athletic Director, Tim Curley, but also the University Vice President, Gary Shultz. Why is this significant? Because Shultz was the "overseer" of the University police Department; in effect, Shultz was the Chief of Police at Penn State. So, no, Paterno didn't pick up the phone and call some desk clerk at State College PD, he called the man in charge of the Campus Police (and anyone who has spent 50 years on a campus anywhere would have called campus police and not the city cops).

I've done my best to try to remain as objective as possible here. Obviously, the magnitude of the situation involving the (alleged) sexual abuse of minors by former Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky is one that brings about great emotion. But the bloodlust of the national media and seemingly anyone with a twitter account has gone well past too far. Paterno is the one being burned for these crimes; though he's not the one who committed them. If I can find objectivity, I can see how, if I were in Paterno's shoes, I may have reacted the exact same way he did. He's known Sandusky for 30+ years when McQueary came to him. There are people who say "how could Paterno not have known?" as if child molesters divulge this information to their friends. Guess what? They don't. For all any of us know, our best friend might be doing the same thing Sandusky was doing and we would never know it. It's not something that is advertised.

They say that Paterno, upon hearing the news, should have followed up when nothing was done about Sandusky. But if it were your friend, a person you've known and trusted for 30 years or more, that you heard was involved in this (and we still don't know how many, if any, details Paterno was given), wouldn't the natural reaction be one of disbelief? "Surely," you'd think to yourself, "this can't be true. Not this guy. That doesn't sound like the man I know." But doing what he should have done, Paterno did report what he had heard not only to his immediate supervisor, but also to the defacto chief of police. I can only assume (as we all can on this) that he was told they would look into it.

But, nevertheless, the Board of Trustees decided yesterday that Paterno had already coached his last game, ending a 62 year career that was filled with nothing but dignity, honor, and goodwill. They also fired the University president, Graham Spanier. Meanwhile, Curley and Shultz, both facing charges in this case, have been placed on leave from the University. McQueary, the only man (apart from Sandusky) that actually knows anything for certain, as he is the only one who saw what was happening, has not been fired. McQueary didn't intervene with Sandusky when there was an alleged rape in progress, he didn't call the police, he simply phoned his father and waited until the next day to inform Paterno of the situation.

If Paterno was fired for failing to do enough to protect the children that Sandusky (allegedly) abused, and he actually did inform the police, why then does McQueary still have a job? Paterno didn't abuse the children, he didn't witness the abuse, he didn't call a relative and gossip about it. All he did do was what he should have done, what, I think, most of us in his same position would have done.

McQueary walked in on a 10-year-old boy being raped by a hulking 55-year-old man. He didn't stop the assault, he didn't yell or scream for help, he didn't call the cops in his horror of seeing what had taken place. Instead, he waited until the next day and went to his boss about it. Of all the people who had the chance to end Sandusky's reign of terror over these young boys, McQueary was the one who could have made an immediate and lasting impact. The Grand Jury report states that the victim and Sandusky both saw McQueary when he entered those showers. Can you imagine how much more magnified that child's horror would have been when he saw McQueary turn and walk away instead of helping him out of that situation?

How is McQueary punished for literally turning his back on this assault, on this young man? "His status is unchanged", says the Board of Trustees. McQueary has kept his job.

You can place the blame a lot of places in this Penn State debacle, but if you want a hierarchy, it had better start with Sandusky, and the next name on your list had better be McQueary. Joe Paterno's name might also be on the list, but given all the actual factors, it should appear at or near the bottom.

Nothing Happy About Happy Valley Right Now

I don't know exactly how or when it all started for me. I can recall spending time at my Grandpa's house and he would have a ballgame on the TV and another one on the radio. This was common during baseball season. Grandpa was also a football fan, but not to the extent that he loved baseball. I guess I'm much the same way.

Somewhere along the way, it became obvious that, in Grandpa's world, there were a few rules when it came to sports. He didn't seem to mind whether or not you followed "his" teams, but you'd better not be a fan of his rivals. When it pertained to college sports, that meant no Ohio State and no Notre Dame. (Aside: there have been very few times in my life where I've ever lost any respect for my father, but when he became a ND fan because his wife is an ND fan, I felt a bit of shame. Grandpa would not approve. C'mon Dad, you married a woman, not a football team.)

Anyhow, whether it was the colors that so closely match those of my beloved Detroit Tigers, or the history and tradition of the uniforms and the ageless head coach, somewhere in my earlier years, I became hooked on Penn State football. I remember the Fiesta Bowl win against a heavily favored Miami team, I remember the days when Penn State was independent. I grew up being proud to sport that Lion's head deep within Ohio State territory. I wore it like a badge of honor.

When the news broke a couple of days ago that former longtime Defensive Coordinator Jerry Sandusky had been indicted on charges that he sexually abused young children, I was shocked. That type of news is always difficult to swallow; it's a subject that makes anyone uncomfortable at best, and downright sick at worst. While I've never met Sandusky, I did almost feel as if I knew him for all those years. Years that I had extolled the virtues of his defenses and told anyone who would listen how great he was. It wasn't ever just Joe Paterno, it was Paterno and Sandusky (and later Tom Bradley) that made Penn State so wonderful on the field.

In reality, however, "on the field" is all any of the fans ever knew, ever saw. Perhaps it was the innocence of my childhood, or maybe just the blindness I chose to have because I was a fan, that lead me to believe that these leaders of men were infallible. Much the same way a son looks up to his father and doesn't see the flaws, we do the same with our sports heroes, right or wrong. In this case, it looks like I was wrong.

I drove into work this morning in a great mood. I had just finished voting and was feeling pretty good about myself; like I had somehow made a difference. Listening to the radio, I was besieged by nothing but stories coming out of State College. This was the first time that I had heard some of the more damning details. Mike McQueary, a former Penn State quarterback now wide receivers coach, apparently witnessed an incident involving Sandusky and a young boy in 2002. McQueary told Paterno, who told the Athletic Director (who has been charged with perjury in in this case) and that was it. But, you know what? I'll get back to that in a moment.

Much of the coverage by the media here has centered on Joe Paterno and, to a lesser extent, Mike McQueary. There seems to almost be more outrage directed at them than at Sandusky. This seems backwards, but I do understand the mentality. It's almost as if we accept that Sandusky is a monster, but we want to vilify the Penn State officials for not doing enough to stop said monster. We aren't blaming Godzilla, we are blaming the Japanese citizens for not being able to kill the monster before he destroyed their city. I think it's important to remember that it was Sandusky, not McQueary or Paterno, who (allegedly) abused those children. It is Sandusky who should bear the brunt of the ire that is reigning down of State College.

I think it's easy to say that if it were me that witnessed this act, that I would have done things differently than McQueary did. Or that if I were Paterno, that I would have followed up with law enforcement or made sure Sandusky was banished from the University (at least). I think that, because so very few of us are put in those positions (thank God), we imagine ourselves doing the heroic thing, the right thing. But none of us were there and none of us knows exactly what happened. I'm doing my best here to maintain as much logic as I can in thinking this through, but it really isn't working.

For as long as I can remember, I have loudly and proudly supported Penn State and Joe Paterno. Never once, no matter how many of the players were arrested in bar fights, no matter how many 3-8 seasons took place in the down years, no matter how loud the cries for Paterno to retire grew, never once did I ever feel anything but pride in "my" Nittany Lions.

All of that changed this morning. Because for as much as we don't know what we would have done if it were we that walked in on Sandusky raping a young child, or what we would have done if it were us that heard that our longtime friend and co-worker was capable of such reprehensible behavior, I know that I assumed that Paterno, and even McQueary

I don't know how much responsibility to heap on the shoulders of the Penn State staff, but I'm not sure it matters all that much. Paterno had avenues he could have taken if the athletic department wanted to cover this up (and it appears they did). He could have removed Sandusky from the program, he could have called the authorities himself, he could have done more than he did. But he didn't. And while Sandusky is the real monster here, it looks as if Paterno didn't do everything he could to protect those kids. And I can't support a program or a coach that would quietly accept what McQueary described to him.

But how much more could Paterno have been reasonably expected to do? Sandusky was an employee of Penn State; he did not work for Paterno, although Paterno would have to have been considered his immediate supervisor. Paterno also works for Penn State and Tim Curley (the AD) was his immediate supervisor. By all accounts, paterno heard the allegations from mcQueary and passed them along to his boss, a man he could have and should have assumed would investigate the claims and take the proper action. It was Curley's negligence, much more than Paterno's, that allowed Sandusky to continue to have access to the University. Ultimately, it was Curley's job to take this information and alert the authorities. That's seems logical and reasonable to me, but it still assumes that Paterno bears no real responsibility here, and I'm just not comfortable thinking that's true.

If we blindly assume that everything we've heard about the situation at Penn State is true, we may have no brain. But if we blindly assume that no one but Sandusky should bear the responsibility, we may have no soul.

The Stork is Coming Again

I'm not entirely sure what date this post will wind up getting published, but it's being written on October 22, 2011. By the time this goes live, the world will be aware that Valerie and I are once again expecting. As I write this, she is 17 weeks and three days pregnant.

In previous pregnancies, we always shared the news as early as safely possible or right at 12 weeks. This time, however, we decided to keep this to ourselves for as long as Valerie's tummy would allow. There are a few reasons for this.

For starters, as soon as we found out, both of us could hear the reactions we'd get from friends and family. Even the ones who offered their congratulations would do so, in all likelihood, while also saying things like "this is the last one, right?" or "you do know how that happens, don't you?" Worse will be the ones that openly object to another child in our family, one that would already includes four children ages six and under.

Frankly speaking, we simply don't want to hear it. It's not about you, it's about us. The world is full of arrogant individuals who think that their opinion of your life should be more important than your own. They won't admit to this, of course, because they don't recognize that they are this way, but they are. Most of the time, we all are.

I guess in a way, I can understand a few of these people having concerns. We already ask so much of my in-laws as far as watching the kids for an hour or three each day after school that adding another will only add to their responsibilities. Beth has also been kind enough to watch the little ones all day three times every other week; giving up her days off from work. I understand and appreciate their sacrifice to no end. But, Rob and Beth are they only two people that I can think of that this will affect at all in anything but a positive way, and for 95% of the rest of the world, this news won't have any affect at all.

But that won't stop the snide comments from those who are supposed to share in the joy, not try to dampen the atmosphere of happiness. Far too many of you will (and by the time this is published already have) take a selfish attitude about what should be a tremendously happy thing for us. Because again, this has pretty much absolutely nothing to do with you. So what, you might have to come to an extra birthday party? Don't come if that's a bother for you. We'll be fine. The child will be fine.

The other reason we decided to keep this in-house for as long as possible is that I wanted this one to be for us. Part of that, of course, is tied to the above. Maybe most of it. For the last two pregnancies, it seemed like the whole world was involved in our lives, commenting on everything. It didn't feel like it was something that Valerie and I shared together; we had to allow everyone else to come along, too. Knowing that this is the last one (and it is the last one, Valerie), I wanted this to be just ours for as long as it could be.

I was thinking last night about Leyton's journey to the world. That pregnancy included not only family and friends, but countless strangers; all of which were necessary thanks to Leyton's gastroschisis. When we were expecting Amity, the process was much different. Valerie and I were able to share things together that we couldn't before and that we can't now. By the time Amity was conceived, Leyton was sleeping in his own bed, so we had every night to lie together and talk and discuss names and just enjoy the process. Amity still won't sleep in her own bed and so there aren't those same moments with Valerie. I miss that. But while we haven't had as much time to share this with each other, it's comforting to know that what we do share is shared only between us. This feels like our pregnancy, like our family, not someone else's.

Maybe that's more selfish than what everyone else will think or say, but shouldn't it be? Shouldn't we, Valerie and I, have this for us? We created this child, we'll raise this child, we'll provide the love and support of this child. Why then, shouldn't we get to make this decision without repercussion? But I know we won't get off so easily.

In all likelihood, we'll see even more backlash because we waited to tell everyone. That's just how people are I guess.

I Alone

In my last post, I talked about my curiosity of Buddhism and the meditations found therein. I spent a few hours yesterday scouring the internet in an attempt to find as much information as I could. While I haven't yet even begun to scratch the surface of what is out there, the quest has already started in my mind.

I can't begin to describe the feeling of anticipation and excitement that has taken hold of me. It is as if a curtain has been opened and I can now see a path to serenity. More than anything else, for the first time since I began giving my existence any kind of real thought, I have a hope that my questions may be answered. And hope is a wonderful thing.

I realize that anyone who reads this may very well come away thinking that I'm some kind of lunatic. It's a scary thing to commit to writing down one's thoughts. It is even more scary to click on that fancy little "publish post" button and truly leave yourself open to the criticisms of the world.

Up until about a year ago, I lived my life the same way that the vast majority of the world does. I'd go to work and react to people, I'd come home and react to my family, then I'd simply plop in front of the television and tune out the rest of the world. I did this for most of my adult life. Sure, my mind would be thinking constantly, but my thoughts have always been centered on reacting to the external; I rarely, if ever, gave any time to figuring out my own head. Truth be told, it simply never occurred to me to do so. If you simply accept that the way things are is the way they are supposed to be, you don't ever wonder how things could be different. That's what I did; I accepted that I was simply wired to be the way I was.

I have no idea why my wife felt that I was someone she'd want to spend her life with. I hear that men seek women who remind them of their mother and that women seek men like their father. Best I can tell, her father and I share very few traits. He is a patient man who keeps any kind of contentious thoughts unspoken. That's not me. Throughout my marriage, Valerie has at times pointed out my flaws. I don't mean while we are fighting (though she certainly does then as well), but while we are simply talking about life or the kids or whatever. She has tried to get me to see that I could handle a given situation better than I have. It was from those conversations that sprouted this seed of curiosity.

There is a stubbornness that must be overcome in order to examine oneself. The natural reaction when anyone tells you that you aren't good enough to to get defensive and put up a wall. No longer will you allow yourself to hear their reasoning, because their reasoning doesn't matter to you. The only thing that matters is the feeling that you are being attacked and you do what is needed to protect yourself, to protect your ego. Instead of listening to the protests, more often we lash back out at the protester, pointing out their flaws in a game of oneupsmanship. Before any serious introspection can take place, you have to be willing to move that ego to the side and honestly look at whether or not the perceived attacks are valid. This is a very difficult thing to do and it takes a long, long time to get to a point where you are willing to be as honest with yourself as needed.

The problem that I have encountered is that even after the ego is set aside, there are far more questions than answers. Once I was able to give an honest look within, I found that I knew very little about myself. Why was I the way I was? I am not blind, I can see the way others react to situations. I have spent a long time butting my head against the world. If a person or situation annoyed me, it was clearly the fault of the annoyance. This creates an atmosphere where people feel the need to tread lightly around me or risk the wrath of my temper. Certainly I am not alone in my reactions to the world, I know and see others who react the way I do, but does that mean that the way I react is optimal? And if not, are there ways I can change the way I react?

The key element here, I think, is that I began asking these questions with the goal of finding answers. There has to be a willingness to see if, in fact, your self-righteousness is valid. Are your reactions the fault of the annoyance, or are they the fault of the man being annoyed? If the annoyance cannot be modified, then the reaction to it must be. There must also be a willingness to pursue avenues of change if you find that your self-righteous behavior is unwarranted.

I'm just guessing here, but I doubt many people are willing to look that deeply and that honestly. There is a stigma attached to those who show a perceived weakness of the mind. If you hear that a person you know sees a psychiatrist, is your reaction to that news one of acceptance or one of ridicule? More often than not, it's ridicule. That person must not be right in the head; they must be crazy. It is that very line of thought that will prevent others from looking within their own heads. Consciously or not, there is a very real fear of what they may find if they do.

It's easier not to be wise. It's easier to sleepwalk through your life without giving any real thought to how our own minds work. We are willing instead to accept that what we have been given is what we should have. We accept that the contentment that others have shown is simply what they have been given. We may be jealous of their lot, but we accept that it is theirs and not ours; that it was not meant for us. We decide that we just need to catch that one life-changing break; we need to hit the lottery or find true love, or whatever. It's easier not to be great. It's easier not to be introspective, not to attempt improvement, not to risk opening a Pandora's box of self-doubt. It's easier to remain envious of others and wonder why we couldn't be so lucky.

But to do this, to wander through our lives focused only on the external, is to accept restlessness. It is to accept unhappiness. It is to accept loneliness. It is to accept discontent.

And I'm not willing to accept those things anymore.

My Latest Personal Quest for Answers

 "It must suck to go through life as a miserable pessimist, proclaiming yourself a 'realist' while most people just think you're an asshole." -unknown

Yesterday, I began reading a book. I have a few on my shelf that I've been meaning to tackle, but with the baseball season going on and all the work I do in covering the season, I have no time for it. Now that the Tigers have been eliminated, I decided to crack one open instead of watching football (which I don't care much about anyway).

The first book on list was The Way of Baseball: Finding Stillness at 95 MPH by former Major Leaguer Shawn Green. There was a reason i chose this book versus a few others. Green wasn't one of my favorite players by any stretch, but his book promised not only a good baseball story, it promised also to tell the reader how Green was able to unlock his mind and truly become happy. Truth be told, it was the second part that intrigued me.

The book itself is roughly 200 pages and thus far I've read only 36 of them. Upon finishing my reading for the day, I sent a text to my wife that said "this book is changing the way I think about life." I meant every word of that text.

What has happened since I began my reading of this book is that I find myself consumed with the idea of stillness. Green has touched only briefly on the topic so far, but his words have awakened a curiosity within me. The meditation that he practiced prepared him to enter the mind and achieve a serenity that I do not know. The result, for me, is that I want to learn more.

Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows that I am difficult to deal with. My views of the world are often harsh and I rarely take the time and effort needed to soften my response to others, whether they be friend or foe. When I was younger, I wore my pessimism as a badge of honor (how incredibly stupid that is), and now I am left only to wonder how many years of anger, frustration, and disappointment I could have avoided with a sunnier disposition. At 34, I'm no longer young, but I still have a long life ahead of me; 'twould be a shame to waste was is left of it being consumed by loathing.

I think back to when I was in college. I didn't have a lot going for me. I had no love-life to speak of, I drank often. I had a series of crappy jobs that brought very little money and even less fulfillment. During that time, I was a generally unhappy person. I don't even know it it actually was "unhappy", but I can't find the words to properly articulate my disposition. The glass was always half-empty, I guess.

Fast forward several years and I have found the love of my wife and children. I have a stable job, I have found an outlet in my writing. I own a home and have a yard and a dog and everything i could ask for. But still I remain sour, despite the fact that almost every single variable has changed for the better. Obviously, the problem as I see it, is that I haven't changed the way I react to the world.

I was raised Catholic, but it wasn't strictly enforced. When I married, I happily allowed my children to attend a Methodist church; the one my wife called hers. It didn't take long, through the actions of several members of said church, to realize that the hypocrisy within those walls were not unlike the same that took place in my Catholic church. It has all always been very unsatisfying to me. The answers I have sought have not been found within either sector of religion. I have come to realization that they will not be found there. They may be there for others, but not for me.

This journey that I would like to pursue has its root in Buddhism, from what I understand, a religion about which I know very little. The Western world frowns upon veering from the beaten path and Buddhism, in these parts, certainly qualifies. I do not know if my inner conflicts can be resolved with the answers I may find in its teachings, but I'm willing to find out. Nothing I have tried so far has worked.

In reality, this restlessness has been a long time coming. I have worked to lengthen my fuse, so to speak, to avoid moments of rage stemming from an annoyance. I think I'm a bit better at keeping my cool now than I once was, but I routinely find myself teetering on the edge. Do this often enough and anyone is certainly bound to slip. I slip much more often than I would like.

I realize that there are external components that will influence my thoughts and feelings. Those components cannot be controlled, try as I might. I might allow a customer or even a stranger to irritate me, and that puts me in a dark mood. That mood manifests itself within my head and grows and sprouts other unnecessary thoughts of discomfort. My children are a joy, but they are children and they are loud and they fight and they climb on things that should not be climbed on, and they break things and write on things, and they destroy my sanity. I cannot stop them from being kids, and so far I have been unable to stop them from affecting my mood and my well-being. It's unhealthy for me, and it creates an atmosphere of yelling and discord that becomes unhealthy for them as well.

I have come to the realization that while the external influences cannot be controlled, I must look within myself to control how I allow these influences to affect me. If I can do this, I will be better equipped to prevent the darkness inside myself and allow more light to shine within my head. It is my hope that by working toward this goal, I will in turn become the more patient, more caring father and husband that I need to be. Further, it is my hope that I, too, can achieve the inner stillness that allows my mind to be free from the external influences that have affected how I have lived my life so far.

In reading the words written by a former ballplayer, I have found a curiosity and a hope. I do not know whether or not I will find the peace and stillness I need to find, but I am excited to see what awaits down this path of spirituality and inner peace. I want to do this because it does suck to be a miserable pessimist. And most people (rightly so) do think I'm an asshole.

The Stupidity that Takes Place Within the Customer Lounge

From my office at the dealership, I can hear everything that happens in the customer lounge next door. Most of the time, this isn't a huge issue as at least I can catch up on whatever stuff Fox New Channel thinks I should give a crap about. Of course, in addition to the television that's usually turned up way too high, I get to overhear the customers talking as well.

Today there is an elderly couple in the lounge. I can't see them, but there's no mistaking the man's voice as one that must be beyond 70. The service writer came into the lounge to try to sell some work that needs done on their car. In this instance, the customer's third brake light bulb is burnt out. Parts and labor to fix this minor issue will total $20. The woman is all for the idea, but the man insists he's "not paying $60 dollars for a bulb," even though she clearly said $20. The service writer and the elderly woman both repeat that the cost is $20, not $60, but the old man stands his ground. The bulb will go unfixed.

So, the service writer retreats and the couple is left alone. The woman asks (quite legitimately) is the man is capable of changing the bulb. The man insists that the SW had said $60 the first time and that she's trying to rip him off. Then he says "it's probably not even out, we'll check it when we get home." So clearly, we know this guy cannot hear very well, is too old to physically handle many tasks, and suspects that our dealership, the most reputable dealership in the area, is trying to screw him. He goes on to tell his companion that there was one other time "they" insisted a bulb was out but he checked it later and it was working. She asks at that point "didn't you replace that bulb, though?" To which he replies, "well that was later, after it quit working." Sure, buddy.

I really do have a point to this story, I swear, and it's this: If you think going in that this business will try to screw you, why would you bring your car here? Personally, if I had that opinion about any business, there is no way I would patronize them again.

Oh my gosh, he's still going... Now he's complaining about the cost of the oil change. It's ridiculous, he says. Now he actually said "these people are gonna rip you off." Not today, pal. I swear it's all I can do to remain seated in my office and not walk in there and point out everything this asshat is wrong about.

It's gonna be a long, long day.

Realizing One of My Childhood Dreams

I was seven years old when the Detroit Tigers last won the World Series. I was 10 when they last won a divisional crown. Back in 1987, it was the AL East that the Tigers claimed as their own before falling to the underdog Twins in five games in the ALCS. (There were only two divisions back then and no wild cards, so no ALDS existed. Man, I feel old having to explain that.)

Nineteen years passed between playoff appearances for my beloved Tigers before they claimed a wild card spot and ran all the way to the World Series in 2006. I was thrilled, of course, but I had to enjoy the games from the comfort of home instead at at the park. I couldn't land tickets.

Tomorrow night, the Tigers will host the Yankees in Game Four of the ALDS and I will be there. I managed to land a single ticket; an obstructed view seat, no less, for what could be the clinching game.

I figure since the game doesn't even start until after 8:30, it won't end before midnight. By the time I filter out of the stadium and back to the car, it will be well past 3 am before I get home. I have no idea how much it will cost to park, either. Regular season games cost me $10, so I think I can safely assume at least three times that amount for the playoffs. I heard they were charging $45 for parking in New York.

Regardless of the cost and regardless of the hour, I will be there to see my Tigers play in the playoffs. The anticipation is overwhelming. I think I can safely say that this will be one of the top two or three coolest things to happen to me in my lifetime, not counting my wedding and the birth of my kids.

The only thing that would make it better is if I could have gotten two tickets. Valerie and I had a pair of seats to what would have been Game 5, but the Tigers didn't secure home field, so Game 5 won't exist in Detroit. Sorry about that, baby, but I had to pull rank on you here. I've got about 27 years of Tigers fan seniority on you. But I promise that the next time the Tigers get back to the postseason, you'll be with me to take in all the action.

Less is More

Two weeks ago tomorrow I made a significant change in my online writing career. Starting in 2008, I had been blogging about the Tigers virtually every day. As of September 14, I officially stepped down as Senior Editor of my beloved Motor City Bengals.

This wasn't an easy decision at all and I worried that I might immediately regret it. I worried that my replacement wouldn't bring the same passion, the same drive, or the same vision that I had for the site. What we did at MCB was special, that much I am sure of. When I took the reigns of the site in early 2009, I declared that I wanted it to become the biggest and best Tigers site on the net. We were starting essentially from scratch and I was actually losing ground a bit (in terms of traffic) from my independent site. At that time, there were several sites that were bigger than mine. The Detroit Tigers Weblog had been around since 2002, Bless You Boys was a giant and indy sites like the Daily Fungo, Mack Avenue Tigers, Tiger Tales, and even the Spot Starters had larger followings. There were, undoubtedly, others as well.

A shift in the Tigersphere happened very soon after that, however. Billfer stopped writing at the Weblog, Kurt left MAT to take over for Ian at BYB, suddenly two of my three biggest obstacles were essentially eliminated. Throw in the demise of the Spot Starters and Mike's extended breaks at the Fungo and all of a sudden there was a void that we could fill. We worked tirelessly over the next year or so, posting at least once everyday and often more than that. I added two writers, then another, then another, in hopes of growing the site. Everything we did was bringing MCB to the forefront of Tigers coverage.

I began thinking about stepping down some time ago. Last August, I had accepted the position of Director of Development for FanSided MLB. Between the writing that I had to be dedicated to and the duties the network needed my to perform, the strain was more than I could effectively manage. My first responsibility should have been to my site, I felt, but I had such a good staff around me that I could afford to spare some time for the network as well. When Matt Snyder left my site to become an editor at a site created just for him, I was forced to recruit for MCB.

With a bevy of new writers, I had to re-dedicate myself to producing a high volume of quality posts. The success we had at MCB was outstanding and I was having a blast focusing on my writing again. Unfortunately, the recruiting I needed to be doing at the network level suffered. It was the second week of September and we were rolling out new staff levels, complete with a new, higher, post quota. We knew this would cause some amount of turnover. I had no idea how I would be able to keep it all together. It was at that time that opportunity came knocking.

There was a relatively young site within the Tigersphere, but they were gaining attention. They had a solid staff of writers and the site's founder, Mickey Brignall, contacted me with an interesting idea. What if the two sites, mine and his, were to merge? Mickey had a longing to cover the entire baseball landscape and his top writer, John Verburg, was a veritable machine when it came to writing. Throw in Garret Craig, a talented young writer, and we would have a staff fully ten writers deep. While it might not have been Mickey's vision when he approached me, I quickly saw the chance to move forward.

In the end of our negotiations, we agreed that Mickey would join our general site and John would take over as editor at MCB. This would allow me the freedom of time I needed to get more highly involved in the network. I worried a lot about the decision I was making; I was voluntarily handing my site over to another writer, one who was from outside the FanSided family. Ultimately I decided that if things went south, I could step in again and reclaim my site. Even though I would stay on his staff, I would still be his boss as the director after all.

Now almost two weeks in, this situation could not have gone better. The network still has some holes I need to fill, but I've been able to attract and land a few new editors. MCB, meanwhile, has seen success I never imagined.Our numbers are up across the board and we re already talking about more ways to drive traffic. john has been more than i could have hoped for as the site's editor. And I have been relaxed and able to enjoy the Tigers' run to the division crown.

I don't know how far I can take my involvement in the network. I hope that someday, when we get the funding we need, I'll be able to turn this into a decent part-time job. In the meantime, I'll make a few posts on MCB when I get the urge to write and I'll keep plugging holes within the network. So far, so good.

The worst thing I have ever seen

This morning, as I laid on the couch passing the time with four little ones scurrying around the house, a feature began on Sportscenter about a young man who saved many lives in the September 11 attacks. My oldest daughter, Lillian, is just six years old. She was sitting on the adjacent couch reading a spy kids book. The feature had been going on for a few minutes when she put the book down and shooed her brother away. "I want to watch this," she said.

The feature, about the young man named Welles and his red bandanna, was moving. It recounted, via those who survived, those who were there in the second tower, how Welles helped others get to safety, only to go back into the building to find and help others once again. Welles lost his own life when the tower collapsed.

When the feature ended, Lillian, who had since been joined by Sebastian on the couch, began asking questions. "How did he die?" "Why did he keep going back in?" She's only six, how much of this do I want her to know, I wondered. My mind kept turning back to that Tuesday morning in 2001, ten years ago next week, and the horrible events that transpired. I wondered at what point would her teachers tell her the tale of that day, what the textbooks would say. I made a decision; I would do my best to explain the unexplainable to these two young children. I hadn't meant for them to be exposed to such terror, but now that they had been, I felt I owed them as many answers as I could give.

I was working, at that time, as a restaurant manager at Fricker's in Bowing Green, Ohio. Our establishment was not unlike a BW3 in the menu or the clientele. We stayed open until 2:30am each day and on September 10, 2001, I had been the closing manager. Once the place is closed and I have finished counting the drawers and whatnot, I would usually get home at about 4 in the morning. After that, it would take me an hour or so to get to sleep.

The next morning, my roommate, Ed, came into my room just after 8 am. Ed knew I had worked the night before and that I would sleep until early afternoon on most days. This was obviously important. "Turn on the TV," he said. I could see the look on his face; something was going on. When the television warmed up and gained a picture, I was about to ask him what channel, then I saw that it didn't matter. ESPN wasn't showing their normal programming; it had been taken over by an ABC News feed. There was a static picture of the World Trade Center towers, but you could hear the folks on the broadcast talking about how a plane had crashed into the tower. Smoke and flames was pouring from the side of the tower, nearly three-quarters of the way up. Minutes went by as I tried to comprehend what was going on, as i tried to wrap my head around the picture I was seeing and the words I was hearing. Was this some horrible tragedy where a pilot lost control of his plane? An unfortunate accident that would cost hundreds of lives?

Then, as the picture remained still and the news guys spoke, I saw another lane enter the picture. It was headed in the direction of the towers again. The voices on the TV didn't notice it; they kept on talking, not mentioning the second plane. My mind raced; Why aren't they saying something about this? Are they even looking at the picture? The second plane struck the second tower, erupting in smoke and fire. It wasn't until many second after the impact that the voices on the TV took notice and began to contemplate what was going on. This was no accident, that much was clear.

The feed remained static, but you began to see small things falling from the towers. Those things, it turned out, were people. First one tower collapsed, then the other. Thousands of people who had gone to work that morning were gone. A great sadness wrapped our nation and myself. This was an attack like we had never seen in this country and we witnessed it live on television. Word came down about a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth that crash in a field in Pennsylvania. I spent the next several hours learning about the terrorists and their plan of attack. I talked with friends and family, sharing in the disbelief, the shock, the horror.

Tuesdays were always our busiest night at the restaurant and by the time I was to report to work at six pm, many other businesses had closed in the wake of the attacks. We stayed open and the place was full when I walked in, just as it always was on Tuesdays. President Bush was scheduled to address the nation that evening and when it happened, the restaurant became silent. There were probably 200 people inside our walls, between customers, waitstaff and kitchen help. During the address, however, not one order was taken, not one drink was poured, not one chicken wing was cooked. Customers sat silently, eyes glued to the TV waiting for answers. The staff at Frickers stood behind the bar, themselves staring at the dozens of big screen televisions. I have been in that building many times by myself, hours after the place has closed. I have never been anywhere so eerily quiet. It truly was surreal.

It's hard to imagine the tragedy that took place that morning, or the heartache felt by so many in the loss of their friends and family. It's difficult, now, to remember a time before those people took it upon themselves to murder American citizen. What have become accepted inconveniences in our lives (ecpecially the increased airport security and having to have a passport to come back from Canada) were once nowhere near our conscientiousness. If there is a sliver lining in all of this, it's that the lives of those who were there are not forgotten, nor are the sacrifices made by the first responders who gave their lives in an attempt to save others.

There are parts of the above narrative that I left out when I told the kids of the events of that day. They're still so young, they don't need the details. Sebastian couldn't understand why these people would purposely drive a plane into a building and my answer was unfulfilling for him. "I don't know, buddy. I don't understand it, either."

I can only hope that my children never have to witness such an incident, and that our textbooks can tell the story of those who died and the men and women who gave their lives in an attempt to save others. One thing I know, however, is that no matter how well the books tell the story, their will never be a good enough answer as to why it happened in the first place.

"See You Later" Feels Far Too Much Like "Goodbye"

Before I start, I should probably explain a little about my family. I was born in 1977 and my parents divorced in 1981, so the vast majority of my life consisted of my mom and older sister living in one house and my dad living in another. There were a couple of additions along the way; my mom re-married, had another baby, then re-divorced. My dad re-married a woman who had a son already (so I had a brother for a few years), then they got divorced. When I was nine or ten, my dad re-married again and he and my step-mother have been together ever since. This marriage brought another sister, Jennifer, into the mix, who came via Vickie's (my step-mother) first marriage. So I have one sister, one half sister, and one step-sister, plus a mom, a dad, and a step-mother. Now that I've laid it all out, please understand that those titles will no longer be used. As far as I'm concerned, I have three sisters and a dad, a mom, and Vickie (who has always been very much a second mom to me, but for whatever reason she never got that title; she's always just been Vickie).

Growing up through the 80s and 90s, most of my friends came from "traditional" households where their parents were still married. Nowadays I'm sure my unique family is more the norm than that of the people who have remained married and raised their children together. I don't know the exact reason that my parents ever divorced, but I honestly don't much care. It was always normal to me that mom lived here and dad lived there. Everything was fine and I assume that I'm fairly well-adjusted (whatever that means). Dad and Vickie have been married for something in the neighborhood of 25 years now and they have always, always been there whenever I needed anything.

Last night, Dad and Vickie met us in Lima to take us out to dinner; it's something that happens semi-regularly. They get to spend time with the kids, Valerie and I get to sort of "take a break" from being the only set of eyes on the four little ones. Plus, we get to eat for free, which is always nice.

Unfortunately, last night's gathering was very much bittersweet. About a year ago or so, they (Dad & Vickie) told us (my sisters and I) of their plan for the future. They were going to buy a travel trailer and spend time moving around the country, living in campgrounds, while Vickie worked as a traveling nurse. Dad's company, where he's spent 40 years, probably won't be around in a few years and in order to protect his stocks, it's best he gets out sooner rather than later. I don't think any of us actually expected them to leave.

About eight months ago, they bought that trailer and moved to a campground about 20 minutes away. Dad was still working, as was Vickie, as she was unable to land the job she desired. I would get occasional updates about why they hadn't left yet and a few weeks ago, Jennifer told me Dad and Vickie had made plans to move back into their house. It looked like they would be sticking around, at least through the winter.

Not two days later, I got the call I was dreading. Dad told me that Vickie had landed a position in Richmond, Virginia, and that they would be leaving in two weeks. Last night's dinner gathering was the last time we will see them for a minimum of 13 weeks. By that time, it will be early December and they will likely head further south to avoid the harsh Ohio winter.

The dinner was normal. There was no sense of dread or even a sense that this was the end of a life that I had considered normal for so long. That is, normal until we left the restaurant. We all stood in the parking lot for what must have been 10 minutes, just talking and whatnot. Finally, it was time to say goodbye. I swear, until I heard my dad, my hero, sobbing uncontrollably as he hugged the kids and hugged my wife, it didn't even occur to me that this really was "goodbye". I was holding our youngest daughter and Dad reached over Valerie's shoulder and put his hand on my back. He gave me a quick squeeze, without looking at me, and he turned and walked off, obviously trying to compose himself. That was his goodbye to me. It was all he could do. (It took me a very long time and at least a few tissues to write this paragraph)

After they left, we put the kids in the van and Valerie and I stayed at chatted with Jennifer for a while. Valerie was and is quite upset about their departure. My kids have several sets of grandparent, but Dad and Vickie were quite active in seeking out time to see the kids. My in-laws live in town and they watch the kids for a few hours each day before Valerie gets off work, but the other grandparents can't be bothered most of the time. Dad and Vickie were always there for these kids, just as they were always there for me.

Now, they're gone.

I get it, it's not like they've died or anything. They have raised their kids and now it's time for them. They want to travel and move around from place to place. They've certainly put in the time and paid the dues; they should enjoy life while they're still young enough and healthy enough to do so. But understanding why they're doing what they're doing doesn't make it any less difficult for me, or, I'm sure, for them. And it doesn't make any of the emotions that Valerie and I are feeling any less valid.

It really didn't hit me until this morning and while I understand what's going on, I don't like it. I'm happy for them but at the same time I'm a little bit angry and a lot sad. Growing up, I had a very close relationship with my grandparents and I credit those relationships with building much of who I am as a person. I worry now that my children won't get the same benefits I had. Even though I understand the motivations, they just got these grandchildren, their only grandchildren, less than four years ago and the youngest is not yet two. No matter how often you skype with someone, it's not the same as being there. You can't attend a soccer game or take the family out to dinner, or have us over for a cookout, or come to birthday parties from a telephone. You just can't replace the personal contact that enriches lives.

If things go well for Dad and Vickie, if they stick to their plan, they'll come back to Ohio every once in a while. The kids will see them at Christmas, I hope, and maybe once more each year. That's not enough for the kids. And it's not enough for me. Will Amity even know who they are when they come home?

I know this is sounding more angry than I intended it to, but I always try to be as honest as possible on this site. I'm in no way trying to guilt them into changing their plans or anything like that. I have accepted what's happening, but I wish it wasn't happening. The kids need them in their lives. I need them in my life. But I'm also proud that they have the courage to start something new.

Hurry home you two. I already miss you too much for you to be away, and you haven't even left the state yet.  I know we don't ever say it, that it's simply understood, but I love you both very much and you are missed greatly. Godspeed.

Early Scouting Report of Sebastian the Soccer Star

This weekend marked Sebastian's first foray into organized athletics. Well, as organized as five and six year olds can be while playing soccer, anyway. He and Lillian play on the same team, but she played last season as well.

The game ended in a tie, but that really isn't the point here, is it? The point is that for a kid who is slender and quite strong, Sebastian looks terribly uncoordinated when he runs. Throughout the game, he appeared to be limping, but when we asked him afterwards, he said his shoes fit just fine and that he wasn't at all hurt. It was as if he just doesn't know how to run.

Earlier in the week at practice, the coaches had the kids running sprints. I wasn't surprised to see Lillian pulling up the rear, but what shocked me is that Sebastian was right there with her each time. We had assumed that maybe he was waiting for her. The two have been inseparable since the day he was born, so it would make sense. He won't even go play outside unless Lillian is willing to go too.

But in the game, Sebastian was slow as well. It wasn't that he wasn't trying (he actually appeared to be giving it his all), but he just couldn't keep up with the other kids on the field. Part of this, I'm sure, can be chalked up to not really understanding what it was that he was supposed to do. Uncertainty will cause any athlete to play slower than he should. But I worry that the larger part is that for whatever reason, maybe speed just isn't something he's blessed with. Like I said, he's strong and he's adventurous. There's not a swingset he can't climb and swing from like an ape. And he's not at all stocky. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find an ounce of fat on him. Knowing this, I had just assumed he'd be faster.

Now, obviously the key here really should be that they kids were out there running around and having fun. I know this. I'm not one of those dads that will be demanding my kid play better. Sports, especially at this age, are supposed to be fun and by all accounts both he and Lillian had fun. But I also have an eye on their futures in sports. What baseball-loving dad doesn't?

Unfortunately for him, speed is something I'd have a lot of trouble giving him pointers with, so hopefully he takes a liking to pitching. Pitchers don't generally need to be all that fast anyway. Maybe neither of my boys will turn out to love baseball as I have. That's okay. The world needs doctors and engineers and scientists a lot more than it needs ballplayers, anyway. So long as they become good people, I'll be happy.

Those Vows You Spoke are Supposed to Mean Something

I saw a tweet today that made me think. And it made me sad. The tweet said "I swear driving away is the hardest thing I do. Daddy loves you." Now, I don't know the context here, nor do I know why this person would tweet this thought to the masses instead of simply telling his children these words. It could be that this "Daddy" is a salesman or a truck driver or does something else that requires he leaves his family to travel to earn his living. It could be that he counts down the hours until he gets home. I'd like to think that's the case. It's sad that a family should have to be split up that way, but it happens if that's the only job the guy can get.

The other possibility is that the tweeter is a divorced father, or maybe he and the mother were never married. Either way, those two are no longer together. The kids live with their mom and the father sees them sparingly, like every other weekend or something like that. This doesn't make me sad for the father so much as it does for the kids. This, maybe much more so that the first scenario, is avoidable.

I understand that we aren't always thinking about the consequences of our actions. Sometimes we do things and maybe we get away with it. Maybe you went out last weekend and had a few too many and then you decided you were okay and drove yourself home. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You made it home without getting caught and without hitting anyone or anything. You got away with it. The next day maybe you realize how dumb you were to try something like that and hopefully you learn a harmless lesson.

Other times, we don't get away with it and then it's time to own your actions and take responsibility for the situation. If you are married, you are making a lifelong commitment to that person. This is something that far too many people take far too lightly. Those vows that you recite, those aren't just words. They mean something. They say that for better or for worse, no matter the scenario, through thick and thin, you will stand by your partner's side. It's a commitment to honor, to love, and to cherish. And to do so for as long as you both shall live.

The divorce rate in this country is sky high. I don't know the precise number, but I believe it's north of fifty percent. We live in a modern world that puts instant gratification at our fingertips. If something is difficult, we generally give up quickly and find something else to do. The problem is that there is no real happiness in jumping from one quick and easy thing to the next; the only true gratification comes from seeing a difficult process through to the end. Marriage is difficult, fatherhood is difficult, but there will be no happiness is giving up and moving on.

Look, I understand that there are extreme cases where a partner is abusive to another or to the children, where for safety's sake, a marriage must end. But you cannot tell me that this alone accounts for the failure rate of marriages in this country. I am not some holy roller who thinks you'll go to hell for getting a divorce, but I do believe that when you give someone your word, you should do everything possible to honor that commitment. As strongly as I believe in marriage, I feel much more strongly that as soon as kids are involved, the stakes are raised significantly.

Now, I assume most of you are thinking that I grew up in some perfect household with a mom and a dad that never fought, with two siblings, with a dog, and a white picket fence.That's far from the truth. My parents were divorced when I was four years old and I spent the rest of my childhood visiting my dad on Tuesday evenings and then spending the night with him on Friday. I saw him much more often that that, though, as he lived just down the road from me for the majority of my childhood. I honestly don't know the reasons that my parents' marriage ended. I've never asked and don't intend to. My dad was always there and my mom did a tremendous job with my two sisters and I. I was young enough when it happened that I actually don't remember a time where my parents lived together. I suppose that made it easier for me. I know it was a lot harder on my older sister.

Now that I am married with kids of my own, I'm learning so much about myself and about my belief system. Things I thought were important before generally don't mean all that much to me now. Likewise, things I never gave thought to before have become quite meaningful these days.

I didn't get married until I was 30 years old. I married a woman who had two very young children from her first marriage. I was set up for failure. I had no idea how to put the needs of others before my own; I had never had to do that before. I had no idea how to raise a child, especially a 2 year old boy that I had just met.



More than anything I think, I learned what it means to be a father by seeing how my wife's ex-husband has handled things. I see the way he disappoints the kids by not showing up when he says he will, by telling them he'll keep them overnight only to bring them home two hours later so he can go out with his drinking buddies. I see the looks on their faces on Saturday afternoon, when their bio-dad had told them he'd pick them up first thing that morning, and they realize he's not coming. I learned that actions, and words, mean something and they have consequences. Unfortunately, it's the kids that suffer those consequences in this case.

Like I said, I'm not saying there is never a reason to end a marriage. What I'm saying is that there are ways to avoid getting to that point. It comes from both partners and has to be done together and always. First, don't abuse your partner or the kids. I shouldn't have to say that, should I? Secondly, don't cheat on your spouse. Thirdly, understand that you and your spouse will argue, you will fight, and you will get angry. Don't immediately assume that the other one hates you and don't do something stupid that escalates the situation.

You and your wife have a big fight and you leave the house. You decide you'll get back at her by heading to the bar. Two hours later you wind up cheating on her. Now the marriage is in big, big trouble because you felt the selfish need to get even. Three years later, there's some other guy tucking your kids into bed, some other guy they're calling "dad" and your left tweeting about how hard it is to drive away. Tell me, was it worth it?

It's about honoring your spouse, about putting the needs of others before yours, and about having the courage to stick it out and see it through. More than that, more than anything, it's about never putting yourself into a position to have to drive away and allow someone else to raise your children.

The Story of Us

So I'm sitting at work perusing my twitter feed and the customer lounge in the next room has some show on the TV. I'm not sure what it is, but it's like Entertainment Tonight or TMZ or something that deals only with the lives of celebrities. So garbage, basically. Anyhow, the big news of the day is that actress Tara Reid (who was sooo hot in Van Wilder) reportedly got engaged and married all in the same day. And apparently she wasn't even drunk in Vegas when this happened.

Now, I don't give a rat's ass what Tara Reid has chosen to do with her life, so this post has nothing to do with her (but it does make me wan to watch Van Wilder again - tremendous film). Since the intent, or at least a large part of the intent, of this blog is to give my kids a place to get to know me and my inner-most thoughts, I think the Reid marriage gives me a good enough excuse to tell the story of my wife and I.

This is a long and complicated story, but whose marriage isn't? Ours is a story unlike anyone's I ever heard though. Stay with me, I think you'll enjoy...

I first met Valerie several months after my then-fiance (Jenn) and I moved back to Lima from Bowling Green. Jenn had taken a job at a laboratory doing pharmaceutical research. It was there that she met Valerie and the two became good friends. On occasion, Jenn and I would visit the local bars and one such evening we were joined by Valerie and her husband. I remember seeing her for the first time; she wasn't especially tall, but carried herself in a way that made her look taller than her 5'8" frame. She walked with a confidence about her. She had the most amazing eyes I've ever seen, a pure blue that can't be re-created by crayola. I liked her immediately. She was amazingly alluring, she was sexy. (Sorry kids, but there is no other way to put it)

Fast forward about a year. Valerie's marriage had long since ended and she had been dating a few people. Jenn and I would talk and I remember telling her how Valerie was better than this new guy or that one. I didn't see her often and no, there was never anything going on between us, but Valerie was someone I did like. I can't say the same for some of Jenn's other friends.

It was late January of 2008 when Jenn left the house on a Friday afternoon. She was driving back home to her parent's house for the weekend, or at least that's what she had told me. This wasn't all that unusual. I was watching Top Gun on AMC that night when my phone rang. It was my cousin, who asked if Jenn was home. I told him she wasn't, that she had gone back to Canton for the weekend. "No she didn't, dude" he said "she's at the movies with some guy and a 12-year-old kid." My heart immediately went to my throat.

I called Jenn, no answer. I texted her, she responded that she couldn't talk. I called again, finally she answered. I told her what my cousin had said, sure (or at least desperately hoping) that he was mistaken; that it wasn't Jenn he had seen. She laughed a bit, but said she had to go. She was at the movies, she told me, but in Canton, with her friend Terri. I asked what she was seeing (I have no idea why I asked this, but I did). Her response: National Treasure 2. I told her to have fun and we hung up. But something didn't sit right.

I racked my brain. Why would she go see National Treasure Two? A sequel to a movie that (to my knowledge) she had never seen? It didn't make sense. A Disney film? A sequel? Even for her, that wouldn't be one you would make a trip to a theater to see, especially if you'd never seen the first one. You would only do this if you were with a child that had seen the first one. This would be an excellent film to take a kid to see. Now I was fairly sure that my cousin had been right, but what to do?

I wound up doing the only thing I could think of in my panic. Five minutes before, my life was good, now with one phone call from my cousin, my whole world was shattered. I called Valerie. I had never even spoken with her on the phone before. I was a mess as I explained what was happening. She couldn't tell me anything, of course, even if she knew. She was Jenn's friend, not mine. I knew that, but I didn't know what else to do. She stayed on the phone with me for a long time, eventually she broke and told me I should go to the theater.

I caught my fiance coming out of the movies with another man and his child. I confronted her in the parking lot. She returned home that night, but things were very much over at that point. I wasn't sure I wanted to try to fix things, but she was sure she really liked this guy, a divorced 37-year-old Marine.

Two days later, I spent an evening with Valerie (with Jenn's blessing). From that day forward, Valerie and I spent almost every day together. It wasn't long before Valentine's Day rolled around. Jenn even went with Valerie to pick out a gift for me. By the end of February, we were very much in love. As it turns out, we were also very much pregnant. To me, there was no choice to be made here. I was in love with this woman like I've never imagined love could be. I had been with Jenn for seven years and to be honest, the last five of those were more for comfort than anything else. I would learn later that Jenn had been seeing other men for the entirety of our relationship, but that didn't matter anymore. I had found the one I was supposed to be with. The pregnancy sped up the process, to be sure, but Valerie and I were of the same mind and same heart on this one. We went together and picked out our rings in mid-March. On April 4, 2008, we were married.

There have been more than a few bumps in the road from that day to this one, but each time we've struggled, we've grown closer together. That pregnancy turned out to be our son, Leyton. At our 20 week ultrasound, we were told that Leyton (who hadn't been named yet) had gastroschisis, which is a birth defect that causes the intestines to push through an unclosed hole in the umbilical cord. The next few months were filled with stress of not knowing whether or not our child would live, let alone what his condition might mean. We had weekly trips to Columbus for ultrasounds and my relationship with Valerie was strained at best. The fact is that were really didn't know each other when we got married, so that compounded with the normal pregnancy issues and the stress of this diagnosis made life hell. There was also, of course, the fact that Valerie's first marriage had produced two small children and I was having to adapt to being a dad for the first time, and without a chance to really get to know the kids, either.

I can't tell you whether or not Valerie and I would have made it without Leyton. I lean towards no. When he was born on October 9 of that year, he had to spend 24 days in Children's Hospital waiting for, then undergoing, then recovering from surgery. In that time, Valerie and I lived in the Ronald McDonald House across the street from the hospital. I drove almost two hours each way to work and back every day. Our room, like all those at RMH, had no television, so the time we spend there was in isolation, by and large. We were forced, thanks to Leyton, to get to know each other like we never had before.

Leyton's conception was at least in part responsible for the timing of our marriage. Leyton's defect, which was successfully corrected with no further issues at all, was very much responsible for our truly falling in love with each other.

Valerie and I have now been married over three years. I can't recall a time, without trying, that we were ever apart. She and I share a trust that I have never known before and she puts up with most of my abrasiveness as well. There have been other trying times along the way, but nothing like what we went through over the last 16 weeks of her pregnancy with Leyton. During that time, there was more than one day that I wondered if we would make it at all, let alone still be together three years later.

17 months ago, Valerie and I welcomed Amity to the mix and the family seems complete. Of course, you never know what might happen if you're not actively NOT trying to get pregnant again.

Nothing that happened with Jenn was what I had wanted, but it all added up to me meeting Valerie. Nothing that happened with Leyton's diagnosis was what anyone would want, but it lead to the strengthening of my marriage. It's funny how life throws you things that seem so terrible at first. I don't know how much I might have believed this before all the above took place, but I can say for certain right now that everything truly must happen for a reason. And I am so glad that everything that happened, happened exactly the way it did. I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

On our three-year anniversary, Valerie posted the following on her facebook status: "I'd like to tell you that three years ago today I married my best friend, but in reality, three years ago today I married a stranger who became my best friend." I don't think I'd be very happy at all if one of my kids winds up doing something as stupid as Valerie and I did, but who's to say it wouldn't work? It has been one strange trip, but the journey to here has been incredible. I might just be the luckiest man alive.

Taking On the Establishment

Last fall, while playing in my weekly softball league, I did something really, outrageously stupid; I slid into third base. The result of my slide on a poorly-maintained field (the infield hadn't been dragged probably ever and was rock-hard), while wearing shorts, was a nasty gash on the side of my left shin. This thing measured about six inches from top to bottom and another three inches wide. For some reason, it took weeks to heal and eventually became infected. The pain in my leg was so great that I slept on the couch for over a month so I wouldn't disturb my wife each time I winced and gasped in pain.

Fast forward to November and I went to the ER with some abdominal pain. During the course of my evening in the hospital, they ran some blood work and the doctor came to me with a question. "Has anyone ever talked to you about diabetes?" He informed me that my glucose level was 220 that night. Later that week, I had more blood work done and went to see my doctor. The diagnosis was confirmed. At age 33, I was officially a Type-2 Diabetic. At least that explained why my leg was so slow to heal.

Upon getting the news, my wife and I dove into this thing head-first. We changed our diets, I was taking metformin and lisinopril (for high blood pressure), and the results were good. Both Valerie and I lost a good amount of weight (her more than I, but she's better at dieting than me). Eventually, however, the dieting stopped and the weight has slowly started to come back. I was once as heavy as 309 pounds, but got as low as 268 in January of this year. Now, I'm back to 280.

Last week, I had more blood work done, just to see how my sugar is doing. The results were encouraging, my A1C had dropped from 8.4 to 6.6 giving me an average glucose reading of 138; down from 196. This time, however, the doctor tells me my cholesterol is high. It never ends. So back to the doctor I go.

She wants me to start taking simvastatin (or Zocor) at 10mg per day. Seems reasonable enough I suppose. She explains that in "normal" people, my LDL of 129 would be in the accepted range and would require no medication, but in diabetics, they want that number below 70. She also tells me that my "good cholesterol" is 38 and we need to bring that up to at least 50. The statin, she says, should give me all the boost I need. Sounds good to me, I suppose, so I leave the office (BTW- my blood pressure was 117 over 70 - I rock) and drop the scrip off at the pharmacy and head back to work.

I spoke with my wife and told her what was going on. She immediately voices concern over taking a statin. She calls her grandmother, a nurse, and alerts me to a cocktail of supplements June was taking to lower her cholesterol. Now, June is in her eighties and is not diabetic, so I figure that her situation and mine aren't the same. Regardless, with the amount of worry Valerie had in her voice, I figured maybe I should do a little research here.

I spent the next couple of hours ignoring the latest Tigers trade rumor and instead surfing the web for information on diabetes and the use of niacin versus statins. No matter the source of the article, I found nothing good about statins at all. I decided that maybe my best bet would be to talk to the pharmacist.

When I approached the counter, the pharmacist was busy. I waited briefly, but eventually just figured I'd give some stuff a try. I had found no indication that niacin would cause any adverse effects in my body, so I'd just self-medicate. The pharmacist then did something I didn't expect; he came and found me to say he had seen me waiting and to ask if I had questions. I quickly explained my condition and my concerns over taking the statin. He relayed to me the adverse effects of statins and also told me my concerns were real. We talked about niacin, a supplement he was apparently well-versed in and he explained how I should start small and gradually increase my dosage. We agreed to avoid the "non-flushing" niacin because the hot flash that comes with it enables the user to determine when the ideal amount has been reached.

I left the pharmacy yesterday with a bottle of 250 mg niacin and a bottle of garlic. I did not pick up my prescription for simvastatin.

The more I've read on the subject of medications for my diabetes and my cholesterol, the less enthused I am about traditional medicines. From what I'm gathering so far, vitamins and supplements (or, ideally, healthy foods) hold all the same value as the drugs to, but without the risks. A small overdose of a prescription drug can kill you, but a significant overdose of vitamins causes only diarrhea and vomiting. To me, the idea that I might have a hot flash or two seemed a much happier outcome than the liver and muscle damage connected to statins.

So now I'm in an unusual position. I have always trusted my doctors to know what they are doing. After all, they have years of medical training and all I've done is read a handful of internet articles. I feel a bit dumb even exploring the idea of trying "alternative" medications for my condition. The drugs I've been on have worked so far. But my doctor now also wants to check my liver and kidney functions, and send me to an opthomologist for a dilated eye exam.

I haven't yet spoken to my doctor about not taking the statin and I don't think I will. I have blood work scheduled for October to check on my progress and until then I'll be doing things on my own to try to get my issues in check. The more I read about diabetes, the better I am understanding how to control my sugar levels through diet and supplements.

Today, I found a handful of articles that gave me some ideas on what to try. I also discovered an online community of diabetics that seems very friendly and helpful. This is a condition which scared the crap out of me at first, but now is doing the same again the more I read. Sometimes the effects can take years, even decades, but the damage to the internal organs, as well as the extremities and the eyes, is real and if left unchecked it can be deadly.

This is a scary place for me to be. I'm making a potentially deadly decision to go away from my doctor's advice and to try to sort things out on my own. What I really need to find, I think, is someone knowledgeable in the use of vitamins and supplements as alternatives to prescription drugs. Of course, I doubt my insurance will cover that visit. If I'm right, however, I can stop taking my meds (eventually) and start to live a healthy, long, life. I'm still only 33, there is a lot to do before I die.

From Young Boy to Young Man

Sebastian turned five years old last week. It is alarming to me how much maturing he has done over the past few months. I can't put an exact date on it or even recall a specific situation where I first noticed it, but he's definitely growing up lately.

When Valerie and I got married, Sebastian was not yet two years old. He still wore diapers and still insisted on a bottle at bedtime. He didn't use a bottle during the day, but he wouldn't think of retiring for the evening without a bottle of warm milk in tow. He was good kid I think, but in all reality it's difficult for me to know for sure. Prior to my moving into Valerie's house and gaining an instant family featuring two very young children, I had no experience, no prolonged exposure to children that small.

I can recall quite clearly how apprehensive I was around them, and maybe part of me still is a bit. It didn't help matters that I was so green to the experience nor that Sebastian seemed to regard me as a rival for his mother's attention. I know it seems silly that I would think he could do that at such a young age, but he and I have butted heads a lot over the past three-and-a-half years. I don't blame him by any means, I certainly should have been much more patient, but I frankly didn't know how to be; I hadn't yet been softened enough to the reality of having a family.

I had heard about "terrible twos" and the demonic-like behavior of children of that age. Sebastian made all those nightmares come true, it seemed. Looking back, I can't remember any specific incidents, only a general sense that if there was a way to ruin a trip to the store or to cause me to lose my temper, Sebastian would find it. More than that, it seemed he took pleasure in finding it. More than once he would do something i had specifically forbade him from doing, all the while watching me with a smile on his face, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Why he did this, I have no idea. I understand wanting attention, but he was clearly seeking the wrong kind.

Sadly for me, the terrible-ness didn't end when he turned three, or even four. Since I have known him, Sebastian has sought the spotlight, but always doing so by displaying poor behavior. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't an evil child by any stretch; he has always been very kind-hearted to his family and displays an inordinate amount of clinginess to anyone of the female gender. He claims to have a "billion" girlfriends, most of which are in their early to mid-20s.

Throughout our time together, I have tried my best to explain where I feel he's going wrong and until recently I may as well have been speaking Chinese. It didn't seem like it mattered how many times I explained it, or how loud I would eventually yell, he didn't seem to get it; or he chose not to. Either way.

Lately though, I've seen a change in him. He and I are much more able to interact in peace. He seems to trust me more and be less afraid of me. I am not in any way blaming him for his "fear" before this. My temper is legendary and Sebastian always knew what buttons to push. I know this makes me sound like a bully, but this didn't seem like an ordinary child. The little boy just knew how to get people angry and he reveled in getting a reaction.

Something happened that has changed his demeanor. I don't know what it is, but if I could bottle it I would make a fortune. Sebastian still clings to his mother and any other female, but he also now is allowing others to see him interact with the world without demanding the attention he did before. It's almost as if he feels more comfortable with himself, or with his life. I don't know if that's true, but it's what I hope is true. He seems at peace with the world around him lately, or as much at peace as a five-year-old can be, I guess.

I've tried to instill confidence in him whenever I can. Sebastian used to wear his jeans unbuttoned because he "couldn't" figure out how to fasten them. If it wasn't a snap, he couldn't do it. Of course, he could do it, but it wasn't easy, so he didn't try and just walked around open to the world instead of attempting to fasten the button. This isn't the only example of how he used to wait for others to help him, but it's the one I point to when I show him how to do things he says are too hard. Once I sat down and showed him how to button his pants, the excuse didn't fly anymore. When he would say he couldn't do it, I would remind him that he has done it and he can do it again if he tries. He tried and he did it. I made sure to tell him he did great.

We are now at a point where he can accomplish most any task asked of him (within reason of course; he's five). Grandma brought him a new bike for his birthday and this one has no training wheels. It's a little big for him yet, but Aunt Steph (one of his girlfriends) and Uncle Braden have been helping him to learn to ride. We discovered that because of the size of his new bike, he was having trouble getting started, so I took the training wheels off his old, smaller bike and he did pretty well last night. He falls sometimes (he hasn't figured out how to stop except to just fall over) and one of the falls yesterday drew some blood on his ankle. That was all he needed to want to give up.

But just like the buttoning of his pants, I know he can do it if he keeps trying. More than that, if I tell him he can do it in that way, he thinks he can as well. I am very proud of all the growing he has done of late. I'd like to think I had something to do with it, but I don't think I can take much credit. It takes a village to raise a child and Sebastian has a wonderful support system of family around him everyday.

It can't be easy to have your life thrown into chaos the way his and Lillian's were when their parents divorced at such a young age. The transitions they have made, along with my own, haven't always been smooth. It might have taken Sebastian a bit longer to adapt, to accept, than we would have liked, but I couldn't be prouder of him. I hope someday we will have the same father-son relationship that any "traditional" father and son would have. I think we are well on our way.