The Team I Play for

Sometimes I have this strange fantasy, a daydream really.

I'm at a massive reunion of all four sides of my family. My parents and two brothers are there, as are my extended relations, but also many, many more people whom I've never met before. I'm standing in the middle of the four groups, who are picking the teams for the big family volleyball game. They are all shouting, asking me to join them. And the strange thing is, they're divided into the strains of my ancestry: the Irish, the Germans, the Poles and the Russians.

"You've got our last name; it's a done deal," shout the Irish, smugly nodding.

"You were raised Polish; don't turn your back on us," yell the Poles in their red shirts with the white falcons.

"You do everything at the exact same time every day without fail; you're a Teutonic clock," exhort the Germans, pointing at their watches.

"Don't listen to those bastards," scream the Russians. "You're passionate, and you love to drink and dance like us. Get over here!"

What begins as an amusing flight of fancy to occasionally pass the time in some boring place ends with me, in my daydream, curled up in a fetal position on the lawn. In real life I just furrow my brow and frown one side of my mouth. People on the bus probably wonder what the hell I'm fretting over.

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I grew up in the Rust Belt, particularly in Chicagoland for long periods. I would describe my background as "white-legacy-working-class-Northern-Midwestern-ethnic-conscious."

When I was a kid, all my older relatives lived in the city, and they still carried with them some of the Old Ways handed down from their parents, most of whom had immigrated to this country in the early 20^th century like so many other millions.

By the time I showed up in 1976, these customs mostly had to do with food and stuff around the holidays. All the older relatives proudly considered themselves Americans, but underneath this they would spar — sometimes playfully, sometimes not — along ethnic lines when they wished to differentiate from one another.

They gave this tendency to my parents. And in my house at times it was a battle, not always in jest, of Team West (my dad) vs. Team East (my mom). My dad would jibe at my mom's decorating and "Polock" laugh, and she would criticize him for being a cold, rigid "German" when he refused to touch the food on his plate with anything but a fork.

It got a little weird. Maybe your family was like this, too. We weren't WASPs. We weren't Jews. We were Catholic middle class people just trying to get by. Ethnicity was a valve that helped my parents relieve marital pressure. Sometimes it was hurtful, but sometimes it was really funny. And they did compromise. My dad would (ruefully) eat Polish sausage and pierogies, and my mom would play the Bing Crosby album of Irish songs on St. Patrick's Day and sing along to "The Bells of St. Mary's."

It might seem hard, especially if you're not white, to understand why different kinds of white people would try to separate so vehemently, considering their home countries are probably only a three-hour drive apart — maybe a longer boat ride to Ireland. Aren't we all part of the Vanilla Rainbow?

For whatever reason, this kind of thinking seemed more prevalent in Chicago. As kid, I used to like looking at a color-coded map of the city that showed the old ethnic neighborhoods, and I'd wonder how and why they divided themselves up so neatly, the Germans in red on the North Side, the Lithuanians in orange on the South Side, etc.

I came to understand this mentality a little more from living in the Ukrainian Village for a few years. The immigrant community there was very insular and did not care for people like me, even though I was as white as the lead tenor of the Mt. Greenwood Irish-American men's chorus. I had been subdivided, and the little old ladies in their babushkas on Leavitt would turn their faces away from me much like they probably did to S.S. men way back when. Gee whiz, was it something I said?

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Society is based on cowardice, Freud posited in "Civilization and Its Discontents." We are all weak and huddle together for protection, not wishing to be alone, powerless and ostracized outside in the cold. That's how laws have been able to work for thousands of years. Rare is the person who can resist this tendency to group up. I do it. You do it. We all want to feel part of a select membership. And with that comes the satisfaction of refusing those not like us.

But frankly, I'm not sure what my "group" is anymore. Or I'd rather not admit what I, in fact, know it to be. I'm a fourth-generation white, middle class, college-educated American in my 30s. I see "my people" every day. They're the ones looking at their iPhones the entire ride on the bus, a New Yorker on the lap, little earbuds in place. They probably grew up in the suburbs like me, hung out at the mall, went to the homecoming game, went to University X, got a job and moved to this huge city.

Maybe, if they were hipper, they were at some point part of an arts subculture that attempted to stand out from the overculture our square brethren embraced. Those youthful days — our one white chance at wild, stylish differentiation — are generally done for most of us and now we just ride the bus to the office.

When I left home at 18, I hid the ethnic trip I grew up with. Out of embarrassment and also because I began to meet people from other parts of the country who viewed the white origin experience differently (as well as whites from other countries). I generally enjoyed getting a fresh perspective, one that helped me forget the outdated sniping I grew up with.

But there was some part that was unsettled by how people could, for example, consider themselves "Southern" and not "Irish." It was perfectly normal to do that where they grew up, and "Southern White" is very much its own culture that is supra-ethnic. But it still rankled, and I would feel ashamed in a parochial, backward way.

I eventually ended up marrying a woman who, under her hipster trappings, had been raised in the very same Chicago Catholic ethnic manner. And I think a part of me secretly liked that. When I went to that first family party, the old trip reawakened. I looked around: the people numerous and loud, the red sauce and sausage boiling in a crockpot. These were Italians. My parents had told me about them when I was little, like they were mythical beasts that lived on some mountaintop. In person I found them fascinating and felt a little like a spy. Italians. Wow.

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How could any intelligent, educated person think this in 21^st century America? Well I did and I won't apologize. It's just the way I grew up. But I would never, ever accuse Erika of doing something simply because of the stripe she embodies. I can at least say that that hasn't endured, and I certainly won't pass it on to my kids.

But I do feel sad for us, these white college-oids on the bus. Long gone are the ethnic songs and dances and theater of our immigrant ancestors. Maybe there's some special dish that comes out at Christmas, but that's about it. I walk the streets of Chicago and see how my fellow Americans of minority backgrounds celebrate their ethnicities. They feel they're still part of an exclusive group, and it's a lifelong thing, like the color of your skin. The music scene could never do that because it's only really about being young. You grow older and what's left? A pretty good iTunes collection?

These days I sometimes indulge in another daytime fantasy. When I do certain tasks or activities, I try to envision an ancestor from one of my four sides doing something similar: carrying wood (garbage bags) through the snow, soaking in a mountain spring (sitting in a hot tub), dancing at a country wedding (ditto, except in Oakbrook). All like a Breughel painting.

I guess I want to feel part of something more solid and eternal than consumer choices. A lifetime group. All I seem to have right now is this daydream. I know it's a fictional construct but enjoy it anyway. I really think it's kind of healthy, at least for me as a white guy.

And I really do think I would've made a good peasant.  

Fear of Flying

I'm afraid of flying. Yes, I've flown in the past, even to Europe, but when I moved back here to Chicago the fear intensified and I haven't left the ground since. It's been a point of friction with Erika, who would like to go to Mexico, Italy and other points across the country and globe. I want to give her, and our children, these experiences more than anything in the world. And yet my fear has vexed me.

I've tried things to combat it, from CBT to drugs. This afternoon I'm going to pick up the next pill prescribed by my doctor to deaden my thoughts and senses so I can, hopefully, make an aerial passage. We'll see. We're heading to Southwest Michigan this afternoon for a long weekend vacation, and I'm planning at some point to indulge in a little mild controlled substance transgression by taking a wonder pill, drinking some wine and staring at the fireflies while Erika reads her book.

I hope this new drug will work, but I know that whatever "works" for me now can never completely erase my anxiety. It was never completely gone anyway when I flew before, as a kid or as a young adult. (Well, it actually was on one particular drug, but I won't touch that stuff ever again.) Ultimately, I must feel some kind of psychological discomfort. This is known as facing your fears.

I've had to face my fears all my life. Everyone has. Sometimes I feel like I've had more than the average person. All I can do is live and manage them as best I can. I'm at least heartened that my kids don't appear to be afraid of anything. I bet they'd love the plane.

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The stop-gap solution has long been road trips. Erika and I have always enjoyed them, as a couple and before we knew each other. I took the Greyhound bus a great deal in college, doing the eight-hour ride up the 71 from Cincinnati to Buffalo. I also took it from Atlanta, Tampa and Gainesville. And when I moved to Syracuse, the bus was my way of getting to New York City. I never owned a car till we moved in together in 2004.

I can still tell you what the stops in Columbus, Rochester, Cortland, Scranton, Knoxville, Orlando and Cleveland (always my favorite) look like. And of course the mighty Port Authority terminal on Eighth Avenue — the country's biggest bus station. I would be practically jumping out of my seat in excitement when we pulled into one of its many docks there under the yellow lights, all of us dumped out into New York, scrambling like ants from a broken hive.

The great zine explosion of the '90s really fueled the romance of the bus thing. Seems like a third of everything written in every little pamphlet back then had to do with being on the Greyhound and meeting bizarre characters. For whatever reason, I was never moved to record my experience, partly because I recognized a glut in the market and also because nothing noteworthy had ever happened to me in transit. I mean, I saw a lot of the country and different kinds of people, from ex-cons to Mennonites. But I was never harassed, hassled or hit on once in eight years.  

It was a very solitary experience for me, with just a few exceptions. I enjoyed the company in those rarer moments, but it did more to highlight the fact I was usually alone on my journeys, as wondrous as they could be. Like so many moments in my life, it seemed, I spent them solo, silent and in thought. A part of me wished someone could always ride along on every trip.

I did eventually find that companion and left the bus behind. Erika and I have taken so many wonderful road trips over the last nine-plus years, all the way back to that first quick jaunt to Milwaukee in August 2003. Sure, it wasn't Rome, but we had fun staying in a hotel for the first time together. It's kind of become our thing —hotels in exurbs, vacation rentals, Midwest resorts — and it now includes our kids. We've been going to Michigan for more than five years. It's a sacred place for us.

But after awhile one does want to see more than farm fields and rest stops from a moving car or bus. And that brings me back to my psychological roadblock.

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We pass O'Hare airport every time we visit my in-laws. With flying on the brain lately, I've found myself watching the planes as they take off — always my least favorite part of the experience. Sometimes I have to avert my eyes as a jet shoots upward at a steep angle. Other times, I marvel at a big, slow-moving 747 taking to the sky, much like the one I was on from JFK to Paris. Almost like a giant bus. Maybe it could be like that again. Maybe this drug would make it be like that even if it really wasn't.

I know inside of me there's an air traveller trying to get out. He's done it before, and I truly believe he can do it again. I don't just owe it to my wife and kids. I owe it to myself: to see the world and experience more of life. I want to die with as few regrets as possible.

And no, I don't think it will happen in a plane crash.

Young Man Blues

In many ways I’m not a nice guy. Ask Erika. She’s probably seen all the unpleasant facets by now. … … … Well, not all. I have been hiding one not-so-nice trait, though in my defense it’s only manifested very recently. See, I enjoy scaring people with my children. Particularly younger people.

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We’ve lived in Logan Square for about five years now. Logan Square: the new whitebread baby-making center of Chicago. Frankly I get sick of the family vibe around here, and I have two kids.

I’m at least heartened by the fact that Ella and Archer — the Tomax and Xamot of the North Side — do a lot to shatter the lib-yuppie dream of sharing, caring, not swearing 21^st century child rearing. My kids are high energy and often require a hardline response. I hear my dad’s South Side bark at times emanating from my lips. When I raise my voice at Palmer Park, the other whitebread parents stop and look at me. Whatever.

It's still a nice neighborhood. Saturday night we went to the latest installment of the local concert series — a beautiful sunset evening that mellowed into the high 70s. I do love seeing bands play in front of the Federal Column, or whatever it’s called, in the grassy turnaround island — the streets lined up perfectly at the south and north points, harkening to some great period of city planning now abandoned. I also dread, more than a little, that I have to spend the entire time keeping my charges from running into traffic.

If you’ve ever been to one of these things, you know that it’s about 70 percent people in their 30s — most with little kids — 20 percent single and coupled people in their 20s, and 10 percent all other ages. Saturday night there were even more small children than usual. They all weaved in and out among the parents and hipsters, laughing and screaming and resisting arrest. A free-range human chicken coop.

By the final band — an all-female indie pop act — I was pretty gassed. Archer, red faced and sweating, still didn’t stop. He climbed the stairs in front of the stage, slid down the stone ramps, pulled up weeds and chirped his loud chirps. I sat on the grass in front of one bank of PA speakers, the entire audience facing me. I wasn’t the only parent doing this, but I was maybe doing it with the most exasperation.

As Archer made continuous loops on the ramp, I became aware I was in the line of sight of a sizeable bloc of 20-something young men, lounging and drinking beer to the left of the stage. I knew exactly who they were looking at: the chick in the mini-skirt playing guitar right behind me. But in my perverse, not nice way I hoped that their eyes also drifted in one-millisecond shutter snaps to me: the older guy in a striped Linus shirt, a shell-shocked look in his eyes. The smile then came to my face. Yes, my young friends. Get a gander. Because this will be you someday.

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Perhaps to someone looking in from the outside, they see me — running, yelling, disjointed, burying my face in my hands — as unhappy. I’m not. I’m fucking stressed out at times, but I’m not unhappy. Yet it’s this stressed-out aspect of parenthood that I like to accentuate in public settings, coupled with a screaming kid in my arms, to gently, sadistically frighten the young dudes out there. (My kids by themselves do a good job of frightening older people, just to cover that demographic.)

I was a 20-something dude once. I found the thought of having kids repugnant. Back then I would look at guys in my current position — some poor slob with half-shut eyes toting his papoose in a Baby Bjorn— and sneer. Idiot. Sucker. Drone. What’s this guy’s problem. He might as well be dead. Not me. No way. Never.

Then I met someone who took more of an interest in kids than all the other young people I'd ever known. My girlfriend, Erika, would talk to any baby or toddler in any restaurant, grocery line, post office or oil change place we went. At first I found this irritating. I’d roll my eyes, wait for her to finish, then go back to explaining why Michael Karoli never really got his due.

To make a long story short, I came around to Team Baby, and I eventually transformed from a critic to a believer in the great adventure — you know, Commitment — and all that it brings. It's not always easy, but it’s light years ahead of anything I’ve ever experienced before. All the records I bought in my 20s, shows I saw, beers I drank can never compare. Even that time I met Bob Bert.

This trip can definitely scare a man at a certain point in his life. And if he matures and it still isn’t for him, hey, I understand. It’s a deep biological imperative that secretly and powerfully guides all the phases of our lives, but humans have always had the ability to say no: to reproduction, to gender roles based on this, to wedding showers. I support anyone’s choice if it makes them happy.

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But I know a lot of those guys at the show on Saturday will eventually feel the call and make the choice — pretty simple statistics. And like I did way back when, they’re already secretly grinding away in the back of their heads strange, unsettling new questions: Can I still get drunk on the weekend? Do I have to buy a minivan? Will my partner make a good parent? I once thought about all this too, only I was lucky enough to live with the biggest no-brainer mother-to-be in Chicago, so that was never an issue. It was more about the timing of the whole thing.

So why would I, now at 35, try to muddle some young man’s mind over this, perhaps the greatest decision he'll ever face? I told you. I’m not really a nice guy. Like all members of a “club,” I feel, falsely, a certain right to haze pledges. Do you have what it takes. Are you ready for this. Do you realize you’ll have to handle human shit, with your bare hands, more than once. I've felt the burn, and I guess I want people to know. Particularly guys in striped tank tops and boat shoes.

I don’t fault a young man for blanching in hesitation, much in the same way Tommies did when ordered to leave their trenches and fight. But if those dudes had peeled their eyes off that lady drummer for one second, they would’ve seen Archer James, finally tired, rest his little head on Dad’s shoulder in loving resignation.

In that sense, I know I'm actually trying to sell the whole trip, once you get past my dime-store sadism. I won’t pretend anything that happened to me Saturday night gave anyone any kind of hope for their own future. But I pray it at least made it apparent I wasn’t in hell.

Fight

We went to a wedding reception last fall for one of my second cousins — a particular branch of the family I hadn't seen since 1991. It was a very nice spread in a nice hotel hall, with food and a bar and dancing. They did all the traditional white wedding stuff: goofy bridesmaid introductions, cake cutting, frat guy buddies giving speeches. And then the father of the groom got to say his piece.

The father of the groom in this case was a large man with a lot of money and the main reason we were all sitting there. He was entitled to his airtime so he gave his rap — the usual stuff I'd heard before from men in this position on the nuances of getting along: say I love you every day, don't go to bed angry, if the other person cooks do it yourself once in a while, etc. I started to roll my eyes because I'm a wiseass, but I stopped. A sign of maturity. This guy should have his say because he's done the full trip, I thought. He didn't give up and neither did his wife. That should mean something.

After this, we watched my second cousin dancing with her own father — a good man I've always liked. It was impossible not to flash forward and think of me in this same position with my daughter. I'll never demand my kids get married, but I'm not going to lie and say it wouldn't please me, if just to experience this symbolic passage and have a few moments to contemplate all the years that lead up to it in a relaxed setting, a glass of wine in hand.

What would I say to my son or daughter and his/her significant other on such a day? I guess I've still got time to develop my thoughts, but I know what the gist will be:

Fight for it.

Things are very nice here at the wedding right now, and we're all feeling good about love —about yours and about love in general. But there will come a time, more than once, when it will all seem the opposite, when some great hand will pull a string and all the spats, hard words, hurt feelings, insecurities, botched responsibilities, personal weaknesses and bad personality traits align in a row, giving the appearance of a negative sum for the whole enterprise.

That's when you have to fight for it. It requires you to each look at yourselves and for the both of you to look at your situation, talk about it and see a way forward. If you sit next to your significant other on the couch and both do the most boring individual things possible and still believe there's nothing you'd rather be doing with anyone else in the world at that moment, then you are in love. Real love. And you fight for that.

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Last night I drove up to Sauganash — a pretty, whitebread neighborhood that with much guilt we have some designs on moving to, depending on certain factors. Erika takes the kids there for tumbling lessons in a gymnasium on the grounds of an old TB sanitarium converted to a forest preserve, so that's where I went. The only place I knew. As I turned off Pulaski I spotted a female deer standing very calmly in the grass past the empty guardhouse — I hadn't seen one in years. I pulled up and extinguished my lights. I thought she would run but she didn't — just ate some grass and looked at me. In no hurry, she walked around behind my car and then into the woods, so very fluid and relaxed.

I wondered then if deer mate for life. It seems like they would, the male and female are so lithe and look so beautiful together. But then again herd-type animals generally don't. Do they? Maybe I was mistaken. I tried to think of other creatures that paired this way but could only come up with some kinds of aquatic birds.

The car was now parked and I stood with the door open drinking a very warm diet ginger ale taken from the trunk. The sky was moving quickly in thatched clouds, a precursor to a great storm. I felt the wind and closed my eyes. I had done the right thing for the peace of the house, but it was also melodramatic. The kids were asleep and my mother-in-law was undoubtedly speaking with my wife. I was at least glad they were there together.

Such a natural scene in the big city washed over and cooled me, but questions still persisted: Why is life often so hard?  Why do I feel so weak at times and at others invincible? At what point does the "we" become the "I" and self-survival takes over? Also: Do my new tenants think I'm absolutely insane? I sometimes sound like it.

Instinctively I knew my internal reverie should end. Be sensible and go home, said the voice. I got in the car and headed back to the Edens. A bit of a romantic, I secretly wished for a Hollywood touch though reality is often a miser with these. I looked at my dark, silent phone and frowned — the power was off, naturally. Switching it on, I saw four texts sitting there from my wife. I knew she was trying her hardest to stay awake for me. I hit the gas and did 90 at the junction, up and over the highway hill.

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I hope that when I'm sitting there someday in a hotel hall, I'll remember last night and other nights like it. I'd like to be able to laugh and turn it into a not-maudlin epigram about marriage and fatherhood when I'm asked to stand and speak. Or at least say it to the young couple in a less theatrical moment. Something like: Fight for it and you too will remember. The moments when you took it on the chin from nature itself and kept swinging.

Okay, here's a list of animals that mate for life.

Him

Saturday is Archer's second birthday, and I can't believe it. I mean, I can because I've been with him every day since he joined us here in life, save a weekend at grandma's. I understand, like all human beings, the bittersweet march of time.

But that doesn't mean it's still not a little jarring. I've tried to temper my shock by marveling at how Arch has become more mature lately, engaging with us and the world. That makes me feel good and brings me back into the present moment.

From the very beginning, Archer has made us stop and take notice. He's the greatest surprise of my life. Nothing that's surprised me in the past — or will in the future  — can match the day we found out he was with us and the day we found out he was, in fact, a little boy.

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The whole experience of having our first child, Ella, in February 2009 was incredible. Erika's long pregnancy gave us time to revel in the journey, and the birth was something I will never forget. The first few months after that were a tilt-a-whirl of emotion: At times I felt I was as close to insanity as I'd ever been, and at others I felt the deepest connection to my wife, my parents and brothers, even the hard-faced people on the 82 bus.

We wanted more little ones, sure — at some point in the sort-of-near/sort-of-far future. There was no rush. We we're going to give our little lady all the love and attention we possibly could, stroll her around in her stroller, take her to swim classes and art classes and the whole trip. I loved being a dad, though I needed to work on pulling my weight around the house. Little did I know someone was about to give me a big assist in this department.

In late January 2010, Erika approached me with that time-honored reality check men generally don't enjoy receiving. I shrugged it off and went back to concentrating on the exciting run the Saints were making to the Super Bowl. Then one day she bought a pregnancy test. I was beginning to get nervous but still believed it was a false alarm as she went in the bathroom and closed the door.

Some minutes passed and she came out, a stunned look on her face. Not good.

"It's positive."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."

"WHAT?"

I am not proud to say I reacted this way, but I know I am not the first man in human history who's done it. After she got another blue cross from the second tester, I went into our little office. I sat down on the futon and put my head in my hands. Things just got real, as they say.

It took me a day or so, but I collected myself and declared I was all in. We wanted two anyway, right? We're kicking butt with Ella, right? We're strong, dedicated, responsible people and we can do this. Right?

Erika had already steeled herself to the task. Our kids would be born 17 months apart — much like her and her brother. I felt tremendous guilt for what she was about to go through. But if anyone could do it, she was the one. She was the healthiest person I knew and worked out at the gym within a week of Ella's birth. Still, it was going to be a hard damn slog.

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Her pregnancy with Archer was more a sprint of survival than a long, wonderful learning experience. It was messy at times, with work and one child already in the mix, and we couldn't have done it without Grandma Angel, that's for sure.

Erika grew, and it was apparent something bigger was in her this time. Where Ella swum about in the womb like a fish, this baby moved less occasionally but more powerfully. It sat heavily on Erika's sciatic nerve, sending her to physical therapy for the pain.

Like Ella, we wanted to know the gender of our fetus. All the old moms and grandmas said it would be another girl. The tendency of Erika's side, with its many ladies, would win out. I actually wished for this, too. I'd been steeped in the Male Trip growing up with two brothers. I wanted something new. I wanted to be the father doling out dollars to my teenage daughters before they went to the mall.

We sat in the X-ray room awaiting word, and the ultrasound tech did the requisite dramatic pause when she'd determined the gender. I looked at my watch. Another girl, sure. Let's get this over with.

"You're going to have a little boy."

I was floored. The smile on my face grew. I don't know if Erika noticed. My pre-rehearsed happy resignation at being the only guy in the house for the rest of my life melted away. A boy. A son. My son. Wow.

I didn't have a lot of time to contemplate what this meant — the complex, much-maligned question of How a Boy Becomes a Man. Thankfully I was able to shut that out of my mind because it seemed like before we knew it, the water had broken and we were off to the hospital. But I did feel the inkling of that special call: father and son. Baseball at dusk, guitar lessons, advice about girls. It was my turn to help another dude out in this big, confusing world.

Archer's birth was small and intimate — just Erika and me. It was also exciting and more than a little intense, he was so large. Erika performed heroically, and I even guessed the correct birth weight: nine pounds. By the evening of July 21, 2010, he was in his little plastic bassinette at the hospital and Erika was sleeping. It seemed like just yesterday we'd been there for Ella.

What a whirlwind two years — more than anything we could've predicted. I felt like I'd won some kind of strongman contest. I'd never lost my cool (well, almost never): in the delivery room, during the breastfeeding problems, the layoff scares, kid sicknesses, inlaw crises. I was steady, strong and solid — a million miles away from the younger version of myself, so self-indulgent and listless. I felt I had attained the highest possible calling, biologically and spiritually. I had become, truly, Dad. Capital D.

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I want to describe the difference between having one child and having two or more, but I can't really do it justice. It's more work, more stress, more everything. It tests you in ways you cannot anticipate, as an individual and as a couple. Dad — Capital D — now has to lend much more of a hand around the house and not watch sports at night. With our jobs, childcare juggling and just the minimum necessities of food and cleaning, the schedule has permanently filled out for years to come.

For long stretches it feels like a grinding, featureless repetition that provides no respite and constantly reveals your failings. But in the other moments, it's the most amazing thing: to have two beautiful children with my beautiful wife and embrace this fundamental human experience, bringing new existences into the one and only thing we know, life, and sharing all it has to offer.

So what about that new existence — maybe not as new as some in our extended family but still so very much at the beginning of it all?

I can only think of Archer as he is now: big, really big. In height and weight. And beautiful. His handsome little face and incredibly large hazel eyes with large black pupils. He has the best hair of anyone I've ever seen, a shimmering, thick head of reddish-brown. And his smile is wide and toothy, stretching from fat cheek to cheek. He's truly a specimen. Sometimes Erika and I look at him in wonder of his energy and strength. He simply couldn't be contained. He had to join us.

We like to joke he'll be playing for the Bears in 20 years, but Arch isn't all toughness. He has a wonderfully sweet nature and likes to cuddle and sit on our laps more than Ella did at the same age. He loves music and sounds in general and will sit for a long time playing on the toy instruments and talking books we have in our living room. He also loves to run around naked and air-dry after his baths and climb on (fall from) everything.

He's a handful, for sure, but he's our handful — a gift from nature, as is Ella. People ask us if they are twins, with their brown hair and fair complexion. I sometimes think we should stop, they're so perfect as a pair, friends for life. To have more would somehow throw off an invisible balance. I don't know. For now, I like this. The four of us.

I frankly might pass out if you start talking about five.

George and Wilt

Having kids is hard. If you already have them, you know this. And for men who are committed to it, being a dad poses its own specific pitfalls. Lately I've been snagged on some of these, and I've tried to figure out why. I think many of you dads (and moms) could relate.

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Earlier this year my job began to ask more of me than I could take. After a few years of Recession-related chaos and overwork, I said "Enough." The new job I landed was like a dream: I was doing the work of a single person — something I hadn't experienced in a long time. The pace was more relaxed; there was no skeleton crew death march to the next issue, no mad crush to beat the better-staffed Web site. It was almost like a vacation.

A couple of months went by and I began to feel something strange. I began to feel, well, unused. The last gig had turned me into a high-performance machine. I was strong. I was dependable. I never broke down and cried. I never complained. My wife could lean against me when she felt the heat and frustration of her own gig. I was steady and fireproof.

Most importantly, I was pulling my weight at home. I worked two days with the kids, sometimes more. I was so proud when Erika would return after 8 on a Thursday, and I had been with Ella and Archer for more than 12 hours, including a busy work day, and there they were: fed, bathed, hair combed and brushed.

Sometimes in selfish moments, I even thought the kids had grown to prefer me more than mom, who was so saddled for months with work and grad school. Wishful thinking, I know. But it did enter my mind more than once. Spattered with dirty bath water, apple sauce down the front of my shirt, I at least felt heroic.

It was my chance to shine and become a stronger partner in a concern that had already seen my wife shoulder countless late-night breast-feeding sessions and trips to the pediatrician, among many other glamour-less duties. I wanted to show I could hang as the kids got bigger and demanded more of our attention.

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There is competition inherent in any serious relationship. It's natural, human and healthy, as long as it doesn't get out of control. I definitely felt it at this time when I was taking care of our kids. It motivated me, even if it only existed in my mind and not my wife's. The kids were the ultimate winners. Dad was a big part of their lives.

If you'll permit me to use one of my favorite metaphor sources — professional basketball — please consider George Mikan — a slow, lumbering goon who couldn't jump but ruled the '50s NBA simply because he was always the tallest guy on the court — versus Wilt Chamberlain — one of the most dominant forces in basketball history, who was exponentially bigger, stronger, faster and more talented than all the clods trying to guard him. George wisely retired before Wilt entered the league, but if they had matched up it would've been no contest. Wilt would've blocked all George's shots and dunked on him again and again and again.

I am George Mikan. Erika is Wilt Chamberlain. Head to head, I will never, ever beat her. She simply has too much power and skill, for reasons of her upbringing and just who she is naturally. I've tried, believe me. She's dominant. Sometimes it's a hard fact to face.

But I did feel in those 10-some months when I was working at home that old George was at least able to stay in the game. Maybe Wilt had hurt his knee or his mind was somewhere else on some looming paternity suit. George kept grinding away, lumbering up and down the court, driving to the basket and taking elbows to the face, getting his minutes the ugly way. The numbers on that 1950s scoreboard began to maybe get a little closer together. Maybe George could get a win on Wilt's one off-night of the season. Maybe he could prove he was for real.

The goal, of course, was not to upstage my wife. The goal was to be the new kind of dad all the guys of my generation want to be — not Working Overtime Dad, or Newspaper Dad, or At the Bar Dad, or Shut Up Terry Bradshaw is About to Pass It Dad. I could maybe, just maybe, be 60/40 Dad. And sometimes, in a hushed moment of hubris, I thought I might even be 50/50 Dad. The pinnacle. A man who, sadly, only seems to exist in third wave feminist textbooks. Or Germany.

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I know I'm starting to mix metaphors here, so let me bring it back to basketball. Bear with me. An unused player starts to feel bad, focuses too much on himself, pities himself, is lead astray by distractions, feels insecure about his skills. Being relieved of so much work in my new capacity, a great weight was lifted but also a great purpose.

When duties are taken away from you, it's natural for a human being to begin to relax. You have nothing to do, and we all ultimately want to rest. I was suddenly given shitloads of rest time after years of the opposite, at work and at home. I started to luxuriate. Take plays off I used to be a part of. Disconnect from my team and focus on my individual experience. My needs and mine only.

That might sound sad — that parents aren't allowed to be individuals. Maybe that's not what I mean. We can't stop being individuals. It's forever part of the mix. But when we become parents, it's truly no longer about us, and we have to find that balance between the one and many. It often comes at the sacrifice of the one, but that's what a team is. Many parts working together for one goal: stability, progress, happiness. We all get our personal stats, sure, but those alone can't help us win.

Okay, I'm overdoing it with the sports. I guess all I can really say is change is hard. When you first become a parent it's a tremendous change. As your kids hit each new milestone it's a change you feel too. As you attempt to interface your personal goals and ambitions with the rhythm of your family life, it can lead to changes you never anticipated. It's something you have to work through, but if you have the right support, they can help keep you steady while you find your balance again. You do it because you love each another.

Right now Wilt is in there, cleaning the glass night after night and, frankly, having an MVP season at home and at the office. George gets some minutes toward the end of the game, but there may come a time when he's asked to be a starter again. He just has to stay in shape for now and be effective when he's put in. Help the team no matter what and remember he's a pro-caliber player in his own right. They put George in the Hall of Fame, after all. He could take an elbow to the face like nobody's business.

Rest

My Grandmother died a week ago. She was 95 and had developed lung cancer in the last year. Erika, Ella and I saw her some 12 hours before she passed away. The thought of her being relieved of that kind of suffering made the loss a little easier to swallow, but still I'd rather have her here, healthy and forever. As we all know, that can't be done.

There was a memorial service at a South Side cemetery on Saturday. Many of her friends are gone, too, and many of our relatives — already a small group — were out of town and couldn't make it. Still, I was happy to see who I saw. We all agreed that Grandma was a great lady.

Since I moved back to Chicagoland in 2002, I had helped Grandma with her finances, bringing cash once a month for her home health care worker to buy groceries, etc. — but more so to spend time with Grandma. I also called her once a week. I really enjoyed speaking with her, and we shared experiences as Chicago residents, homeowners and baseball fans that I didn't with the rest of my family.

She was my last remaining grandparent and the living link to a part of my life that now only exists in my memory. At least I can keep her there. Sundays will never be the same. Goodbye, Grandma. I miss you.

Albatrossing

It becomes pretty clear by age 32 that there are two types of people in life: helpers and hindrances. Granted, if you're some kind of international terrorist who's looking to blow up the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Ind., (search engine teaser) and the "hindrances" are those trying to stop you and the "helpers" are your abettors, well, then that might knock the whole model out of whack. But generally, you can expect certain people to be quick with a smile, a kind word or helping hand and others to be self-centered emotional/spiritual drains.

It doesn't always shake out so easily, yes. Even the best of friends who would help each other to the end don't always agree and can get in each other's way. I guess I'm talking about consistency — for good or bad. My boss at my first job here in Chicago told me to view my function as a gate through which information flowed freely and easily. Those who had performed the position badly, he said, were more like big rocks that information flowed around — obstacles.

Erika spent some of her day dealing with such obstacles out in the suburbs. I ask you to keep her step-father, John — a good man who has helped us so much with this house — in your thoughts and prayers as he prepares for a major surgery. There are some who didn't quite grasp the gravity of this situation, preferring to attempt to wrestle the spotlight for themselves in some perverse manner. It saddens and angers me that Erika had to spend even one second today dealing with these kind of people — hindrances.

Maybe this is more succinct: It's not always about you. When someone's life is in danger, don't be a fucking dickhead. Grow up. … Yes, I think that'll work for 11 p.m.

What's left

I knew there was something up yesterday during the ride to Green Bay when I heard that retrospective-sounding snippet about Harold Pinter. Sure enough ... But we knew he had cancer recently. Still, it makes me sad. Seeing a tiny film snippet of "The Birthday Party" more than seven years ago made me want to be a playwright. His work has been a part of my life since then and will continue to be. If I'm being brief here, it's only because I believe he now joins the ages, and his work stands as a kind of symbol of his immortality … and my appreciation of it is too personal for this space.

Today my mother showed me my baby book, which I've seen before but not in a long time. I was struck by how she so thoroughly filled it up to its designated limits (six years old) and how some of her personal feelings slipped into it. I thought a baby book would be more a piece of family propaganda, only focusing on positives. But my mother let her worry and sadness creep into it, and now that I notice that, I'm grateful. The fact that she chose to express herself in this mass-produced blank book using all the space that was alloted is some kind of testament to how we, of the common population, are only afforded so much time and room to do anything. This isn't a sociological, political or psychological exercise I'm admiring. I just admire her thoroughness in the face of time's passing and the world's indifference. If you can't take a minute to record what your child has done, what's really the point of anything you're going to do? I will follow her example.

Men of Buffalo, heed the call

Today, my brother Matt is wending his way through the Rust Belt — probably somewhere around Toledo by now — to pay us an extended Thanksgiving visit. We're looking at upward of 20 people from both sides of the family for this year's feast at our house. Erika, naturally, will be the star of the show with her pregnant stomach. (By the way, we're calling the baby Olivia Jane this week, or O.J.)

It's always great to see Matt. I only wish we lived in the same city — he in Chicago or we in Buffalo. Well, we'll just have to make the most of the celebratory itinerary we've been handed. Yea and there will be much song and feasting — and microbrew and import beer consumption! (And cursing of the NFL Network, though I love it so.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Weequeend Wrappup

November's upon us. Today is my brother Matt's birthday. I suppose it's officially time to put on one's holiday running shoes. We're going to be hosting Thanksgiving at our place, as we did in 2006, for both families. We're still not sure what will happen at Christmas.

We had fun at the beer bar watching one of Chris's bands and the two that came after. I had a little too much Robert the Bruce Scottish-style ale and paid for it on Sunday, but I don't regret a thing. Erika said the baby was moving around a bit, which could indicate a musical tendency — though what person doesn't enjoy music?

I went to a playwriting class yesterday. I don't know what to make of these things anymore. It was nice to hear a playwrights-first viewpoint on writing stage directions, working with actors, etc. So often I have heard the other side of the equation, which can be a bit of a bummer (i.e., less freedom for writers). It was supposed to be a big feel-good session, which I guess is good, but it left me feeling depressed and alone as a writer. In some strange way, I was reminded that my work is really nothing more than programming, that no one knows/remembers my name (save a few) and that my work is often interpreted as crazy by others. And after I've been reminded of this, I have to go home and continue working alone for months. What exactly am I supposed to feel good about?

Well, today is the proverbial new day. It's warm and sunny outside. I have my tea here. I'm going to eat lunch soon. And after that, I will get back to work. Last week I made some significant headway in my latest draft, and I was proud of myself for coming back to it each day and not relenting. That makes me feel good. That, I suppose, is all that should matter.

Role reversin'

My folks are in town right now. They've got a busier social life than we do! They were out late last night partying by a lake in Hinsdale, and they're doing a Southwest Suburbs tour today that will go well into the evening with drinks and dinner. What about me? Well, I'm looking forward to paying the bills later and reading up about our insurance coverage for baby. I'll be lounging on the recliner with my slippered feet on the ottoman, newspaper in hand, pipe in mouth, when those two whipper-snappers get home at 11. They're going to have a lot of explaining to do.

But in all honesty, I'm looking forward to spending the rest of the day with Erika, as I did on Monday -- nice bookends to the week. In that regard, this summer has been very nice. I feel the work and avocation stresses that constricted us in the spring have loosened. What we do today will be anyone's guess, but at least we'll be together.

Dynamic duo

Okay, that was a little too good to pass up ... Since becoming part of a home-owning team, I've seen my share of house snafus: dead water heaters, broken furnaces (right before Christmas), bizarre wiring, malfunctioning lights, to name a few. The man who's always been there to help us has been John (mentioned below). And I, as man the of house, am always his assistant on his repair calls.

It's a study in contrasts, for sure. You'd be hard-pressed to invent a better team of opposites. But I like to think we have a lot in common. (We both like sitting in basements -- at least I do. I know John is just there to work.) And I don't let any window dressing get in the way. We're both human beings, and we both like to joke around.

So I'm happy to report that John is making a repair call this weekend to look at the second-floor sink. It's been too long. Granted, I probably won't do much more than hold the flashlight or, if I'm lucky, keep a pipe in place, but the experience is still enjoyable. I sit in front of a computer 40 hours a week, and when I'm writing, 7-10 more at home. It's nice to do something different.

I know I'd make John happy if I would actually complete the projects he recommends to me: insulating the basement furnace area, weather-proofing the basement door, caulking the furnace exhaust tube. I think I'm gonna try, as a half-year resolution, to make these a reality. I'm feeling the call of the house ... and I'm excited.