I heard the boys playing downstairs the other day, as I lay in bed, waking up on a Saturday morning. And it really came home to me more than ever. The times I’ll hear them both playing as kids, as they were, are becoming fewer and fewer. doing

Parents I’ve known over the years, those who have had children, seen them grow up and move away, say the same thing over and over again. Cherish that time you have with your kids when they’re young, because you never get that time again.

I feel that more than ever now. And more than ever, I want to spend more and more time with them. Each moment becomes more precious, because I know they’re on that cusp of becoming more independent.

On vacation last month, there was a kids club that my kids never want to do. They want to spend time with us. But after meeting another boy, my oldest declared he was going to go out that evening on an event.

“Really?” I said, half-jokingly sad but half-serious. “Well, I guess you’re all grown up and don’t need to do things with me any more.”

He, of course, protested that he loved me just as much as ever. But then he later decided he didn’t want to go out. I felt a little bad, but also a little happy, that I was still one of his best friends, in a way. That he did still want to be with me, as he would with a friend.

The other day, walking to the store, I felt his little hand grab for mine. At 12, he still wants to hold my hand, which is sweet. But then ahead, one of his friends came out of a house and said “Hi.” With a jerk, I felt my son throw my hand down, a natural enough reaction for my boy who’s soon to be a teenager.

It was both sweet and sad, at the same time. Another reminder he was growing up, which will bring great new experiences for him and I, but also the old child-like experiences going away.

Having passed his friend gone, my son quickly grabbed my hand again, without prompting, as it nothing had happened. Too often, I’d tease over such things. Instead, I just smiled to myself, happy to have my baby boy for a little bit longer.

I skinned my right arm over the weekend, right below the elbow. I was rollerblading through a parking lot along the beach here in Newport, and a big truck decided to pull into a parking space I was passing. Diving for the asphalt was the fastest way to avoid getting hit by a very large bumper.

Fortunately, my knee pads and wrist guards took most of the impact. But I grazed my arm. Now scabbed over, it just sits there taking its time to heal.

I can remember being a kid and hurting myself all the time. I was forever falling and skinning my knees or stubbing my big toe, tearing the top skin right off of it. But I also remember everything healing super fast. You know, like the cheerleader in Heroes. It seemed like within seconds, the scabs were gone and my skin all fresh and new again.

Maybe I just remember things differently. But it sure does seem to take a lot longer for the nicks and scrapes I still pick up to heal. But then again, that’s part of getting older, I know. It takes longer to heal these days.

My doctor underscored this for me recently. I hurt my left knee a few weeks ago snowboarding. A stupid thing, I stopped short on flat bit and fell over. But ouch! Normally I just ignore such things and never go to a doctor. But before I went on another trip, I decided I should make sure I wasn’t going to screw things up.

The doctor poked at my knee and even did an X-ray and pronounced it fine. I’d sprained a tendon or something, but no lasting damage. I could even go snowboarding if I wanted to on it.

And I did. And for the most part, when I’m moving around, my knee’s fine. It’s really only getting up after sitting for a long period where it hurts. But I went back a month later, just to be safe, because he said if I still was having pain, I should come in.

This time, I saw a different doctor. She asked a few questions and then just said that with this type of injury, it can take a long time to heal. IE — you’re old.

Well, taking longer to heal sucks and sure makes me feel like I’m getting up there in the years. But I suppose there are still lots of pluses to not being a kid. Driving’s pretty fun.

Ten years ago today, my life changed forever. I became a father. A decade has passed, and it seems like yesterday and forever, simultaneously.

I’d thought about being a father before I became one, but I didn’t fully comprehend how much it changes you once it happens.

For one, you’re ready to die for them. Seriously. You know how in movies there’s that parent who covers up his kids when the bullets are flying? Before I had kids, I’d see that type of thing and wonder if I could ever do that. Now, I haven’t a doubt. They come first. You sacrifice for them. You lose your independence. You have a small child that fully relies upon you, from being provided for to seeking a role model.

In particular, I’ve probably felt the role of provider more heavily than any other. Since we decided to have children, I’ve worked and my wife has cared for the kids — and make no mistake, that is indeed a full-time incredibly difficult job.

We’ve been fortunate, in this way. They’ve blossomed having one parent around all the time. But as the sole breadwinner, so to speak, I’ve always felt a tick-tick-tick of whether I’m saving enough. Are they covered for college? Are they covered for a roof over their heads? Can I provide for all the assorted things that children seem to require?

And so I would dive into work, to play that provider role. Of course, it’s also because I have loved my work, and it’s easy to think (or at least for me, so I have thought in the past), that your children will still be there after a deadline you’ve needed to hit has passed. That they’ll wait the “five minutes” that’s my constant refrain about when I’ll finish with something, then end up taking an hour or two instead. My oldest son about a year ago showed how much he’s grown by calling me out on it. “You always say you’re just coming, and you never are.”

Of course, after having done all this work, I’d be exhausted both physically and mentally. I’d spent so much time trying to be provider dad that the roughhouse dad the kids really wanted was nowhere to be found. And therein lies another problem — even at the best of times, I’m not much of a roughhouser.

The boys love it, just love it if I smash into them, “steamroller” by rolling across them, pick them up — you name it. They’re boys. They want to be tossed around. But that’s just not really me, and I find myself feeling guilty when I don’t do more of it. I feel even guiltier when I see other fathers who DO do it and clearly love being that way. What’s wrong with me?

There’s a scene from Jersey Girl that also makes me feel like I’m a bad dad. It’s where Will Smith (playing himself) is talking to Ben Affleck (not playing himself) about being a father. He’s talking about how his kids just want him to play in the dirt with them, rather than be off working all the time. And I see that with my own kids, and I feel bad for not making more dirt time.

I realized only last year that to be a better dad, I ironically had to be less of one. My children are part of my life, but they can’t consume it entirely (however I let that happen, such as working too much).

In talking with my wife about this, she’d had some similar feelings. While I’d been lost as provider dad, she’d felt consumed as caretaker mum, shuttling the boys around to activities, making sure they’re ready for school, watching over the homework and slowly losing her identity as a person.

In trying to be good parents — what we we’ve thought good parents should be — we’d given up too much of our independent identities. We’d been parents first and adults on second, when we’d had time to be adults at all.

As I’ve talked to some other parents, I’ve seen similar nods of agreement — especially when I joke about trying not to let the kids suck the life out of us. Last fall, my wife came across a Wall Street Journal article on the same topic — that to do the best for your kids, you might do best not to center your life around them.

Things have been changing. As we’ve become more aware of how much we were getting lost in our children, we’ve worked to stand apart from being just parents. It has meant giving the kids more independence (which is also easier as they’ve gotten older). It has meant a lot more of making time for ourselves. And ironically while I feel bad for even thinking about being apart from my kids, for not wanting to spend all my time with them, I also think that it’s an important part of being a better dad when I am with them.

With the move back to California and this greater awareness of needing more time overall, my work habits have dramatically changed. I’m around a lot more. With school being close, not requiring a drive, I can bicycle with them most mornings. And while I might not still be a roughhousing dad, I’ve come to accept there are other things I do enjoy that they also like: building sand castles, shooting tin cans with BB rifles or even just bicycling up to get some tacos. In the end, as I’ve always known, they don’t really want things. They just want my time. So I try to make sure they’re getting that time, but I’m also working to make sure I feel like more than just a dad.

And to my oldest son, who doesn’t read this blog but will someday, don’t interpret your father’s struggles with being a better dad as regret for having become one. I love you and your brother dearly; you bring joy into my life. The loss of independence comes with the gain of interdependence. We are forever bound together. And on this your 10th birthday, know that you’ve always made me so proud and happy.

Almost every night, I rollerblade along the beach. The predominant wind is at my back as I head out down the boardwalk, pushing me along. It’s like flying, no effort. But then the sidewalk ends, and it’s time to skate into the wind. The flying is done. Now it’s all work, all effort, and I can only think how nice it would be without that stiff breeze.

There are so many things like that in life, where you’re propelled effortlessly in one direction, then you have to work hard in the other. In high school, English and history were fun. I could have sat in those classes all day. Math was not fun. It was something I had to do, found no joy in doing and wished I could have given up.

I still regret that in my last year, I could have bailed out of math. I had enough credits or whatever was needed to get into my college without another year of whatever type of math class I took and have long since forgotten. OK, imaginary numbers I recall as being kind of cool. But I knew back even then that math wasn’t going to be for me. It was a year of hard hard hard that I wished I didn’t have to do.

There are silly things. I remember once eating a TV dinner in college (I was poor; I didn’t cook), and my girlfriend at the time was appalled that I ate my little chocolate dessert first, before the rest of my “meal.” Because you’ve got to eat the meal first, right? The hard stuff first. I just joked that I didn’t feel I had to follow the rules about eating my dessert last.

Easy to break the rules with a TV dinner, but there are other things you can’t shift. Like the wind. And I know, it’s supposed to be the hard stuff that makes us appreciate the easy stuff. Or lets us appreciate the easy more.

Still, sometimes on the rare occasion, I find that the wind has turned at the end of the boardwalk, and I have it at my back both ways. I savor that. And I sure hate it when the opposite happens, and it’s into the wind both ways.

It took me some time when I was younger, back in my college days, to realize that being friends with someone didn’t necessarily mean for life. Some friends were like chapters in a book; read and part of the whole book but not part of the following chapters in the book. Some friends were part of a continuing plot, always appearing over and over again.

As a kid, I had friends I thought I’d have forever. Childhood friends, best friends. Then we all moved into new schools, from elementary to junior high and high school. Plus, some of us moved away. Over those years, over those changes, the friendships also changed.

There’s no one from my elementary school and junior high school days that I still keep in touch with. I have a very few high school friends that I occasionally hear from now and then. It seems like those friendships I made in my college years crowded out the other ones. Or perhaps there are only so many friendships we can maintain?

Even from college, most of those friendships got replaced with those from work, especially my newspaper days and later, my friends I’ve known through search.

Going back to college, I remember being sad about some of the friends I’d lost touch with. Perhaps this was when I was first really aware of how much friendship can change over time. I started appreciating that some people I would be friends with for a short period then probably never see again.

In particular, I had one friend who worked with me on my campus newspaper. We shared an English class together, sitting in the back, sometimes mocking the professor, sometimes catching each other up if we’d missed a lecture. For some reason, I was hyperaware that we’d probably never be friends like that again. Not that we were super close friends to begin with, but we did enjoy that class, that collision of the moment. And I was content knowing that the moment would move on, followed by other, new ones.

I have some friends that I might not see or contact for literally years. But when I see them, it is as if nothing has changed. We pick up right where we left off, and I’ve realized that this is OK, too. That being friends doesn’t necessarily mean a constant contact; while also that some friends may be momentary while no less lasting in other ways.

Interestingly, Facebook has become a great disruptor to the calmness I’ve acquired about friendships. Suddenly people I haven’t talked to for years, people I figured I’d never see again, are popping up. How technology has changed us. Certainly old friends would reunite in the past. But so many and so easily? How do we cope, how do we react, when we’ve moved ahead in our lives, with these renewed contacts.

I’ve been to one high school reunion, my 20th, back a few years ago. It was interesting. I did see many people who I’d thought, where are they now? What are they up to? But one thing I remember most about was how none of us really swapped phone number or addresses.

It could be that we all assumed we’d be able to find ourselves through the reunion directory or something. But I think really it was that that reunion was enough for most of us. High school was long over; that bond and those times were things we’d progressed from. The friendships were real, but they didn’t translate into continuing ones.

There were some people I’d really wanted to see who didn’t show up. I remember being disappointed they weren’t there and yet to this date, I still haven’t looked them up. Perhaps I will, and perhaps I’ll add to the unsettled nature of someone else’s calmness in friendships come-and-gone.

I’m not a big New Year’s Resolutions maker, but I thought I’d do a few for
2009.

Stop Chewing My Cheek

What the hell am I doing in that photo?
Andy Beal shot it, thought it
would make a funny caption contest but kindly decided to check with me first. I
told him what I was doing, how I’m embarrassed about it, and he nicely didn’t
post the picture.

See, I’m biting at the inside of my cheek. It’s a terrible habit, and I don’t
know how I got started doing it. But I’ve done it since I was in high school,
have wanted to stop for years and failed to do so. Since blogging about my
goal to lose weight has
worked well, maybe outing my
bad habit will put enough pressure on me to finally kick it. And if anyone
should see me doing it, feel free to berate me in public.

Stop Smoking (Sort Of)

Smoking, chemotherapy for the soul.
I’d quit entirely, but my new
Zippo lighter says don’t do it. But I’ll cut it back to the occasional one or
two on the weekend. For the record, I’m not exactly a chimney now — usually two
or three in the evenings.

Continue On The Diet Coke Cutback

In a few days, I’ll have been a month
without Diet Coke. This is
for someone who drank maybe two liters per day. Confession –
two weekends ago I had a Diet Pepsi. I hated myself. If I was going to break my
no caffeine streak, waste it on Diet Pepsi? And it didn’t taste as good as Diet
Coke. A twelve pack sits in my refrigerator beckoning at me. Instead, I keep on
with the water and the occasional Diet A&W Root Beer. I will have Diet Coke
again — I’m looking forward to it, but it will be much more in moderation.

Write A Book

The great American novel! Any novel! Well, how about non-fiction? I’ve had
enough years of saying I’d like to do a book but don’t have the time. I’ll never
have the time, so this year, I’ll make it somehow. Going to do a book of some
type, that’s the goal.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Oh, Ivar. I welcome you back into my life. It’s been too long, my old friend. The smell of your freshly cut pine (are you pine?) once again fills my office nook. Your presence brings me nearly full circle through my life of home furnishing. I thought you were gone, but you return once again, standing ready to hold my books and assorted bits.

As a bachelor, my idea of furniture was a mattress on the ground, a card table and folding chairs for the kitchen and a cast off sofa that had seen far better days. Shelving was easy. Two stolen Carnation milk crates did most of the job, followed by an investment at Builders Emporium (think Home Depot; they closed years ago) in breeze blocks and wood planks to build a make-shift shelf to hold my books.

Ikea came along right when I got married. How could you not love it? It offered furniture at reasonable prices. Having little money, Ikea was perfect as a way to have a real kitchen table, a real bed and yes, real shelves.

I remember endlessly debating the Ivar choices. Did I want those cool corner shelves? Could I afford them? Did I want five shelves or six? And look at all those cool add-ons. A table that can fold out from the shelves. In the end, it was the basic set-up, that ladder-like standard horizontal shelf that forms the core of any Ivar installation.

In Britain, Ivar returned again to my life. In an actual house, I again needed shelving. Ivar still seemed the best of the options, an easy “disposable” way to get things off the floor until I figured out exactly what I wanted to do for a more permanent solution. Budget no longer being an issue, I splurged. I had those lights along the top shelf, to illuminate my storage. Two cabinets — actual doors on them! — to store stationary and other goods. A pull out drawer on the bottom, along with another set of six smaller drawers in a unit.

Eventually, the Ivar was replaced in my office. But the Ivar pieces still hung in there. I used the six-drawer unit on its own, even putting it on rollers that I improvised. The shelves migrated to the garage, as did one of the cabinets. Another cabinet, I gave it short legs so that it could be used on its own. That’s the thing about Ivar. I was like native hunters that used every part of an animal; having slaughtered my Ivar set-up, I still used all of its parts in other ways. Except those damn lights.

The Ivar came with me in the move back to Newport Beach. Shelves went back in the garage, where they continue to serve me well. The six drawer unit until this weekend was tucked under my desk, holding electronics of all types, card readers, USB sticks, extended-life computer batteries and more. But I cleaned out another unit that could easily hold the same stuff, meaning the six drawers could go away. For the first time in years, my office was Ivar free.

But in the clean-out, room along the wall was freed up, perfect for some time of shelf to hold my books, which remains trapped within cardboard boxes. I hear them scream — let us out! Plus, i just like to look at them, my friends acquired over the years from being a kid. Needing a solution of some time, it was time for a trip back to Ikea. I hesitated in considering Ivar, knowing that almost like a child, I’d be gaining a new piece of furniture for life no matter how temporary it seems. But after reviewing all the options, it was that same standard Ivar horizontal shelf from all those years ago that was the best solution.

So I sit back in Newport Beach, the sun coming through the window, warming the wood Ivar shelves across from it, reminding me of those many years ago. I’ve got some space just below the window. Maybe I’ll get some breeze blocks and a plank of wood….

I’ve bungee jumped twice in my life. The first time, I got pushed off. The second, I jumped on my own. Sort of like life, I was thinking recently.

My first jump was when I turned 30. There was a tower back then at the Queen Mary. A bungee jump sounded like a cool way to celebrate.

In the little doghouse at the top of the tower, we all put on these little rock climbing belts, the type you put your legs through and cinch around your crotch. I felt oddly secure wearing this, figuring they were all part of the safety precautions.

I felt less secure as I watched those ahead of me jump. The belts weren’t used for anything. Instead, they just wrapped the bungee cord around your legs secured by what seemed to be a really large bath towel. Where was the safety line that I was sure would be also hooked to those damn belts they made us put on? Where was my backup cable?

To this day, I still have no idea why we wore those belts, other than perhaps to give those working the tower something to hold on to as they guided us to the edge. Soon enough, that’s where I stood. And stood and stood and stood.

I looked down. It was a long way down. I think 180 feet or so. And I was going to jump off into that? Was I crazy? I just refused to jump. They kept doing the “1, 2, 3 … bungee!” thing, and I continued to stand. “I can’t do this,” I said, and really wanted to get down.

Somehow, I finally jumped. That “somehow” is that I swear I was pushed. Well, probably tapped gently, as I was all lined up with my arms out. I know, they’re not supposed to push you. But everyone probably knew I wanted to go, so they helped me along.

In the end, I was glad they did. It was a wonderful experience falling, then springing up and gentling bobbing back and forth that way. But I couldn’t make the jump myself.

The second time, about a year later, no problem. I was in New Zealand, where bungee jumping down in Queenstown is like a no risk sport compared to some of the things they do. The video of my first jump had gotten recorded over accidentally, so I was keen to get a new record of my supposed bravery. This time when they said jump, out I went, no hesitation. I even wore a Santa outfit, as it was nearing Christmas. I even let my head plunge into the river water below.

One of the crew was telling me that bungee jumps spread out among those who do them once, twice or tons of times. Those who do it once have had enough. They feel nothing more to prove. Some do it twice I guess to prove it wasn’t a fluke. The rest, they just love the jumping.

I’m sure I’ll do a jump again someday, but I’m in no rush to do so. I guess I’m glad I had that push the first time, so I could make the jump on my own the second. Regardless of how we jump, I guess all we can do is hope the cord doesn’t break and that we enjoy the ride.

I started smoking regularly this year. Never thought I would. Smoking was always that dirty, filthy, unhealthy habit that I looked down upon with others.

I’ve kind of joked that this year I wanted to become fully proficient at it. I once saw a guy playing ping-pong while smoking. Smack the ball, the cigarette perched on his lips as if it was glued there, as natural as could be. When I was that relaxed with a cigarette, then I would know I’d made it.

I’m still not that relaxed. I probably never will be. In fact, I’ve cut back on my smoking and probably will further. It’s not healthy, absolutely. I feel I’ve let the entire state of California down by being the blip upwards in the overall trend of those giving up smoking. Plus, with Obama’s much publicized pressure to quit, I feel the pressure mounting.

I could quit at any time. Heh, I know, that’s what they all say. But back when I dumped Diet Coke, I also didn’t smoke for a week, just to know that I could.

Still, for all the downs to smoking, I’ve enjoyed the social aspect. I had no idea. As smokers have been pushed and pushed into smaller and more limited areas (which ironically I support), there’s a kind of bond between those who buck all that’s against it. We share lights. We bum cigarettes. We form a type of club — you smoke too? We talk surrounded by our fumes.

It’s also relaxing. To just sit and smoke and contemplate. Pity it’s bad for you.

Postscript: My friend Ken after reading this pointed out an awesome recent Esquire article, Learning To Smoke, from Tom Chiarella, who covers his experiences starting smoking at 46. I feel I’ve found a twin I didn’t know

My oldest son came home the other day, asking to shave his head. Shave his head? Turns out, a friend of his in school had a relapse after a first bout with leukemia. He has to do another round of chemotherapy with the resulting hair loss. So, some of the kids in the school decided they’d lose their hair to, as a way to support him. I think about 30 to 40 kids have now done it, yep, mine too. The Daily Pilot ran a short story on it this weekend.