It Is My Son's Birthday and My Heart Feels Like It Could Break

I laid down with my older son tonight to put him to sleep and then fell asleep with him. I woke up at 1:30 from some pretty stressful dreams, so I guess I'm up for the day now.

My older son, the Monkey, turns 3-years-old today. I know everyone loves their children, but it sometimes overwhelms me how much love I have for him and his younger brother -- and for his older brother and sister who were bonuses when his mom and I decided to try to make a life together.

The Monkey's place in my heart is unique though. It's not that I love him more, but it's just different. He was unplanned and really came along amid circumstances that were less than ideal. I was on the downside of a midlife crisis and had managed to lose my faith, my first wife, and all motivation to work. I had no idea who I was. I had twice planned my own suicide and had suicidal ideation on a near-constant basis. I had also long given up on the idea of having children, though it was something that I really longed for.

When the Goddess came into my life, that was really the beginning of a massive change. The months before we had the Monkey were prologue. When he was born, it was Chapter 1, Vol. II of my life. All thoughts of ending life were gone. I could think only of how wonderful this new person was and how I wanted to give him a life where he felt loved, secure, and happy.

So now I'm awake at 2:30 AM on his birthday, after falling asleep with his little body pressed up against mine. We'd read Goodnight, Bunny, and Goodnight, Moon, and Giraffes Can't Dance and Halloween Makes Me Batty and The Very Hungry Caterpillar -- that last one *at least* 8 times -- before bed.

I know every father thinks his child is brilliant, but he's such a smart little boy. He knows his ABCs, he can count to 40, he can get three partials on the trumpet, he's memorized dozens of songs and books, and he says some of the most remarkable things.

Tonight he held out a piece of a broken toy to me and asked, "What is it?"

"It's part of the castle tower," I said.

"No," he said. "It's a cone. It's a tower cone."

We were reading Goodnight, Moon and I asked, "How many mittens are there?"

He counted: "One, two."

"And how many socks?" I asked.

"One, two," he counted.

"And how many socks AND mittens?" I asked.

"One, two, three, four," he answered. (This may seem like nothing to some of you, but if you know much about child development, you'll get why this brought a smile to my face.)

He knows what an excavator is and what a saxophone is and he looks for the moon every time he leaves the house at dusk, at night, or in the early hours of the morning.

I'm kind of rambling, but you get it: I'm enamored with him and could listen to him all day long. He's honestly one of my favorite people to talk to.

But my heart is so, so heavy tonight.

Part of that is remembering that on his birthday two years ago, we went to see his grandmother for the first time in the hospital after cancer was discovered on her pancreas and liver. She wouldn't make it to Christmas. He has only one living grandparent, and that's something that makes me very sad.

But honestly, a lot of it is the anxiety I feel about the world he's come into, the world I've helped create for him.

Without turning this into an overtly political post, I'm more worried about his future now than I was Tuesday morning.

Some of you undoubtedly think that is completely unwarranted. But while I may not be the smartest guy in the room all the time, I know I'm not the stupidest either. I've read a few books. I keep up with the world. I try to think critically and weigh evidence and all the available evidence tells me that there are forces at work that create a more immediate danger to him -- and one that is far, far beyond my ability to protect him from. I'm aware that this danger is probably less so because he is not a brown child or female or of a particular religion. But there are dangers, nonetheless.

I'm fond of telling people that the Monkey "saved my life." I'm not being metaphorical. I hope I am able to give him a world that is worthy of the debt I owe him.

My Family, My Enemy

The people I live with are conspiring against my well-being, against my peace, my happiness, and even my general health. It is the only explanation I can manage.

Let me back up a bit. And I will begin with the victories, lest you think it is all despair.

The twelve-year-old loves his school. Or rather, he likes it moderately, which is the same thing as love on his part.

The first week he came home from school and was excited to tell us all about it. This has never happened before. He was working on a project, something involving the extinction of the dinosaurs. He would come home every day and work on his project without being told to. Voluntarily. I could only surmise that the school was some sort of cult and that our child has fallen under their spell, but I honestly do not give a fuck. If they have some strange magic that makes him voluntarily do homework, I don't care if they're the Reverend Sun Yung Moon and L. Ron Hubbard mixed into one.

On the following Sunday, he announces that he has finished his project. Early.

I think I just held a blanket and wept soft tears of relief and joy for a couple of hours.

This joy was short-lived, however, when I discovered I had fucked up.

It began with an off-handed comment from the 12-year-old about being late for school. "You aren't late for school. We're like twenty minutes early every day." He really has no concept of time.

I mention this to the Goddess. "What time are you getting there?"

"About 8:10," I say proudly.

"Yeah, his classes start at 8:00."

Fuck. Me.

I don't know how I have missed this. I am an ass.

Also, that means I've got to get everyone ready a half-hour earlier. That's okay. I've got this.

On Wednesday, there is a parent meeting at the school. I really want to go, meet his teachers, and especially learn about his upcoming three-day field trip. They're going to a nature conservancy, talking about the natural world, hiking, all that jazz. Unfortunately, both of us can't go and besides that, his bio-dad decides he wants to be there. (We don't really co-attend events.)

On Friday comes a bombshell. We get a message from his teachers: the twelve-year-old has been skipping homework.

What? How can this be? What about the project? I thought we had this figured out.

We didn't know he had homework. He claims he didn't know it was homework, which is bullshit.

He sits at the dining room table on Friday night, finishing his work.

Friday night also featured a meltdown by the Goddess. She's deep into her teaching gig now and I am certain she's doing well. She talks about a few classes she struggles with. She sees 300 students a week for forty minutes each. It is very difficult to establish a classroom environment in that time and many of her students come from very troubled homes.

She got an email from her supervisor telling her she was doing a good job, but also including some constructive criticism.

I love my wife, but taking things in stride is not really her strong suit.

"I'm awful. I suck. I'm going to quit." She screams. She cries. She crawls into bed.

"I'm sure you're not awful. And you can't quit. I don't make enough money for you to quit, even if you completely suck." As I have previously mentioned, I am not noted for my sensitivity.

This breaks into a very predictable fight which ruins an otherwise lovely Friday night at home.

The first of this week started well. The twelve-year-old is off to his field trip and we are getting into a bit of a routine with the others. I'm still struggling to get them all out the door on time, but with one less child, it seems more manageable.

Wednesday is my day off and I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a break in a few weeks. I've had gigs on weekends and worked more hours this pay period than I ever have. I haven't seen much of the kids, but I'm pretty proud of the paycheck I brought home.

On Tuesday, the Ape is sick. The Goddess takes him to the doctor. She messages me at work. Hand-foot-and-mouth disease. Didn't he have that two weeks ago? Apparently not. That was some other kind of rash.

Fuck.

I get home late on Tuesday. Everyone is already in bed. The house is completely destroyed. There are wet diapers in the floor. The place is littered with Thomas the Tank Engine and Sponge Bob toys. A towel covers a wet spot on the rug where someone either peed or spilled juice. Crackers and bits of food cover everything.

So on my day off, I stay home with the Ape and the Goddess. We get up and clean the house for about four hours, alternately trying to entertain a grumpy baby.

I go out and get some cash from the ATM. There must be something wrong. There isn't much left in our account. That fat check that was deposited on Monday has nearly disappeared. There isn't enough to cover the mortgage, which is due on Friday.

Fuuuuuuck.

I make dinner. Tacos.

"What's in these?" the seven-year-old asks.

"The normal. Beef, beans."

"Yuck. I hate beans."

"You eat beans in tacos every week."

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do."

She does that thing where she puts the taco on the tip of her tongue, pretending to taste it. "Icccckkk! It tastes HORRIBLE! You are trying to starve me to death." I grab a piece of bologna and white bread and slam it on the table in front of her.

The twelve-year-old arrives home from his field trip.

"How was it?" I ask excitedly, hoping to be regaled with how much fun he had and how much he learned.

"It was awful," he says. "It was pretty much the worst field trip ever. We had to answer questions before they'd give us a s'more!" he adds indignantly. Then he tells his mom he needs to get the new bey-blades that come out next Friday. I tell him he should put them on his Christmas list. He says he must get them that day so he can do an unboxing video on his YouTube channel. He starts crying.

I hate these people.

The next morning is miserable. I've slept uncomfortably, mostly due to the fact that we are co-sleeping with the Monkey (seemed like a good idea at the time), who gradually forces me to the edge of the bed all night. My body is sore and I've gotten little sleep. The Monkey and Ape both scream bloody murder when we give them chocolate milk to drink, like we poured gasoline in their sippy cups. The twelve-year-old is running 20 minutes late, which means the rest of us are running late, too.

The Monkey refuses to go into his daycare. First, he stalls in the parking lot, kicking and screaming. I'm dragging him in, so I expect a visit from CPS any time. The he lays in the floor and I have to carry him in a ball to his room. He looks at me with complete contempt.

I drop the twelve-year-old at school -- 20 minutes late -- and the teacher who greets our car looks at me with pity, the sort of expression you reserve for parents who don't bathe their children.

Miserably long day at work. I practically drop into bed when I get home at 10:00.

I got up earlier this morning. I thought I'd head off any potential problems.

The Goddess gets the twelve-year-old up earlier, so he won't be late for school.

I go to walk the seven-year-old to the bus. She is doing homework.

"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."

"Ughhhh! I have to do my homework!"

"You should have done it last night."

I walk her to her stop. She's weeping. Great.

I go to dress Monkey and Ape. Both of them emit tortuous screams when I try to dress them. If our neighbors can hear it, I'm sure they assume I beat my children. It is literally the most difficult task in my current routine. It takes all of 20 minutes to put a shirt, pants, and shoes on each of them. They both cry literally all morning, crying for their mommy.

I shout at the twelve-year-old. "We're leaving!"

"I'm still getting ready!"

We wait.

Finally all the boys are in the car. We're running about 8 minutes behind.

"I didn't get to eat breakfast," the twelve-year-old says.

"Not my fault," I say. "Why didn't you eat?"

"Because you were rushing me!" he screams.

"We're running late," I say. "You can't just be late for school every day."

"It's not my fault."

"Then we'll get you up earlier."

"No!"

"Then you can take you shower at night."

"No!!"

He sulks the rest of the drive to school. We get there a few minutes after his classes have started.

I'm really tired. I'm working 12-14 hour days on a regular basis. My body is aching and I have weird physical things happening all the time: sore muscles, scratchy throat, headaches.

I'm broke. Despite one of the biggest paychecks I've ever gotten in my career, we don't have enough money to pay the mortgage on time. (Please don't send money. The Goddess gets paid next week. We'll just be making a late payment.)

My wife is miserable. I suspect she resents my inability to make more money and, conversely, the fact that I'm never home to help with the kids.

My kids resent me. The twelve-year-old resents that I can't buy him everything he wants. The seven-year-old thinks I'm cruel for making her shitty food and forcing her to get to the bus on time. And the Monkey and Ape hate me for putting clothes on them.

I feel defeated.

I feel like I never see my family, and when I do, it's these sorts of tense interactions.

And, paradoxically, I want a break from them.

I love my family. I really, really do.

But it's just so fucking hard sometimes. I feel like a stranger around them these days.

You're not supposed to admit these things. You aren't supposed to admit parental failure unless it's just something cute. You aren't supposed to say that even though you really, really love them you feel like you are going to completely lose your shit on them at any moment and scream, "Why are you trying to ruin my fucking life?!"

But today is Friday. It's not the end of the work week for me, but at least it's the end of the school week. It's Labor Day weekend and they're visiting bio-dad and Granny S this for a couple of nights.

Maybe we can all recharge our batteries. Maybe next week will be better.

Wherein I Describe the Mutual Meltdown of Children and Parents; Also, the First Day of School

After a promise that I would return to regular blogging, I abandoned my post for over a month. But I have sound reasons, my faithful readers (both of you). I was really, really busy. But yeah, I'll do better.

Today was a milestone of sorts for Team Crackerbox.

Last month, the Goddess returned to the World of Work, or rather, the World of Those Who Are Gainfully Employed, as I am beginning to believe that staying home with the Monkey and Ape constitutes something more than a full-time job. Nevertheless, we celebrate her triumphal return to the land of paid labor.

And now, all of our financial woes are over.

You believe that, right?

Well, as I mentioned, we made the decision to send the twelve-year-old to Montessori School this year. It is expensive. I mean, it's not Philips Exeter Academy, but it's expensive for us. That means saving up gig money and overtime. It means we didn't take a vacation this summer, too. I'm not complaining. I'm glad we can do it. I kind of think it's do or die time with this kid and school.

He got to go for a day last year and really loved it. It's so much different than his regular school and such a good fit for him. I'm not naive. I know it won't guarantee success. But I have so much hope for him now.

Of course, life does not stop while we figure all of this out.

The seven-year-old started 2nd grade last week, a full week before her brother had to go back.

The Monkey is being potty trained. Results have varied widely. One day, he is taking himself to the bathroom, taking a leak while holding his manhood in one hand and tipping a sippy cup of chocolate milk with the other: a pro. (This has the same effect as a guy in the men's room at the bar who guzzles beer while taking a piss.) Other days, he will happily urinate in his Spider Man underpants while standing feet from the bathroom door. But we are getting there.

Two weeks ago I managed to come down with hand-foot-and-mouth disease. I assumed I picked it up from one of the kids, although none of them had gotten the symptoms. Last week, the Ape woke up with the spots on his legs and face. The daycare worker said every child in his class had gotten it. (His cleared up in a day, while my skin is still peeling from the rash.)

I'm also getting acclimated to full-time dad duties. Luckily, I've been able to ease into it.

When the Goddess went back to work, it fell to me to get the youngest two to daycare.

Beginning last week, I also started taking the seven-year-old to the bus stop and waiting with her.

Then today, the twelve-year-old began school as well. Since it's not a public school, that means I drive him every morning.

Last week, the Goddess took him to an orientation meeting at the school. They don't have traditional grade groups, so they placed him in the "upper elementary" group, based largely on what the Goddess had told them about his academic needs. I texted her, asking her to let me know how it went.

The twelve-year-old was crying.

Dammit.

I know change is frightening, especially when you're an adolescent. But he had already visited the school. He should have known what to expect. What was going on?

He didn't want to open up to his mom, but she kept trying to pry it out of him. Finally he cracked.

He was crying because his teacher referred to his class as 6th grade. And she intimated that they might need to do some homework on weekends.

So I need to come clean here and admit that I am not the most empathetic person you will meet. The Goddess is typically all caring and loving and sensitive about the kids' feelings and I'm the guy who can honestly not give a shit if one of them is having a meltdown. I mean, other than the fact that I want some peace and quiet.

Look, the 6th grade thing, I get. It made him feel like he was being treated like a little kid. But honestly, that's not it. There are other kids his age in the group and it isn't "6th grade" -- that was just the teacher misspeaking.

But the homework thing? Pfffffttttttt.

He kinda stewed all weekend. My dad would have said he had the "studs." He was moody and grumpy and difficult with everyone.

Saturday, both of the older two kids were sullen because the Goddess insisted they go shopping with her. For, you know, stuff for the two of them. They thought it better that she do the shopping while they spent their day unencumbered with the world's cares.

Sunday morning, I was trying to sleep in. I had a gig the night before, and it was my one day off this week. I hear the twelve-year-old and the seven-year-old going at each other downstairs. Typical stuff, mostly revolving around who gave a mean look to whom first. It had devolved into a shouting match and I heard the Goddess ascending the stairs. She opened the bedroom door, where I was still trying to sleep.

"You may want to cover your ears. There's probably going to be a meltdown."

About thirty seconds later, there is a sound from downstairs akin to to what I imagine is meant when the Bible describes "wailing and gnashing of teeth": the Goddess has taken away screen time for the remainder of the day.

It was a grim day at Crackerbox Palace. A gloom descended on the people. They were left joyless and tearful, with nothing to lighten their heavy loads.

"There's nothing for me to do now!" cried the seven-year-old.

"Should we throw away all your toys then? Because if you aren't playing with them, they're taking up a lot of space." Like I said, Mr. Empathy.

At some point, the twelve-year-old goes comes upstairs, goes into his room, slams the door, begins screaming, and then slams the door again, apparently unsatisfied with the effect the first time.

I'm at my most parental at this point.

I get out of the bed and march into his room.

"What is your goddamn problem?! If I hear that door slam one more time, you won't see a fucking iPad until Christmas!"

Later that morning, we decide that it is time for a come-to-Jesus meeting with the older two kids. We sit them at the dinner table and explain -- for what seems to be the 100th time -- that they must learn to get along with each other.

At this point, the twelve-year-old launches into an ill-advised defense of his mistreatment of his sister. His primary theses are, "You didn't tell me I couldn't be mean to her," and, "My actions are the fault of everyone else, including my baby brother."

What followed this was another profanity-laced explanation on my part that we shouldn't have to tell him every single thing he isn't allowed to do; that he is twelve, not four, and needs to begin acting like it; and that we really love him, but this shit has got to stop.

Then he has another meltdown about school.

It isn't fair, he tells us, that he will have homework on weekends. Weekends are his free time and he deserves to have time off.

If a twelve-year-old was looking for a way to make me lose my shit, telling me that he deserves free time is probably the way to do it.

"Why do you deserve time off?"

"Because I work hard."

"No. No you don't. That is a damn lie. You do not work hard."

"I work hard at school."

"I love you, but that isn't true. You do not work hard at school. You miss turning in assignments, you turn in work late, and your grades are mediocre."

I want to point out that I haven't had a vacation, that I worked six days this week, and that my one day off is being interrupted by a bratty tween who can't just shut up and get along with his sister for one morning.

I do tell him that any work he does at school isn't for someone else: it's for him. That we want him to have the skills necessary to be a very independent and happy adult.

All of this is true. I worry that he'll be one of those beta-males who plays video games all day and picks girlfriends based on who will do his laundry and make food for him. I worry that he will be 30 and wondering why he doesn't seem to have a purpose in life. And I worry about him being selfish and not caring about others.

Much melodrama follows. He asks why we don't just throw him into the street. He says he guesses we would like to see him murdered. There is screaming. There is crying.

At some point, he decides to completely stop talking to us, which is a minor blessing, because at least I can finish this Netflix documentary I have been trying to watch all day.

By evening he has calmed down. He kept asking if he could have his computer and iPad back, but otherwise, he was fairly calm.

6:00 A.M. came early. Today was the first day I was responsible for getting all four kids out the door. I felt like a real grown-up.

The seven-year-old is wearing cat ears and carrying about 20 lbs of gear in her backpack, despite having no homework. I get her on the bus, dress Monkey and Ape, and then all four men head out for the day. The soundtrack is Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." (The Monkey now insists on hearing this every morning commute. "Play the rock and roll, Dad!")

I drop the younger two at daycare and then it's just me and the twelve-year-old.

"Are you excited?"

"Yeah."

"Are you nervous."

"Not really."

"Are you tired?"

"Yeah. I had trouble sleeping."

I could never sleep the night before school started.

I'm trying to figure the best route to the school (which I've never been to), and I have a bit of trouble finding it. (I have a notoriously bad sense of direction.) They've given really confusing directions for parent drop-off (Where is the car sign they said they gave us? Did we get one?), including an admonition to not text and drive (thanks, Mom).

I find the place and see three teachers standing out front, directing us. I pull up and one of them comes out to greet us.

"Good morning, Jackson. We're so happy to see you." She smiles, a genuine "good teacher" smile.

I get out of the car and introduce myself. She shakes my hand.

"Let me get a picture. You mom will kill me if I don't."

He strikes the pose and smiles dutifully, lunch bag in hand, back-pack strapped to his body, resembling the thousands of other children who've posed for Facebook posts already this school year.

The place makes me smile. It feels like a good place. I just know he is going to be happy and successful here. I can feel my eyes starting to water.

I want to hug him and tell him I love him, but we aren't quite there yet, at least not in public. Instead I tell him I hope he has a great day and give him a really awkward "coach pat" on the shoulder.

I want to keep this feeling, too, this assurance that yes, for once, I know we are doing the right thing for this child.

I think it's going to be a great year.

The Art of Manliness, or, How I Learned About Sexuality from David Bowie

First, I want to apologize to all five of my faithful readers for my absence. Three weeks ago, one of my best friends committed suicide. This may be something I blog about at some point in the future, but I'm not ready to do that yet.

Instead, I wanted to talk about something else that has been on my mind.

Today, I was engaged in a conversation (okay, it was actually a Facebook discussion) about how many of us learned basic skills: cooking, sewing a button, changing a tire, etc. It sent me on a bit of an Internet goose chase looking for how-to videos. One such search sent me to the YouTube channel for The Art of Manliness.

I was already familiar with the website for The Art of Manliness and I've visited it a bunch. They have a wide range of articles there, everything from "100 Must Read Books for Men" to "7 Knots Every Man Should Know" to "How to Drink Whiskey." I will admit, it's pretty cool. I mean, I wanna know "How to Treat a Jellyfish Sting" and "How to Fight Multiple Assailants." They even have a podcast.

And I think I'm pretty "traditionally" male in lots of ways. I mean, I've got a beard and I use Brylcream and Old Spice. Bourbon is my favorite drink. I've got a bunch of old American style tattoos. I'm not especially athletic, but I'm not a total wimp either. The biggest gap in my "manliness" is probably that I'm not especially handy. My toilet goes out and I'm calling my friend Tom, a plumber. (Tom is the walking definition of a traditional manliness, btw.)

I see worth in those values associated with manliness: grit, strength of character, bravery, etc. And I see men in old photographs with handlebar mustaches lifting barbells and I think, "That's pretty cool."

Yet there is something wrong with asserting that certain character qualities are exclusively masculine. I mean, don't I want my seven-year-old daughter to be brave, strong, and determined? For that matter, I see value in those qualities traditionally associated with "femininity" -- compassion, tenderness, intuition -- and I want my sons to have those as well.

When I was growing up, my ideas about gender and sexuality were probably more influenced by rock stars than anyone else. I was daily surrounded by men in camouflage making fun of "faggots" and going huntin' and fishin'. I didn't especially identify with that. I wanted to be Ziggy Stardust. I wanted to be Prince. Rock stars inspired different ideas about sexuality and showed that straight men (or at least primarily straight) could be androgynous or ambiguous in the ways they expressed their sexuality.

I paid attention to grooming and to fashion when I was a teenager. I never bagged a ten-point buck. I played music. I skipped sports. For all of this, I was often ridiculed or bullied. In retrospect, I'm glad for the bullying, though I wouldn't wish it on any other child. I learned to stand up to bullies and to not be afraid to say what was on my mind.

Our culture is increasingly accepting of fluid ideas regarding sexuality. A larger number of people are rejecting the binary concept of gender and view sexuality on a continuum. In my mind, this has to be a positive. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered and other individuals are regarded with increasing acceptance. How can that not be a good thing?

I like to feel I strike a balance with myself. I jokingly tell people I'm 80-85% straight, but honestly, I'm comfortable with whoever I am. I went with my cousin and his wife last Saturday to a gay bar here in town and felt no discomfort when men there hit on me -- or when a drag queen called me onstage to ask if I wanted to feel her breasts.

But I also feel drawn to those images and tokens associated with traditional masculinity. I like wearing a suit and tying a Windsor knot. I enjoy being "chivalrous" -- opening doors for women and all that. I admire Teddy Roosevelt, even if I'm not ready to live his "rough life."

So I wonder as a father how to teach my values to my children. How do I help my sons "become men" without turning them into misogynist douchebags? How do I help my daughter become a woman, without her believing that this is somehow "less" than being a man? How can I share with them the joys of certain aspects of "traditional" gender without turning it into a trap? Or is that asking the impossible?

Maybe I'm overthinking this and I'm sure that certain of my childless friends will have the correct answer for me.

What do you parents think?

How do you teach your son to "be a man"? How do you teach your daughter to "be a woman"? Or is this something you even worry about?

The Monkey, the Ape, and Why I Am a Better Parent Than Someone Who Lets Her Child Fall in a Gorilla Pit

This past weekend, a four-year-old child climbed through a barrier at the Cincinnati Zoo and fell into a pit in the gorilla exhibit. Harambe, a 17-year-old silverback, grabbed the child and kept him for approximately ten minutes. Onlookers varied in their accounts, describing the gorilla's behavior as alternately protective and threatening, perhaps agitated by screams from the crowd as they watched. In the end, zoo workers shot and killed the gorilla and the boy was taken to the hospital.

The first thing that occurred to me was that trope from old comics, the one where some lady wearing a hat and gloves screams, "Superman, help! My baby!" And then we see that the baby carriage has gotten away from her or whatever and is headed toward to train tracks or the lion cage or wherever it is. (That's a trope, right? I'm not just imagining it, I'm sure.)

The story seemed like a relatively simple one to me, one that simultaneously combined an endangered child with the tragic killing of an animal that is very closely related to us. It's easy to see why the news media picked up on it.

Yet like so many things in the last decade or so, the story has taken on a life of its own, one that might have not happened in a less media-rich world. There were instantly dozens of memes circulating on social media and almost everyone had an opinion on it. Suddenly, everyone was an expert on the behavior of silverback gorillas, had studied the intricacies of zoo design, and were well-versed in zoo-rescue protocol. More than anything though, everyone was an expert parent.

It's such an easy target. I mean, if the bar is, "Well, my child has never fallen into a gorilla pit," then congratulations: you're all parent-of-the-year. I mean, that's rule number one of parenting, right? "Keep your child away from gorilla pits." Everyone knows that.

The near-universal verdict on social media was quick and unforgiving. The fault lay clearly with the mother. She should be punished, arrested, fined, jailed. At least one of my Facebook friends called for her death.

The truth, as is always the case, seems to be a little more nuanced than that. The woman had several kids with her. The child had gotten away and the family was actively looking for him. He crawled through a fifteen-foot barrier of shrubbery to get to the gorilla enclosure before apparently falling in.

Yeah, my gut feeling is the same as a lot of people: I would never let my child get away from me like that. I mean, there are even signs everywhere warning you to keep an eye on your child.

But can we just take a breath for a minute.

I love social media. I'm really not one of the naysayers who wishes for the days when you believed what was printed or what Murrow or Cronkite told you and then forgot about it. I like the fact that it allows near-instant response to our world and that it is relatively democratic.

But I can't help but sometimes wish that we could all root for Superman and the endangered child and breathe a sigh of relief when he is rescued.

I know, I know. A majestic, beautiful, and intelligent creature was destroyed, quite possibly because a mother didn't keep a close enough eye on her kid.

Yet the truth is, almost none of us gave a shit that the western lowland gorilla is endangered prior to this event. Most of us won't give a shit after it's all over. We don't care that they are routinely killed by poachers for bush meat. We don't care about their habitat or the things that we may all be doing that could potentially lessen their numbers.

Because we like clean narratives. We like a villain. And we like it when the villain isn't us.

It makes us feel so morally superior, too, doesn't it? We get to pretend that we simultaneously care a lot about our fellow primates (we don't, as a rule) and that we care more about the welfare of a child than his mother does (you're fucking kidding me, right?).

The thing I have noticed most in the responses among friends is how the most censorious and virulent responses have come from those who have no children. "Is it so difficult to keep an eye on your child?!" "If you can't take care of them, then you shouldn't have them!" Et cetera. Ok, friend. I mean, last week you were posting about how you had only eaten Fruity Pebbles and beer for three days because you couldn't find the will to make it to the grocery store, but if you think you're an expert on caring for other people, who am I to disagree?

Here's the deal: children are unwieldy. They are humans. They do unpredictable things. They have an independent will and at times will even plot to thwart their parents' best efforts at supervision.  I mean, I'm sure you never did that as a child, but many do.

If you have more than one of them, they get more unwieldy. You can find yourself distracted taking care of one only to find that another one has slipped your grasp. Older ones put younger ones up to dares. Younger ones are disbelieving of the dangers of which they are warned.

I can think of several examples in my own parenting, but the one that comes to mind was a couple years ago when the Goddess left me alone with the Monkey while she took the older kids out for a few hours. I fed him, bathed him, and played with him, then I let him crawl around while I sat on the couch and put on a movie. I was exhausted. I had a full day at work and I wanted to veg out for a bit.

I put up a safety gate going into the kitchen, because I didn't want him to get into anything. I put on the movie. The Monkey was playing around my feet and heard him go around the corner of the couch to an open area in the room, behind the sitting area. I did a quick mental check to make sure there was nothing for him to get into.

After a few minutes, I noticed he was being awfully quiet. I turned around. He was nowhere in sight. Panic shot through me.

I looked all over the room. Nothing. I looked under furniture. I called his name.

Then I heard him.

He was upstairs.

See, here's the thing: he had never climbed a single stair. I hadn't even considered putting a gate up at the foot of them. Yet in the space of about three minutes he had gone up a staircase of about twenty steps.

If you've read any of my blog, you will know my many parenting failures. We've had babies fall and hit their heads when they were left to be watched with siblings because mom had to pee. Hell, I had two babies playing with push pins last week when I turned my back for a few minutes. The Monkey was able to open a drawer that was heretofore too heavy for him and gave a handful to the Ape. We try to baby-proof everything, but it is nearly impossible, especially since the seven-year-old or eleven-year-old will leave things laying around.  Yesterday, the Monkey pinched the Ape, apropos to nothing.

That's the other thing, too. Watching one child is one task. Add another child and the difficulty doesn't just double. It increases exponentially.

I've heard stories from friends over the years that make your skin crawl as a parent. There was the pastor who enjoyed tossing his son on the couch and missed, breaking his arm. Then there was a music teacher I visited once who lost his newborn in the house because he was half delirious from sleep deprivation. There's the mom who dropped her month-old child because she tripped over a vacuum cleaner her toddler had overturned. My cousin ate a bottle of children's Tylenol when he was about three while my aunt was in the same room, unaware of what he had. I was hit by my twin sister with a 2x4 when I was about a year old and then took a tumble down some stairs on the same day.

We would like to pretend that the world is safer than it is. We would like to pretend that we are better parents than we are. We want to believe a simple narrative where bad people do bad things and that's all that's wrong with the world.

I'm not saying the mom doesn't shoulder some blame here, maybe even the lion's share. I'm not even saying she's a great parent. I don't know anything about her, apart from what's been reported in the media. What I do know is that she was taking her kids to the zoo, ostensibly not to feed them to the lions. Shitty parents don't typically plan trips to the zoo.

There's the other side to this, too, which is that if we accept the simple narrative, we do not have to worry about a complex problem.

We can demonize one mother, and yet be unwilling to have a conversation about the hundreds of accidental childhood deaths that have been caused by firearms in this country. (That is such a common occurrence that it doesn't even make national news. I can't ever recall seeing one of those parents decried in social media.) For that matter, thousands of western lowland gorillas have perished because of the behaviors of humans. There is little fury around this issue and I imagine the vocal social media vigilantes who seek justice for Harambe will find another source of outrage once this story has faded. (Cecil the Lion, anyone?)

Real problems tend toward complexity and real solutions are difficult. If we want to make the world better for children like mine, like yours, like the four-year-old who fell into the gorilla pit — and for the children of Harambe — then we need less moral indignation at mothers and more hard thinking from all of us.

The Fighter

I used to be religious. I'm not anymore, but it's something that's hard to shake. Religious imagery, paradigms, language, and stories creep into my thinking. Especially stories.

This week I am thinking about one of those. It's the parable of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd was out one day, taking his sheep to pasture. After returning them to the fold, he realized than one of the 100 sheep was missing. So he left the others and went to find the missing sheep, the Bible says, because he loved that sheep so much.

The Bible leaves out the part where the shepherd later makes a pie with the sheep's kidneys, but you get the point.

The last three days have been tough.

Wednesday evening was frenzied. I got home from work at about 5:30. I was looking forward to the evening. I had decided I would take Friday off from work and enjoy a long weekend. I was in a good mood. I wanted to get the kids in bed and play some music.

I helped finish the dinner the Goddess had started while she took the seven-year-old to gymnastics.  The eleven-year-old was outside playing with kids in the neighborhood. The Monkey had a complete meltdown the minute the Goddess left, crying, "Mommy! Mommy!" This, of course, set the Ape into a crying fit and the two of them were inconsolable for about 30 minutes. I was wrapping up dinner when there was a knocking at the door.

I opened it and it was my neighbor Crystal. This immediately set the Monkey crying again, as he thought it was his mother.

"You better get out here," Crystal said.

She explained that the eleven-year-old had been in a near-altercation with a group of older kids. Six of them. According to Crystal, there was an initial round, but as the older boys walked away, the eleven-year-old called after them, calling one of them a name and causing another loud argument.

I called for him and he came into the house. He was crying.

"What's wrong?"

"They were picking on me!" he screamed.

"What happened?"

"I was just standing there with my friend and they started making fun of the way I was standing. One of them called me the 'n' word."

Let me interject here that my child is very white. I'm confused about this part of the story. Maybe he's lying. Maybe the other kids, who were black, were using it in a way he didn't understand. But I believe him when he says they made fun of him. I'm guessing it was his blue hair though, not the way he was standing.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I called him a little bitch," he answered. Truthfully this time, I am sure.

"What can I do to help?"

"Go out there and shove them! Punch them in the face!" He was crying harder now, with that combination of unbridled rage and emotional pain that only adolescent boys know.

"I'm not going to punch any teenagers," I said. "I'll go talk to them. Go wait in your room."

I go out to the street. There is no sign of them. I ask a couple of adults standing around or sitting on their porches. One of them saw it. He chalked it up to boys being boys, but did note that there were six kids standing around the eleven-year-old, and that they were older.

I go to his room. I talk to him. I tell him I love him very, very much. I talk to him about controlling his actions and especially the things he says. I explain to him that personal insults don't actually hurt you, but besides that, there were six of them and one of him.

"But you wanted to fight a guy who said something to Mom," he said.

"That's true." Fucking kids. Always paying attention and making connections when you wish they wouldn't. "But I don't fight people who insult me. I don't give a shit what people who are less than me think of me, and I don't want to make our lives tougher. You can go to jail for that, then how could I take care of you guys?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you say something back to the kid?"

"Because he humiliated me!" he screamed, as if answering the most stupidly obvious question that had ever been asked.

"There were six of them and one of you. You would have gotten your ass kicked. Which is worse, getting your ass kicked or being humiliated?"

"Being humiliated," he answered, not missing a beat.

That's exactly what it is like to be an eleven-year-old boy. There is nothing, literally, that you fear more than losing face. You are so driven by your hormones and everything is so confusing. I have not forgotten what that feels like.

I talked to him some more about learning to let things go. The rest of us ate dinner while he sat in his room. He wasn't hungry. I cleaned the kitchen while the Goddess got the younger ones to bed. I stayed up late and played some music.

Thursday I was running on no sleep, but the day started well. I was on the road for work, making sales calls. Then I got a call from the Goddess. Her car wasn't starting. Seemed the battery was dead. I was an hour away.

I drove to where she was and tried to jump the car. Nothing. She called AAA and they said they would be there in about 90 minutes. I was going to have to go off the clock for all of this, though my boss didn't complain that I was using the company vehicle. I called into work.

"Just take me off the clock. I was going to take tomorrow off anyway. I'll take this afternoon as well."

The Goddess and I went to a restaurant there to wait on AAA. We talked. Mostly about the eleven-year-old. She was excited. That morning she had an appointment with a local private school. Montessori. It's just what he needs, she said. They will give him more attention, they can personalize things with him, he will have more hands-on experience. This will be a game-changer for him. And she thought we could do it, since she would be working full-time then.

The wrecker showed up. It was the battery. It was just too dead to take a charge from a jumper cable. He charged it for us. The Goddess went to get a battery. I went home.

The eleven-year-old was already home from school. I talked to him while we sat on the couch, but he was mostly engrossed in YouTube videos.

The Goddess came home, with the rest of the kids, and I asked if she minded if I took a nap. I was exhausted.

When I awoke, the Goddess had come into the bedroom. She wanted to talk about a budget. She didn't think we could afford the Montessori school. The conversation moved into the kitchen. I washed dishes while we talked about all the money we spent. It turned into an argument.

I am a very direct communicator. The Goddess is not. She thinks I lack empathy when we talk. I think she lacks clarity.

Fuck. Why are we doing this? Why do people who love each other get in these battles when they are trying to work on the same problems?

We go through a half dozen scenarios, ways we can save money, ways we can make money, alternatives to the private school, etc. We talk for about two hours.

The eleven-year-old comes to the kitchen. He's hungry. He eats a bowl of cereal and we talk to him. I talk to him about the way he speaks to his younger sister. I tell him he needs to not antagonize her. He is sullen.

I worry that we are losing him. Like the lost sheep in the story. 

I want so badly for him to turn into a happy young man. I want him to enjoy his life and succeed in the things he does. But he is starting to disconnect.

It's heart-wrenching, too, because I know how we could fix it. We just can't.

If he was the only child, we could give him the attention he needs. We could sit with him every night and read just to him. We could talk about school projects and play together and devote ourselves to him.

But he's not the only child here. And when you add all the financial stress we've been having, it makes it even more difficult.

I feel like a failure.

But we're going to do this better. For starters, we are going to send him to the Montessori school next year. I'm not sure how at this point, but we're going to.

Friday (today), was his last day of school before summer break. We are having a long weekend, then he visits the Montessori school on Tuesday. The Goddess just wanted to let him miss the very last day.

I try to sleep in, which means I'm wide awake at 6:00 A.M. It's my day off. I cuddle in bed with the Monkey. The Goddess gets the older kids off to school. We talk about plans for the day and for the weekend. It's nice to relax.

The Goddess gets a call at about 10:30. It's the school. There's been a fight.

At first, I'm really angry. His last fucking day. Why couldn't he just go one more day without getting into a fight?

My anger is dissipated when I realize that I wasn't watching the babies close enough and the Monkey has managed to open a very large drawer full of office supplies (a drawer he has heretofore ignored), dumped them all out, and covered a lot them in spilt chocolate milk. He and the Ape are sitting in the midst of the destruction, playing with push pins.

Dad of the Year there, folks.

It takes about thirty minutes to clean up.

The Goddess texts me. The counselor had given the account. A boy pushed him into his locker. He pushed the boy back. The boy started choking him. He hit the boy in the head with his iPad. The boy's friend jumped in and they pushed him down the stairs. One of the eleven-year-old's friends stepped in a broke it up. She was taking him to get a milkshake now.

Then I'm angry all over again, but with a different focus. Where were the fucking teachers? This happened at a locker and there were no teachers around? He gets pushed down stairs and no one is there to even witness it?

I hate this school. It's where poor kids go and no one gives a shit how they do or what happens to them.

They get home. He's quiet, drinking his milkshake. After a few minutes, he goes to his room.

It's a hard life for an eleven-year-old boy. Sometimes it's hard because your brain stops working and your body does things you don't understand. Sometimes it's hard because it takes every bit of your power to just not fucking cry after someone humiliates you at school. And sometimes you get pushed down a flight of stairs.

He's okay now. He wasn't seriously injured.

I've never been this happy to see summer arrive.

A Crystallizing Moment

I don't really believe in God or fate or karma or anything like that. And I usually get pretty annoyed when people speak of the "Universe" personally, as in, "The Universe knew I needed this today."

But sometimes it does seem the Universe is speaking, if we would only listen. Maybe it always is and life just sometimes opens up in ways that make it speak louder.

This weekend was one of those times in my life.

I had a couple of gigs with my band, the Terribly Fat. They went exceptionally well. We have a new guitarist and he's only done a few shows, so it was cool to see him start to get more comfortable in his role. We had good crowds Friday and Saturday, too. Saturday's show was a hometown event at the bar where the band got its start years ago. We hadn't played there in a year, so it was a big deal for us. Lots of old and new friends were there and the Goddess took the kids to Granny S so that we could have a night out together. We even gave the palace a good cleaning, because we were expecting a friend from out of town to stay with us, though she wasn't able to come to the show.

Things went really well and it was good to see the Goddess out like that, reprising her role as my wild girlfriend instead of just "mommy." Drinks were had. Much revelry was made.

Things went really well. Until they didn't.

It's a "developing situation" as they say on the news, so I will refrain from my usual practice of rehashing all the details. The short version is that there was some sort of discussion between the Goddess and some other women which ended with a male friend of mine publicly insulting the Goddess.

People talk about "crystallizing moments." This was one for me.

A few things became extremely clear in a flash. There were suddenly some "bright lines" for me where before it had only been vague abstraction.

The first thing that became clear for me in that instant was that there would never be a time when I am okay with someone insulting my wife.

Now, that seems pretty obvious. But I'd never had that brought into such focus for me.

The Goddess felt pretty miserable for many hours afterward, even crying inconsolably for a couple of hours. At least one (maybe two) other women stuck up for the guy about what had happened leading up to that moment.

But here's the thing: there is no "side of the story" you could possibly share that ends with, "And then he insulted your wife," where I would go, "Oh, okay. That's fine then."

My friend never apologized. To me, that's unthinkable. Or rather, it's unthinkable if you want to remain my friend. Instead, he's sought to justify his actions to others, trying to paint the Goddess as the bad person in this exchange. He just doesn't get it.

In my mind, any decent human being would apologize for what he said, then explain what led to it. That never even occurred to this guy.

The second thing that became instantly clear to me was that there is nothing more important to me than my family.

Again, this is something that I've known for a long time, but it became so perfectly obvious in an instant.

I realized with concrete fullness that there is nothing I will put ahead of my family: not my career, not money, not playing in a band, and not another's friendship. In a single moment, I realized I would give up anything for them.

My friendship with this man evaporated just that quickly. It was instantly not just less important, but less than worthless, even odious to me. I was sickened by the idea that I had been friends with someone like him.

Thankfully, that situation doesn't present itself very often. The Goddess is involved with her own interests, I am with mine, the kids with theirs, and we make it work. It really took someone outside our circle to force this issue in my mind.

Things are a mess right now. There is "drama" and turmoil between several friends and former friends. The outcome is up in the air and there will probably be some additional fallout.

But we picked up the kids from Granny S and came back to Crackerbox Palace on Sunday evening. The eleven-year-old asked the Goddess to cut his hair and then changed into a Spider-Man costume. The seven-year-old played Minecraft. Monkey and Ape ate apples and crackers and Dum-Dums before playing with trains and blocks in the dining room and living area. At one point the Monkey sat and fed me from a can of mixed nuts. In the space of about one hour, our recently-spotless home was transformed into lightly-controlled chaos.

But I wouldn't exchange it for the world.