“Four-Year-Old Wiffleball Sign-Ups”

There’s a league for 4-year-olds that starts in April and runs to the end of May. Every Saturday Will is going to play Wiffleball with a bunch of other kids and learn the fundamentals of the game. Well, technically he’ll be perfecting the fundamentals since I’ve been teaching him to swing a bat and throw a baseball since he was about a week old. But I digress.

On the surface this seems totally innocuous and very much a win-win. Will gets to be active, play with other kids and learn about a sport all at the same time. And it’ll be valuable bonding time with him as we practice and get to be together doing something we both love. All of that is true. On paper this should be a very fun, laid back time during which I can take pictures and talk with other parents and delight in watching my son scamper playfully around the baseball diamond.

But I don’t think that’s how it’s going down.

To understand what I’m talking about, you need to know a few things about me. First of all, I’m a perfectionist. Not regarding everything in my life, but certainly regarding sports. And second, I’m a huge crybaby when things don’t go perfectly. Which is often.

When I started playing baseball at the age of 5 I showed promise very early. I had a great arm and I could hit. My first coach was a friend of my dad’s, a born and bred New Jersey guy named Bill. He was a really good guy underneath his gruff exterior, but he was also a miserable prick. He knew I was good so he held me to a higher standard. While other kids were being praised for their attempts to catch the ball, I was criticized even when I did catch it for not using the right fundamentals. Or if I didn’t hit the cutoff man fast enough. Or if I legged out an infield single he’d poke fun at me for not hitting it in the outfield.

Ultimately he made me better, but I carried lofty expectations with me when I advanced to the next leagues for older kids. And that’s when it got really bad.

I made the all-star team when I was 9 years old. We had a really great team and a lot of awesome players in our age group, and we’d play together every summer for the next four years. Our coaches really knew what they were talking about and I learned more than I ever imagined about baseball in that time. But they expected a lot. I mean it. A lot. For instance, when we were 10, I remember we lost a game to our rival, Franklin. And after the game they told us we let ourselves down, our parents down and disappointed the entire town. I was crushed and in tears. And I vowed to never let anyone down again.

As you already know, that’s impossible. But combine that need to please with a perfectionist’s attitude and you got me as a kid. The kid who cried when he struck out. The kid who cried and threw a temper-tantrum when he didn’t make a play in the field. The kid who—and I’m not making this up—cried after hitting a double off the fence because it wasn’t a homerun. And of course, the kid who nearly had a mental breakdown if we lost the game. Let’s just say there are plenty of pictures of me with my team holding second place trophies and crying hysterically.

A neurotic, hyper-competitive, perfectionist crybaby. Those were some good times.

But for better or worse, I’ve carried that with me even to now. While my athletic days have long since passed me by, that attitude resurfaces in even the most mundane of endeavors. For example, MJ will no longer go bowling with me. When we were dating, she was beating me in the 8th frame and I was so pissed off I started kicking the ball return. And those of you who have watched Patriots and Red Sox games with me can probably attest to the fact that I am, well…not exactly a sane person when things start to go south.

Even with Will I’ve seen the competitiveness flare up. I eagle-eye his milestones and make sure he’s ahead of the curve. I compare him relentlessly to other kids his age and older, and get legitimately upset if they can do things he can’t. Hell, his recent progress report from preschool showed him to be advanced in every category except letters. He’s average in letters. This struck such fear into me that I’m now going to work more on letters with him every single night until he’s reading Stephen King books.

Which brings us to wiffleball.

When I found out I had a son my first thoughts were of teaching him sports. Unfortunately, I fear I will be “that sports parent.” The one everyone hates. The one who takes a kids’ game way too seriously. The one whose son goes 3 for 5 and then criticizes him for striking out in the third inning. And God forbid Will is average or even below average at sports. I’m not sure I can handle that.

I was raised with high standards, with sports and even grades. While everyone else had the traditional grading system, mine was different. An A was good, a B was a C and a C was failing. I still remember my dad asking me why my A- couldn’t have been an A. And I don’t fault him for that, it kept me on my toes and made me work hard. But I also remember it feeling like an intense amount of pressure.

I don’t want to be That Sports Parent. I really don’t. But I think it might be inevitable. Thankfully MJ will disembowel me if I get too out of hand, so it’s nice that I have her to correct me. Yet even if I’m not expressing it, I’ll be thinking it. I already have visions of Will as the star catcher hitting the game-winning homer to take the state title. Yes, I absolutely intend to live out my dreams of unfulfilled athletic glory through my son. And yes, I’m also aware of how pathetic and unfair that is.

But I think Will is going to ultimately thank me during his Cooperstown acceptance speech. The road to the Hall of Fame starts with Wiffleball!

“Dada, I don’t want you to go back to work. I want you to be here with me.”

That’s what Will said to me last week in the middle of a rare 11-day vacation during which I got to spend a bunch of time with him. It was really fun being there when he wakes up in the morning, cuddling with him, sleeping in and then watching movies and playing games all day. For more than a week we didn’t have a care in the world as we went out to breakfast, took the train into Boston and had ourselves a great time.

But justifiably, a 3.5-year-old’s mind wants to know why it can’t be like that all the time.

“I miss you Dada, you never take me anywhere.”

Nothing pulls at a working parent’s heartstrings like the feeling you’re not spending enough time with your kids. And with my extended commute and long hours of late, I certainly fall into that camp. So while I was on vacation I tried to make up for lost time. We visited relatives, saw Disney on Ice and took far too many trips to Friendly’s for ice cream sundaes.

But he continued to basically tell me he felt neglected and that we don’t do enough.

I was really stressing about it and feeling like a dick. Meanwhile MJ just stood there with a smirk on her face, wearing the all-too-familiar look that tells me she knows something I don’t. As you can imagine, it’s a look I’m well accustomed to at this point. When I asked her what her deal was, she hit me with something completely unexpected.

“He’s playing you,” she said.

What? My sweet boy? My angelic little man?? No way. No friggin way. The kid missed me. He missed his dad and he’s craving some father/son time. I promptly told my wife she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, because I know my son and I’d be able to tell if he’s screwing with me.

Then I marched into Will’s room with my chest puffed out and decided I was going to make a late bid for Best Father Ever. I asked him if he wanted to go to the library, one of his favorite places. He said no. I offered to take him to the playground. He declined. I told him we could go for a walk. No dice. Disappointed but undaunted, I asked him what I could do for him to make him happy and feel loved.

“Can you take me to the toy store and buy me a toy?”

Honestly, I would’ve. But I couldn’t because I was financially tapped from buying Christmas presents and paying bills, and I wasn’t getting paid til the next week. So I told Will I couldn’t take him right now because I didn’t have the money.

“Oh,” he said with a look of contempt. “Then you should go back to work so they can pay you and you can buy me a toy.”

Dammit.

It’s a simple book that names a bunch of animals & what they’re doing. Will can’t read yet, but it doesn’t matter because he knows it by heart. He reads it to me, word for word, every night before bed. “I see a red fox slipping by me” and “I see a prairie dog digging by me.” One by one he ticks them off with precision and accuracy as he rubs his eyes and tries to fight off the sleep quickly coming for him.

“I see a blue heron flying by me” and “I see a mule deer kicking by me.”

He doesn’t like some of the real text though, so he substitutes his own words. The rattlesnake doesn’t slither, it rattles. And the mountain doesn’t climb, he goes up the mountain. Apparently creative license and editorial ambiguity is genetic.

As we get towards the end I smile. My favorite part is coming up soon.

Will gets to the page with a picture of the mama bear. The line is supposed to read “Mama Bear, Mama Bear, what do you see? I see a—” and then you’re supposed to turn the page. But Will like to ad-lib. He says “I see a Mama Bear looking for her baby because she loves and misses him.” Then he curls into me and smiles. Our favorite part is next.

The next page consists of small pictures of every animal featured in the book. I point to each of them and Will rattles them off like clockwork. Red fox, blue heron, mountain goat, prairie dog, mule deer, flying squirrel, screech owls and—of course—the baby bear. After naming them all, Will pauses and smirks at me. The last line is supposed to read “That’s what I see.” But Will, in the cutest voice imaginable, ad-libs the final line.

“All wild animals are free.”

I don’t know why I get such a kick out of that, but it makes my day. And it’s proof that the best and most memorable part of having kids is the stuff that’s woven into the mundane fabric of our daily lives. While a part of me can’t wait to read the Hardy Boys & eventually the Harry Potter series with Will, I’m going to miss Baby Bear when he finally gets sick of it.

“Thanks for reading to me Dad,” he says. Can you believe that? He’s thanking me!

Even before Will was born I wondered what he’d look like, how he’d act as a toddler, taking him to Fenway & Gillette for the first time and how he’d act as a precocious teenager. But then I stopped because I remembered my own teen years and the mere thought of being on the other end of that hot mess scared the holy hell out of me.

So I decided in that moment to write a letter to future Will, eight years from now on his 12th birthday, which I’ll keep and hopefully read in the future when I’m ready to tear my hair out. Here goes:
To my oldest son William on his 12th birthday.

Dear Will,
It seems impossible to me that in one more year you’ll be a teenager.
You are so big now, and every year I get more and more proud of you.

I wanted to write you this letter because maybe I can explain
what I want to say in writing better than I can in person.
As you get older, the pressures on you will get tougher and tougher.
You will have to make important decisions almost everyday,
decisions which will affect your life forever. Decisions like
“Should I try smoking cigarettes?” “Should I try any drugs?”
“Should I drink beer or alcohol?” and “Should I have sex with anyone?”|

You are also going to have feelings or desires to do things, or ideas
that you’ll think about that you think makes you weird. What you won’t realize
is that everyone is weird—just being you is what’s important.

Growing up is hard on a kid—I know. And it helps a lot to have parents
you can talk to, who will listen and not make fun of what you think.
Your mother has always been a great parent. She listens and understands.
I’ve always been too busy or impatient to really listen to you, and I know
you think I’m an old fart who doesn’t understand.

But the truth is, as you grow up Will, I’m growing up as a father.
Now I know it’s more important to listen than to yell.
I can remember how hard it was being 12 and I want to be there to help you.
It’s important to have a father at home to talk to about stupid things like girls,
or being embarrassed about something, or to ask if this ever happened to him.

As great as your mom is, some things you want to discuss with your dad.
I want you to know that I will try to be a listener, not a lecturer.
I will try and help you help yourself, not tell you what to do.

I know I haven’t done a great job so far, but I hope
you’ll give me a chance and trust me. I won’t let you down.
I love you,
Dad

Cool letter huh? Wanna know something even cooler? This is the exact letter my own father wrote to me 20 years ago when I turned 12.

Call this one of the perks of moving back home at 32—you find funny stuff from decades ago. But the silver lining is I’m once again reminded I never had to look beyond my own two parents to learn how to be a good one myself.

Parenting is tough work no matter what. Whether you’re at home planning arts & crafts and doing all the cooking, cleaning and childcare, or rushing home to parent after punching the clock following a full day at the office, we all work hard and face uphill battles. Stay-at-home parents (and I know and love a ton of them) often sacrifice their careers to make sure they can raise their kids right. It’s tough going days without adult contact and dealing with some ignorant people who look down their nose at you because you’re not working 9 to 5 (this is especially true for stay-at-home dads). I’m not sure I could hack it and that’s why I praise all the men and women who choose this route.

But one of the perks of being a stay-at-home parent is exactly what I just mentioned: praise.

Moms who choose to stay at home have long been looked at as heroes. They call it “the toughest yet most rewarding job in the world,” and bloggers fill up virtual tomes with flowery prose about how much work stay-at-home parents do, how it’s non-stop, how they’re under-appreciated, how they make the world go ’round, etc. And even stay-at-home dads—although fairly new on the scene—are now escaping the initial public backlash to their new roles. Public sentiment is shifting in their favor as more men than ever are staying at home with their kids, and these dads are rightfully being celebrated for their contributions on the home front.

But let’s face it, there are certain perks to staying at home.

First of all, there’s no commute. Second, you’re working from home in a non-office environment. And while I totally get how watching Caillou for the billionth time or dealing with a screaming child(ren) can be super annoying, the fact is you’re still watching TV and playing with your kids. Kids who (probably) take naps during the day, allowing you to either catch up on other chores in peace or take a nap yourself. You can leave the TV on, play the radio loud and spend all day in your PJs if that’s what you want. This isn’t me calling stay-at-home parents lazy—not by a longshot. It’s just the truth of the matter.

But working parents don’t have that luxury. My commute isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it still takes up anywhere from 2-3 hours a day. I leave before the sun comes up and get home long after dark. And in between those two occurrences, I’m at the office. I’m dealing with bosses, deadlines, trying to get promoted, trying to make more money and constantly under enormous pressure to produce. Not to mention the pressure that comes with being the primary breadwinner and knowing that if I slip up at work and lose my job, we’re totally screwed.

Then, when I come home, I have anywhere from 60-90 minutes to play with my son. Talk to him about his day, play dinosaurs with him, give him a bath, read him some books and put him to bed.

But guess what? Just because I’m home doesn’t mean I’ve stopped working.

Smartphones and the Internet have created less of a Work-Life Balance and more of a Work-Life Blend. Essentially what that means is to be successful in this day and age, you can’t just check out after 5 p.m. Emails follow me on my phone, my social media responsibilities pop up via Twitter and Facebook notifications as I put out fires and respond to customers in real-time and I take occasional work calls late into the night. All while trying to remain as involved a dad as I can and retain some semblance of being a husband.

The real beauty of being a stay-at-home parent, at least in my opinion, is being able to totally give yourself over to the task at hand. Those who stay at home are doing great work and they throw themselves into it. I know full well the stay-at-home parents in my life give 110% and are absolutely terrific.

But compare that to working parents. We’re still giving 110%, but it’s split between work and home. But you know what happens when you give 55% at work and 55% at home? You constantly feel like you’re not doing enough in either role and you’re perpetually torn between the two. While stay-at-home parents can say with complete certainty they’ve devoted themselves to their kids, working parents are in limbo. They have to work to bring in money so their spouse can afford to stay at home, but they can’t work so much that they become strangers to their families. But the line between work and home is constantly shifting or being redrawn in the sand.

Meanwhile, how many times have you read an article calling for working parents (usually it’s aimed at dads) to spend less time at the office and more time at home? To create more of a work-life balance? To come home after work and immediately go into father/husband mode, taking over chores and childcare duties for the mom who has been at home with the kid(s) all day? I’ve read countless pieces calling for working dads to do all these things, lest they be thought of as slackers compared to stay-at-home moms.

But why doesn’t anyone suggest these stay-at-home parents go work part-time jobs and contribute financially once they’re done taking care of the kids for the day?

That clicking noise you just heard was the collective sound of stay-at-home parents everywhere cocking their proverbial guns in preparation for my execution. I know no one is supposed to say anything that even remotely criticizes stay-at-home parents (especially moms), and that’s really not my intention. I understand every family situation is different and no two circumstances are ever the same. I get it. Decisions to work or stay at home are most often a joint decision based on what’s best for the particular family in question. And I’m not knocking that decision either way.

But it just really irks me how stay-at-home parents are afforded sanctuary from criticism and are seemingly beyond reproach, while working parents are automatically expected to simply suck it up and pull double duty.

Stay-at-home parents are celebrated for their devotion and self-sacrifice. And if those parents do decide to enter the workforce, they’re celebrated again. Moms especially, as more and more studies show women have a stronger desire to take on more responsibility as they become breadwinners. And while dads who decide to be full-time stay-at-home parents certainly face some discrimination and snide looks, the tide is turning and public sentiment is in their favor. They’re being rightfully praised as progressive and involved.

But when it comes to working parents (again, I’m focusing mainly on dads here), I read articles like this one that bash working dads who come home and don’t immediately do the laundry, the dishes and mop the floors after a full day at the office. They even advocate women withholding sex as punishment for not helping out. You know, because sex between married people should totally be used as a weapon.

Then there’s statistics like this one from Salary.com (where I work full-time as a content manager for full disclosure), in which 2,000 people were surveyed. While 2/3 of all men said they’d be willing to support a stay-at-home parent, only 35% of women said the same for men. And nearly 1/3 of all women said they would flat out refuse to support a stay-at-home husband.

Talk about your mixed messages. Some people are saying we’re working too much, yet the age-old pressure to be the breadwinner and provider is still very much in effect.

And while being with my son is my top priority when I get home from work at 6:30 p.m. before his 8 p.m. bedtime, the dishes are not. The laundry is not. Vacuuming is not. Because you know what? If you’re a stay-at-home parent that stuff should be mostly done already. Yeah, I said it. And I don’t feel bad about it one bit. When you choose to be a stay-at-home parent you’re committing to taking on the bulk of childcare duties and household duties. The cooking and the cleaning. Case in point, MJ is out of work right now and stays at home while going to school once a week. Assuming she didn’t have anything out of the ordinary going on, should I expect her to have dinner prepared, the laundry done and have the house in order? Hell yes! Why shouldn’t I? I’m not talking about sparkling floors or building an addition on the house mind you, but stay-at-home parents should absolutely be taking care of household duties.

Working parents should pitch in and do their part, no question. But if a working parent is expected to earn 100% of the money, why is it out of line to expect the stay-at-home parent to do 100% of household duties? It’s the very definition of a double standard, but no one ever addresses it because it’s not politically correct.

And before you get on me, it would be the same for me if I was at home and she was working. This isn’t about gender, it’s about a division of labor and responsibility. I just find it highly questionable that working parents are fully expected to come home and “relieve” the stay-at-home parent, but if you suggest to the stay-at-home parent he/she should find a part-time, paying job at night, you’re suddenly an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense.

The point of this post is not to cause further division between the two sects or diminish in any way what stay-at-home parents do. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, my wife is now (at least for the time being) a stay-at-home mom and I’ve connected with so many wonderful men and women who have chosen this route. You all work hard and your efforts are unbelievably appreciated.

But my point is I’d like to see a little more love for working parents. Instead of telling us we don’t do enough, how about the media and the blogosphere thanks us for the contributions we are making. The money, the security and providing the opportunity for one parent to be home in the first place. Working parents are feeling the squeeze both at the office and at home, stressing themselves out at the thought of having one foot in each world at all times and worrying we’re not doing either to the fullest extent.

Anyone who can walk that tightrope is just as worthy of being celebrated as the esteemed stay-at-home folks.