“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.

“Dada, why do we have to leave our house?”

Our condo is half-packed up and we’re officially in transition. I’d like to tell you we bought a new place. Hell, I’d settle for renting a place. But this move is a preemptive strike before we’re made to leave. That’s what happens when you buy a home at the absolute height of the market, said market completely collapses and you find yourself $100,000 upside-down. With an adjustable rate mortgage. Facing rising condo fees and unanticipated special assessments. Saddled with job loss and vastly reduced incomes. Not to mention the fact that MJ is temporarily out of work. Did I mention we’re being sued by our lovely condo association for good measure?

Despite the fact that we surrendered the house during bankruptcy, the bank doesn’t want it so they won’t foreclose. Which means the condo fees we can’t afford to pay just keep piling up. Which racks up late charges. Which racks up lawyer fees. But you can’t get blood from a stone, and I’m rockin’ it hardcore these days. They say investing in real estate is a sure thing. Well now I have a home on Cape Cod that I literally can’t even give back to the bank. How times change.

So now we become a burden to my parents, as I boomerang my pathetic ass back to my childhood home. This time with my family in tow. Don’t get me wrong, we’re beyond lucky to have family who don’t think twice about helping us and taking us in. But I feel like a failure for letting it come to this.

“Dada, I miss my kitties. Why can’t they live with us?”

Look, I hate cats. Hate them. But because my wife loves them, I’ve lived with two Maine coons for seven years. Even though we now have a grudging respect for one another, I have long looked forward to life without allergies and the general snottiness of the feline persuasion. And now I’m on the doorstep of such of life because my mom is extremely allergic to cats and we can’t take them with us.

But along comes a little boy who loves the cats. With no brother or sister to play with, he often turns his attention to his furry siblings. What I thought was merely cute play turned out to be a fairly deep bond. But asking my mom to forsake breathing in her own home is absolutely out of the question. I know she feels horrible, but there’s nothing anyone can do. The cats are going to live with my mother-in-law so they won’t be far. Only an hour away. But to a 3-year-old that trip might as well be to Antarctica.

“Dada, why do I have to go to a new school? I love my friends and I miss them.”

I’ve never had something incredibly sharp and jagged jammed straight into my heart. But I don’t have to be stabbed after that comment, because the look on his face and the sadness in his voice was more painful than any blade.

Will has flourished at his preschool over the last 12 months. He found stability, strength, independence and confidence there. And Will, a boy who once couldn’t play nicely around any other kids, now has a plethora of friends. Every single day he comes home and recites the litany of friends he played with, the games they enjoyed and how much fun he had. He’s comfortable there, he’s thriving there. And now I’m ripping him away from all that.

I’m left to wonder how one is judged as a man. Because if we’re talking provider, I’m failing miserably. I bought a house we could afford at the time, but now we can’t. And as a result, we’re literally losing the roof over our heads. Sure I work a lot and went out and found a job that pays more, but in the end it was a wash because MJ is out of work now through no fault of her own. She’s been fantastic at taking care of the house and I’m so proud of her for starting down a path that will take her back to school. But a real man provides at all costs and keeps things afloat. I really believe that. And by those standards, I’m way south of where I need to be.

But maybe a real man is someone who takes care of his family. Unfortunately, I’m failing there too.

I get up at 5:45 a.m. and leave for work at 6:30. It takes me anywhere from 2-3 hours to get to work. I work from 9 to 5. It’s at least another two hours to get home. It’s after 7 p.m. by the time I pull in to my parking space. That’s after dinner and exactly one hour before Will goes to bed. As any parent can tell you, that last hour before bed is not exactly a time for bonding. It’s filled with “brush your teeth” and “take a bath” and “make sure you go pee.” Yet I try to cram all my hugs, all my kisses and all my bonding into 60 minutes. The last 60 minutes of my son’s day, during which he is understandably tired, cranky and wants little to do with anyone. Nevermind a dad trying to relentlessly cuddle with him.

After he goes to bed I usually have to tend to the blog or one of my other writing projects I do on a part-time basis, so MJ goes to bed while I toil away on the computer. So much for being a good husband.

“Dada, can I have a brother or a sister?”

We both want to have another child so badly, but we don’t even have a home of our own. But more than that, MJ has to be off her current medication if we want to get pregnant. That means we literally have to choose between another baby and her mental well-being. Another child makes us complete but coming off the meds might send my wife over the edge. Meanwhile the meds keep my wife away from the edge, but the idea of not having another baby might send the wheels completely flying off the wagon.

In the end I can’t sacrifice my wife’s health. The thought of not having a second child makes me physically ache inside, but the thought of losing MJ makes me want to dig a hole and never come out. Either way you cut it, it’s not a choice I’m very fond of at the moment.

And somewhere in the middle of this tempest of misery and heartache I’m stuck in traffic either on my way to or from work. I can’t move. All I see are brake lights. I’m hemmed in while my son grows up without his beloved pets, without his friends and with a father he sees for an hour a day. I’m pretty sure some divorced dads get more time than that. The roof over his head isn’t even one I’ve provided. If I’m not providing enough financially and I’m not providing enough emotionally and I can’t give him the things he wants and needs…well, then what exactly am I doing?

“Dada, I miss you. Can you please work from home today and cuddle me?”

Sorry bud, I can’t. But I miss you too kid. I miss your mom too. I’m missing it all. And both you and mom deserve better.

When I think of all the mistakes I’ve made “on the job” it’s mind-boggling. I’ve put diapers on backwards (on Will, not on myself), put his shoes on the wrong feet and one time almost drove off with him on the roof of the car in his infant carrier. And some days you make so many mistakes all in a row it feels like you’re never going to do anything right ever again.

So when you get into the zone and everything goes right, you need to relish it.

Last night I was officially in “The Daddy Groove.” I worked from home but Will and MJ were out for most of the day. When work ended at 5 p.m. MJ went into the kitchen to start dinner. But sparked by a productive workday, I jumped up and interceded, saying “Don’t worry babe, I got this.”

Truth is I’m a horrible cook. I can do pasta, burgers, hotdogs and steak. But that’s about it. We had thawed some chicken so that’s all I had to work with. Luckily someone at work earlier this week was talking about a dijon chicken recipe, so I sprung into action. I looked up the recipe online (thank you Betty Crocker) and started gathering my ingredients. I sliced the chicken breasts in half, melted some butter, mixed in some honey dijon mustard, dipped the chicken in the butter/dijon and then dropped it into a bag full of breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese.

In between preparing my culinary masterpiece, I was getting peppered with questions from Will.

“Dada, can I have a bear?”

“Dada, are Superman and Batman friends?”

“Dada, why don’t sharks drown?”

But in between making the rice and cooking my chicken, I answered every question in rapid-fire succession.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Gills.”

Then I noticed MJ get up and head to the kitchen. I asked her what she was doing and she said since I was cooking she’d clean. I shook my head and told her to get her ass back to the couch. I’ve got this. And with that it was off to the pantry where I put the dog food in the big tupperware container, cleaned out the kitty litter and took the trash down to the dumpster. When I got back it was just in time to take the chicken out of the oven.

But first the table had to be set. As I was taking the chicken out of the oven and preparing to grab the placemats, napkins and utensils, MJ nudged me and nodded towards the kitchen table. What I saw warmed my heart. Will had grabbed everything and lugged it over to the table on his own. He was taking great pains to line up all three placemats ever so perfectly, followed by the napkins. Then, very deliberately, he placed forks on each napkin. I know it sounds simple, but it was really very sweet.

We’re not perfect parents, but we stress manners. And it’s paying off.

When it was time to eat I was worried about how it would taste, because I’ve never made anything like that before. But it turns out I was fretting about nothing because it tasted AWESOME! MJ liked it and even Will at some, which is rare because his palate begins and ends with mac & cheese.

After dinner I read Will a story, sang to him and put him to bed. When I left the room he shouted “DADA!” and I turned around because I thought something was wrong. Turns out he just wanted to tell me he loved me and give me another kiss. A dad’s dream for sure. As I sat down on the couch next to my wife, I smiled the tired but satisfied smile of a husband and father who had one of those great days. A day where everything went right for a change and I was able to hit multiple pitches straight out of the park.

Then I heard my wife say, “You are so awesome and so damn cute. I love you and I’m so lucky to have you around.”

Wow. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. I was touched to the point of happy tears so I got up, walked over to the side of the recliner and gave her a big, huge hug and said “Thank you baby. That was awesome.”

She shot me a confused look which immediately changed to red-faced and sheepish.

“Oh. Yeah. I was uhhhh…I was actually talking to the cat.”

Oh well. The Daddy Groove was nice while it lasted.

In college I drank a little bit. And by a little bit I mean everyday. Ultimately this was not a positive aspect of my life, but the one good thing that came out of it was a supremely high tolerance. At the height of my college days I could take down a case of beer during one night and—while I was still drunk—I was also still functional and upright while some of my peers were passed out or falling over.

I know, you’re wondering how I’m going to possibly bring this back to parenting. And the answer is “tolerance.”

If you have (or currently are) dealing with a 3-year-old you know they can be evil little monsters. In addition to testing their boundaries at every opportunity, they’ve also learned to talk. Which means they’ve learned how to cop an attitude and talk back. Will has been particularly whiny for the last couple of months, and each time he doesn’t get his way he throws attitude and whines our way.

When I was Will’s primary caretaker I knew this and dealt with it on a daily basis. I was prepared for it. My skin was thick and it took a lot to penetrate my defenses. After all, if you discipline your kids with timeouts or make them pick up their toys when they don’t want to, you get used to hear him whine and it just becomes background noise.

But all that has changed.

I’ve been working at my new job for a month now. Four hours of commuting a day means I see him for five minutes in the morning and an hour or so at night. All day long I miss him and desperately want to get home to him. I put all the whining, temper-tantrums and negative stuff out of my head and view Will through the rose-colored glasses of a working dad who just wants to get home and have Kodak moments with his little boy.

This, of course, is completely unrealistic since I’m bound to catch some of his whiny moods. Especially as he prepares for bath and bed, because he NEVER wants his day to end or to go to sleep.

Yet I expect a well-behaved boy who’s happy to see me and wants to drop whatever he’s doing to spend precious minutes with me. But what I get is a whiny, normal 3-year-old. The only problem is I have no tolerance for the whining anymore. I’m never around it and so I’m very thin-skinned now. That means I come home, he whines, I get frustrated and yell at him, he yells at me, I give him a timeout, he gets more pissed off and soon it’s time for bed. And I’ve spent my 30 minutes of father-son time yelling at him and disciplining him.

It’s tough and I don’t have an answer or solution at the moment. I know I don’t want our brief daily interactions to consist of punishments, but that whining seems to go through me like nails on a chalkboard these days. I know that’s perfectly normal for a kid his age and I’m expecting way too much of him, but I can’t help it. It’s just another shitty part of being a part-time commuter dad.

Maybe I should work some of that alcohol back into the equation…

It’s a little belated, but here’s my Father’s Day post which first ran at the Good Men Project.

My 3-year-old son stands on our bed smiling nervously. Squeaking with excitement as he creeps closer and closer to the edge, he peers down at the ground and then at my outstretched arms. No doubt assessing the situation and calculating toddler physics in his head.

I’m daring him to jump to me. He’s not so sure.

For several minutes he looked like he had OCD. Back and forth. Confident then scared. He’d walk to the edge of the bed—in a hilarious looking half-crouch ready to pounce—and then lose his nerve and retreat in a fit of anxious giggles. I just watched with great amusement, held my arms out for him, and smiled. Then I simply uttered “I gotcha.”

Suddenly he left his fears on the bed and flew at me with reckless abandon. I caught him under his arms, held him up, and spun him around while laughing. But after exchanging a hearty high-five, the kid dropped a bombshell on me.

“You always catch me dad.”

I know he meant that I physically catch him every time he jumps off the bed. But to me, at this point in my life, it meant so much more. And it was exactly what I needed to hear.

Two weeks ago I left the comforts of journalism and took a new job. While the paycheck is better, the commute is not. It’s usually around two hours. Each way. Sometimes more. Gone is the flexible scheduling, getting Will dressed in the morning and dropping him off at preschool. No more making dinner together and taking the dog for a walk. With my commute, I’m gone before he’s awake and home an hour before he’s in bed.

I’m officially a part-time parent. And I’m having a hard time adjusting.

♦◊♦

My father is my hero. I’ve tried to be like him at every turn. Unfortunately he was seldom around when I was a kid. Although plenty smart enough, he missed the chance to go to college. But he lucked out and got an opportunity to help start a business from the ground up. It required long hours, and that was on top of being a town official.

He was at a selectman’s meeting when I hit my first out of the park home run. My mom was there (because she was SuperMom and there for everything), but the first Little League homer is a uniquely father-son moment.

I had to wait until after the game and we made our way over to Town Hall, where his meeting was in progress. When he noticed us he raised his eyebrows wondering why we were there. I held up the baseball the team had given me, swung an imaginary bat and made the home run signal. His eyes went wide and his face lit up as he smiled. I knew he was proud. But the next face he made had regret and disappointment written all over it. If he was a cartoon, the bubble above his head would’ve read “I can’t believe I missed it.”

Fast forward to the present.

I’ve been a parent for three years, but now everything is different. My wife is temporarily out of work and I’m the breadwinner now. For the first time our family’s survival depends on my paycheck, but my paycheck requires a hellish commute that has me spending more hours in the car on a daily basis than with my son. I’m going to miss things. Things like talking to the preschool teacher everyday and being the “go-to” parent. Little things, but those are always the most important.

When I talked about my feelings recently, my dad chimed in and said “This is the real test of parenting. It’s very tough, and the guilt can be awful. This is where you learn just how tough parenting really is, and just how valuable the years and the moments really are.”

My dad more than made up for the things he missed early on. He’s always been there no matter what. He’s still running a business and he’s still a town official. But whenever I needed something he always found a way. Without fail. He was always there to catch me. Still is.

Happy Father’s Day to all the catchers.