“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.

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.

I envy him because he and his wife were the first ones in our group of friends to have a kid.

Think about it. When you tell people you’re having a baby the first thing they do is congratulate you. And that lasts for all of 2 minutes before the ones who are already parents start subjecting you to their own parenting experiences, unwelcome advice and even horror stories. She’s not even showing yet, but people are telling you what baby furniture you need, warning against BPA bottles and telling chilling tales of delivery room horror stories.

So what does this have to do with the price of asparagus?

I’m finally allowed to relate some good news I’ve known for awhile but couldn’t share. My brother Nate and his wife Melissa are having a baby. Which means I’M GONNA BE AN UNCLE!!!!!! An uncle to a little girl due in mid to late March. And I couldn’t be happier, both for them and for me. Spoiling a little girl is going to be so much fun. Almost as fun as watching my brother squirm when we talk about his teenage daughter dating in the future.

Back to my original point, I found myself falling into the trap of dispensing unwanted advice. “I’d go with this crib” and “I’d use Nestle formula over Similac.” I mean hell, my poor brother is already bombarded with all my bullshit since he set up this blog and has helped me with it from the beginning. And there I was spouting off even more.

It’s like when a new movie comes out and everyone is raving about it. “Have you seen it yet? No?? OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod…YOU HAVE TO SEE IT! Now. Right now! Go Go Go Go!!! It’s the BEST. MOVIE. EVER!” For days, weeks and months you hear this about the movie. There’s this massive buildup and hype surrounding it, yet you find yourself staying away. Even when you go to the theater you see something else.

The funny thing is you were actually pretty excited about seeing it before it came out, but then everyone started talking about it incessantly. And even though it might be a good movie, you can’t see it now. Because everybody’s yapping has ruined it and there’s no way it can possibly live up to all the hype. It’s why I personally haven’t seen Star Wars, It’s a Wonderful Life and Casablanca.

Pregnancy is a fun, weird, trying and wonderful time. Sure it’s worthwhile to buy a few books and read up on what to expect, but it’s also fun to experience the unexpected. To ignore all the hype and just experience things for yourself without it being ruined by the ruminations of the grizzled veterans of the parenting trenches.

Congratulations Nate and Melissa. I promise to love that little girl with every ounce of my being, raise her a Boston sports fan and shut my mouth until she’s born!

Maybe I’d feel more like a failure for writing that last sentence if my parents weren’t a thousand shades of awesome. Honestly. I’m not just saying that because they’re my new landlords roommates. I’m basically a younger, better looking, more talented version of my father so living with him is like living with a slightly less cooler version of myself. And since I know I’m awesome, that’s pretty great. And my mom is just about the most loving, caring, compassionate person I know. They love us, they love Will and I think this will be a great few months while we save up first, last and security to find a new place of our own.

But…

Of course there’s a but. You can’t suddenly move back in with your parents after more than a decade and not have a but or two.

I’m sure you’ve all seen or heard of A&E’s TV show Hoarders. People who feel the need to collect everything in their homes and never, EVER throw anything away. Now before I go any further, I want to say I understand this is a serious condition. Also, my mom is not a hoarder. Well, she’s not a full-fledged hoarder. I guess you could say she hoards as a hobby.

Exhibit A is the picture to the right. Those are nutcrackers on top of the piano. Hundreds of them. Those creepy bastards freak me right the fuck out. I’d love to get rid of even half of them but my mom isn’t having it.

And my new sister-in-law Melissa can tell you about Exhibit B. It was last Thanksgiving and she was cooking something that needed nutmeg. My mom—who is a good cook but doesn’t cook often—pointed her towards the spice rack and all was well. Or so we thought.

I’ll never forget the look on Melissa’s face as she told us the nutmeg might be a little out of date. How out of date you ask? The expiration was October…1981!!

But with three of us moving in with all of our stuff, the real problem is in the basement. My friends can tell you the horror stories about the basement. We cleaned it out about 15 years ago. It took a dozen people a full weekend and we filled up two industrial sized dumpsters. There was that much crap down there. But the hard part isn’t the work itself, its the differing manners in which the members of my family feel it should be dealt with.

My dad and I are eager to clean it out. And just so we’re clear, our version of “clean it out” translates into “throw EVERYTHING away.” But the mere thought of filling up a dumpster with bags of stuff that have been collecting dust for 20 years is just too much to bear for my mom.

Fifteen years ago it was hell. Each person who came up the stairs with a bag of trash had to let my mom inspect it before it was thrown away. And what looked like a bag of shit to me was anything but to my mom. She somehow found sentimental meaning in every single piece of crap we lugged out of that basement. That was my first backpack on my first day of school, that’s the blanket my brother threw up on in first grade, that’s my first-grade report card. My poor mother was in tears trying to catch everything while we attempted to find ways to sneak it past her so we could finish the job.

Fast forward 15 years and not much had changed. The basement is still a mess, my dad and I still want to throw everything away and my mom wants to hold onto everything. Case in point:

I saw an old headboard that doesn’t fit on any bed, so I had the crazy notion it was trash. Not so said my mom. When I asked her why she would possibly want to keep it, she inexplicably started crying and said “Don’t you realize there are children with no place to sleep??” I not-so-calmly pointed out that it was a headboard, not a bed, and the children would be mighty uncomfortable sleeping on it.

Then we found some really old textbooks and I went to throw those out. But my mom’s Spidey senses started tingling and she came over to stop me in my tracks. When I told her they were headed for the trash bin, she turned on the tears again.

“Why not donate them to a library? You should never throw away a book!”

These books were more than 10 years old. One was a marketing book which referred to the Internet as “an upcoming and exciting technological advancement.” They eventually got thrown out, but not without some hurt feelings. And of course, more tears.

If you’re keeping score at home, that’s tears over a headboard and antiquated textbooks. Not a good start.

But the kicker was my mom’s “donation pile.” She had us put a bunch of things in a pile at the end of the driveway. An old kitchen table, chairs, a desk, two bags of clothes and some other odds and ends. First my mom said the Boys & Girls Club was coming to get it. Then, halfway through Sunday, that was switched to the Epilepsy Foundation. My father expressed his concern that my mom hadn’t properly checked with them to make sure they would take everything, and we’d end up with a pile of shit that sits there for months. My mom said she had it taken care of. They were due to pick everything up Monday, and for all of our sanity I hoped it would go smoothly because my parents fight and bicker like—well, an old married couple.

When I got home from work it was still there. Or so we thought. Upon closer inspection, they actually did come. But they only took two bags of clothes and, just as my dad said, left the rest. A spirited discussion ensued. My dad saying he was right, my mom refusing to admit she was wrong and me feeling like nothing has changed since I was a kid.

In a weird way, it was the perfect welcome home.

***Edit: Little Leah passed away early on July 26 with her loving family by her side. Our thoughts are with her family. The world will miss you Leah, but thank you for leaving your mark of happiness, bravery and strength.***

Many a night has been spent by my son’s bedside, just watching him breathe.

All you parents have probably done the same thing. You’ve had a rough day and nothing seems to relax you. Work is crazy, you don’t see your family enough, the bank is sending foreclosure letters…whatever the case may be you feel like the walls are closing in quickly. So you quietly sneak into your kid’s bedroom late at night. You sit on the floor, put your hand on his/her chest and just watch.

Will’s rhythmic breathing never ceases to calm me down and make me smile. Watching his chest rise and fall and the look of complete serenity on his face is the most soothing thing I can think of on this planet. I’ve spent many hours by his bedside gazing adoringly at him and thanking my lucky stars I have him. I’m sure many parents are in the same boat.

But what if you went to your child’s room like usual, opened the door expecting to find a slumbering kid, only to find an empty bed?

What do you do when death comes for your little one?

It’s a question I mercifully have no experience with. But despite how unnatural and incomprehensible the death of a child is, it does happen. It happens everyday all over the world. It’s happening in my world as we speak, as 5-year-old Leah fights a prognosis that…well, it doesn’t look good.

Leah is the daughter of Rhiannon and Peter. I went to middle and high school with Rhiannon,  and my family has bought our groceries from Peter and his family for years. Although we lost contact after high school, we found each other on Facebook and that’s where I learned about Leah. I’ve been following their story—filled with excruciating ups and downs—since March. I wish I could tell you the story is shaping up for a happy ending, but as Peter and Rhiannon have so eloquently written to all of Leah’s supporters, the odds aren’t good. At all.

According to her dad:

“We started a treatment that is currently being used in a study in Austria. Leah has Neoplastic Meningitis. It’s deadly and chances of her survival are slim. Unfortunately that is our brutal reality. Still wish I would wake up from this nightmare.”

I looked up Neoplastic Meningitis on the Internet. I shivered when I read the results. Not that anyone should be trusting completely in information from the Internet, but if it’s any indication she has anywhere from 1-4 months. A fact that doesn’t even compute in my head because it’s so ridiculously incomprehensible.

I’m not a joiner or a do-gooder. Actually, I’m more of a selfish prick. But from the first time I saw Leah’s picture her story has captivated me and pierced me to the core. Perhaps because when you become a parent, you know how precious your kids are and you learn to love on a whole new plane you didn’t even realize existed. You join this unofficial club. And even though I hadn’t met her, it didn’t matter. Because all I had to do was look at Will and imagine what it would be like to have him taken from me. I have a panic attack every time I even consider it.

Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with aggressive brain tumors, there’s not much that can be done from an outsider’s perspective. All I could do was write about Leah, do my best to get them some play in the media to raise money for her treatments and bring them dinner. Although that was probably more of a punishment than assistance because I cooked it myself. Sorry guys.

I was so nervous going over there. But Rhiannon answered the door with the same beautiful and reassuring smile I remembered from high school. I got to meet Peter too, who I immediately identified as a kindred spirit when we started talking about atheism and how no “God” would ever be so cruel as to give an innocent 5-year-old girl such an insidious and deadly disease. Without a word, their son Lukas started playing with Will knocking balloons around the house.

And then there was Leah.

I actually didn’t get to meet her because she was asleep. When I walked into the house the first thing I saw was all the medications. It didn’t seem possible one person could possibly take them all, nevermind a little girl. Leah was curled up on the couch, taking a well-deserved nap. When I walked over to her my heart sank. She was so small and looked incredibly frail. She had lost her hair from the chemo and her thin face belied all the hearty smiles I had seen in so many pictures.

As soon as the tears started welling up I pushed them back down. Because the amazing thing about Peter and Rhiannon is their strength and grace. They have openly shared their ordeal with everyone, displaying class and grace the whole way. It’s been nothing short of astounding. So if they weren’t crying, I sure as shit had no right to get all weepy. Especially right there in their house.

Out in the car afterwards? Well that’s a whole other story.

The thing is, I thought about Leah napping and how they can go over and check on her and sit there and play with her hair. I thought about how I do the same with Will. But as Peter and Rhiannon bravely admit, the odds are they won’t have that option for much longer. Don’t get me wrong, they’re all fighting with everything they have and they’ll never give up. Ever. But they’re also intelligent and realistic. They’ve listened to their doctors and done their homework.

They’re preparing for what seems to be the inevitable. They’re thinking about the unthinkable. They’re unhappily beginning to embrace the notion of walking into that bedroom only to find it empty.

There are no words that can soothe a parent when death comes for your child. I can’t tell them I know how they feel or that it will be OK. It will NEVER be OK. It will be semi-bearable at best one day far from now, but that’s about it. All I can (and will) offer is unconditional support, although I’m at the bottom of a VERY long list of people who love them. And I can tell them how brave they are. How much I respect and admire them all. And how extraordinarily sorry I am for what they’re enduring.

I know everyone is hoping for a miracle, and they should/will hold onto that for as long as possible. But perhaps the only silver lining is no one has to look far for it, because Leah is the miracle.

She may not beat this wretched fucking disease that I hate with a passion, but from my perspective the courage is often in the battle. And the whole Fernandes family has it in spades. Not to mention a 5-year-old has galvanized a community both in person and across the Internet, affecting the lives of people she’ll never meet. That doesn’t make up for never being able to grow up and grow old—not by a long shot—but in my opinion Leah has shown more strength, bravery and backbone in her five years than some people do in a full lifetime.

No matter how this turns out, Leah will never be forgotten. Her character and spirit in the face of adversity will always be remembered. And when I lecture my son about the kind of person he should aim to be, I will tell him about Leah. And Peter, Rhiannon and Lukas.

And I will hope he turns out half as amazing as them.