If you haven’t, here’s a snapshot: two years ago, a bunch of young men gang raped an incapacitated young woman. Cornell did slightly more than fuckall about it and now, thanks to the amazing and potentially paradigm-shifting work of a group of young journalists, people are finally being held to account. Hopefully.

There are other details, of course, and spin doctors and fucking idiots all over the news media and social landscape trying to absolve these young men of their heinous crime. Meanwhile, there are apparently some piece-of-shit internet sleuths doing their work to uncover the true identity of Jane Doe, the victim of this crime.

It’s disgusting. It’s horrifying. It’s enraging.

Sadly, it’s not shocking.

Because we live in a world in which most of the women you and I know have been subjected to sexual violence at some point in their lives.

I mean, think back a few years ago to the #metoo movement and try to remember just how many of your friends and family members spoke up in solidarity, highlighting the fact that I just mentioned, the fact that is summed up in these absolutely stunning statistics: 1 in 5 women in America are the victims of rape and 81 percent of woman are victims of sexual harassment or assault in their lifetimes.

Which I why, as I just said, if you’ve been paying attention at all, the news out of Cornell is anything but shocking. That doesn’t make it any less horrid. And yet, if you scroll through your news feed, you’ll no doubt come across a smoothbrained fucking dope or any number of too-well-paid publicists or lawyers doing their best to lay blame at the feet of Jane Doe. Or, if not to lay blame, to lighten the load on their clients’ parts. They’re doing their best to say, in the dumbest possible terms, that it takes two (or, in this case, eight) to tango.

Seven men (that we know of) gang raped a young woman and there are people in the world trying to blame her.

Sickening. But hardly shocking.

Because we have a habit of blaming the women, no matter what. Because we still, far too often, default to placing the onus of responsibility on the women of the world. Too often, we teach them how to defend themselves against and steel themselves to a world in which they are treated as second-class citizens, subject at any moment to sexual violence.

It’s all a long-form version of “Why was she wearing that?” And that, frankly, is a fucking bullshit approach.

However, to put our heads in the sand and pretend like we don’t have to put some of the onus on our daughters is negligence. Because, no matter what we do, we still exist in a world where their bodily autonomy is forever at risk.

We can do our best to change that on both micro levels (more on that in a minute) and macro levels (maybe, as my wife suggests, a run of bright red “Make Rape Unacceptable Again” hats is in order).

And so, while it is true that we as fathers need to teach our daughters how to handle themselves in the world, how to be alert, aware, and never alone in a situation that might become dangerous (which, sadly, is most situations), we too rarely point the finger at the men we are raising, the perpetrators of sexual violence.

Boys will be boys. Or, as a certain fucking cretin said when these rapists were just impressionable little boys, it’s just “locker room talk.”

Something that has always made my skin crawl is when people cite having daughters as the reason they advocate for women’s rights, pregnancy justice, and a world in which sexual assault isn’t so normalized. You shouldn’t need to have a daughter to understand or at least appreciate the world we live in. You shouldn’t need a daughter to be an ally to and advocate for women.

That said, having a daughter certainly makes these realities all the more real.

"Enjoy your last few carefree days,” my father told me in the weeks leading up to our son’s birth. “Because for the rest of your life, you’re going to be worried about something.”

He didn’t mean it as a cautionary tale so much as a means to express how tremendous and all-encompassing a person’s love for their children can be. And he was absolutely spot on. Because since the instant my son was born, there has been an undercurrent of worry in my life, all of it driven by my profound love for my kids. It’s part of the deal. Worry that he’ll be safe and healthy, worry that he’ll grow up to live a full and happy life. Worry that I’ll have the strength and courage to be a good father, to show him the right amount of love and provide the right amount of boundaries to create a little person that will someday grow into a good man. Worry that someday, he won’t need his daddy like he once did.

It’s the same with my daughter, except, on top of that, there’s the worry that she’ll be the victim of sexual assault, that she’s growing up in a world in which people are fighting tooth and nail to have control over her bodily autonomy.

Worry.

A few days ago, I wrote a post on social media that said:

“Dads: in the wake of this Cornell news, it’s important to remember that we need to teach our daughters how to exist in a in a world where their safety and physical autonomy is never assured.

Much more importantly, we need to teach our sons not to be fucking monsters.”

Both things are true and, again, so fucking sadly, they are equally so. Because it’s so much bigger of a problem than just teaching our sons how to clear the oh-so-low bar of not being a sexual predator. Because the subjugation of women is so baked into our everyday that we have the audacity (and, ahem, stupidity) to elect the man who claimed that you can just “grab ‘em by the pussy” to lead the free world.

Of course, parenthood is fraught with a million, billion, trillion tiny little landmines that we’re constantly tiptoeing around, constantly doing our best to navigate through. And if there is one constant at the core of these little dances, it is the question of “when.”

When do I tell the truth about Santa? When do we explain to them that we have sex, not just for reproduction but for pleasure? And that someday, they will too. When do I tell my kids that I will (hopefully) die before they do? When do I tell my daughter that she statistically more than likely to be a victim of unwanted sexual advances at some point in her life? When do I tell my son that he’s being raised in a world that is doing its best to condition him to believe that his will is the only thing that matters when it comes to a woman’s body?

My wife said something the other day that really blew my hair back:

“If they’re old enough for it to happen to them, they’re old enough to learn about it.”

Sadly, at ages 8 and 5, both of my kids are plenty old enough to have been the victims of sexual abuse.

In our short eight years as parents (five of which have been spent as parents of two), Emily and I have always stuck to the ethos that kids are capable of understanding so much more than we give them credit for. To that end, we’ve had extensive discussions with our kids (mainly our eight-year-old son) about huge concepts like the universe, mortality, human relationships, and morality.

We’ve also discussed sexual assault. Because, to Emily’s point, our kids are both old enough to have experienced it. And while we’ve broached the topic with our daughter, we do so in a way that her five-year-old brain can understand. We talk about safe touching, being open and honest with her parents should anything ever happen to her, and, most importantly, that, god forbid anything ever were to happen to her, it would in no way be her fault. When we yell at her big brother for not respecting her bodily autonomy (not in a sexual way, to be clear, but in a way that 8 and 5-year-olds don’t respect personal boundaries), we make damn sure that she is within earshot, that she hears us telling him that absolutely no one is allowed to touch her if she says she doesn’t want to be touched.

With our son, the conversations are far more frank, far more rooted in the language of the real world. We explain to him the importance of having these uncomfortable conversations early on so that they become part of our shared vocabulary rather than some uncomfortable conversation no one wants to have.

We explain that, perhaps more importantly, as a boy, he’s almost 100% more likely to commit an act of sexual violence than his sister. That’s not to say that there is a 99% chance our son will commit an act of sexual violence in his life, to be clear, as much as is it to highlight just how pervasive sexual assualt is and how unsafe the world is for his sister. And we do our best to explain that fact to him and to point out the simple fact that he’s a male and that almost all sexual violence is committed by men.

I hope that there’s a future in which women feel safer because they can exist more safely. I doubt it. But I hope. In the meantime, the best my wife and I can do, the best all parents can do is to prepare our daughters for a world in which they are forever at risk and to raise the kinds of sons who aren’t the ones putting them there.

It’s always such a nice little treat to see a “New Subscriber” notification pop up in my inbox, a little dopamine dump a few times a week. And, for some reason, there have been dozens and dozens of you over the last few weeks. Not sure why. Maybe someone reposted something or tweeted one of my essays.

Who knows?

All I know is that now, there are a bunch of new people here, which is GREAT!

However, this newsletter is dormant these days. And while you’re more than welcome to dig through the archives, comment away, and drop me any emails about anything I’ve ever written, new BADIHAF essays are going to be very few and very, very far between going forward.

That said, as a person who has always been addicted to writing, I have a new newsletter that focuses on my life as a travel writer. I’d love for you to join my over there, if you’re so inclined.

You can find the link to that one right here.

Much love!

yr friend,

mike vm.

-mv

I’m sitting in an airplane somewhere over Canada as I type this. It’s a big airplane and it’s taking me to Paris for a quick layover. Then a smaller plane will take me to Venice, where a private car will be waiting to drive me two-and-a-half hours up into the Dolomites, where I’ll be staying in a beautiful hotel, treated to curated meals by some of the area’s best chefs, fit for a loaner bike that costs only a few thousands dollars less than my Volkswagen, and riding a bike race that is at or very damn near the top of most serious cyclists’ bucket lists. All of it is being paid for and, on top of that, I’ll get paid when I get home, write about the experience, and file the story to the magazine who bought this silly idea. Because, as a travel writer, that’s my job.

Sounds amazing right? And it is. That I not only get to do this shit but that I also get paid for it is absolutely unbelievable, insane, bonkers, ridiculous, absurd, and all the other adjectives that I can’t think of right now because I’m sitting on this plane, listening to and trying to discern a French announcement. It’s a reality that finds me often having to pinch myself, that I have somehow landed in this trade, that all of the steps I’ve taken in my life (chief amongst them, marrying a woman who supported my silly dreams, even when I was pulling in a cool $5,000 in my first year as a “full-time” writer) led me to this moment, on this plane, headed to this bike race. Travel writing has brought me north of the Arctic Circle to go dogsledding beneath the Northern Lights, to magical Christmas villages in the Balkans, and mountain biking one of the premier trail systems in the United States, deep in the wild of the Badlands. I’ve stayed in a $1500 a night suite in the middle of the desert and gone off-piste snowboarding with a guy who owns a whole-ass mountain. etc. etc. blah blah blah.

A: You get the point

And

B: This #humblebrag has gone on long enough.

And for all of the wonderful experiences I get to have as a professional adventure-taker (and to be clear, travel writing is only part of how I pay the bills. I write about a lot of other stuff. I even teach sometimes, too!), there’s a big, huge, massive, glaring part of this job that absolutely sucks…

Click here to read the rest over at The Itinérance.

Yes. I did say that.

“Then why am I getting another email from him?”

Because I get very bored very easily and need to be writing something most of the time and, thanks to all of that predisposition, I’ve started a new newsletter.

“More dad stuff?!”

No, because I could just do that here.

Introducing The Intinérance, a new newsletter focused on travel writing.

“You write about travel?”

I do. It’s one of my favorite things to write about, as it’s always been one of my favorite things to read about. To those of you who don’t know me that well, I’ve contributed travel stories for places like National Geographic, BBC Travel, Condé Nast Traveler, Travel + Leisure, Ski Magazine, and Outside, to name just a few. In fact, I’m headed to the Dolomites next week (all credit to my wife for holding down the fort so I can go chase silly adventures for work) to report a story.

And anyway, I didn’t want to be the kind of presumptuous asshole who just migrated my subscribers to a new publication without asking them*, so I’m reaching out to tell you about the new Substack and give you a chance to go ahead subscribe yourself.

You can read more about it and subscribe here!

Hope to see you over there. And hope that dad life is treating you well!

Hope you all had the best Fathers’ Day!

- mvm

*I actually am exactly that kind of presumptuous asshole except I’m married to a much smarter woman who told me nobody wants that shit and to give people the choice whether to subscribe or not themselves. Again, all credit to my wife.

She’s also a newly minted author (of the book variety. Dr. Saxbe has published academic works, contributed to the New York Times, NPR, Slate, and Fast Company, and writes the excellent and deeply thorough Natal Gazing Substack) whose debut, Dad Brain: The New Science of Fatherhood and How It Shapes Men’s Lives is out June 9 from Flatiron Books.

I got my hands on an early copy of the book (an ARC or a “galley” for all of you publishing nyyyyerds) and have been devouring it over the last few days. It’s tremendous. But—and I’ve always wanted to say this—YOU DON’T HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.

Check out our conversation below.

Give me the elevator pitch on Dad Brain. BUT, to be clear, I want the pitch on the concept, not your book. Can you summarize what you learned in researching and writing the (presumably ~75,000-word) book in 500 words or less?!

This is a tough ask! I’d say I learned that we humans have a superpower, which is that we are flexible and adaptable. Our hormones and our brain structure can change when we enter into parenthood and encounter new demands. Fathers have a slightly different entry into parenthood than mothers do, but many of the key impacts of the transition to parenthood - from the way it shifts our priorities, our relationships, our identities, and our lifestyles - are shared across both genders, and are reflected in our neurobiology. The fatherhood role has shifted over the last 50 years and contemporary men are more hands-on with their kids than their fathers and grandfathers were. That adds a lot of richness and fulfillment to men’s life, but it also carries the risk of stress and burnout. Dads are navigating some new terrain these days.

“Over the last decade, researchers have discovered that having a child profoundly transforms our brains, hormones, and sense of self. Most studies have (understandably) focused on mothers. Until recently, the transition to fatherhood has been overlooked.”

I lifted this quote from your book’s Amazon page because I absolutely love it. I love the fact that you focus on dads while so much of science, research, and simple conversation around parenthood has always centered moms (presumably because moms have historically done more parenting). After all, centering the journey of fatherhood, and fostering honest and earnest conversations about being a dad is the reason I write this newsletter.

So my question is how long did it take you to ideate, research, and write this book?

Thanks for pulling out that quote! I do think it’s time to put some of the focus on dads for a change, because they are parents too. I got the book deal a little over two years ago, in May 2024. I turned in a rough first draft of the book in February 2025, got edits back in June, and spent another couple of months rewriting most of the second half of the manuscript. Then there were a few months of copy-edits and final touches. So all told the book took more than a year to write, but it also took me over a decade to lay the groundwork for it through the research I had been doing in my lab, starting when we recruited the first couples into our longitudinal transition-to-parenthood study in 2013.

Further to that question, why do you think it’s taken so long to finally start researching, writing, and learning more about fatherhood?

Great question. I think there’s a justifiable emphasis on mothers because they so frequently take the lead role in parenting, and because their bodies and identities visibly change across the transition to motherhood. In the last decade, we learned a lot about the neurobiology of pregnancy, breastfeeding, and mothering. There have also been valuable efforts to raise awareness about maternal mental health problems and shine a spotlight on moms’ stress, burnout, and frustration. But in not studying fathers, I think we miss the chance to make some interesting discoveries about parenthood. How does men’s socialization intersect with their experiences as parents? How is bonding with the new baby different for dads? The fact that men also show hormone and brain changes with parenthood is fascinating to me, because it tells me that your neurobiology can reflect experience-dependent plasticity even in the absence of the hormonal changes attached to pregnancy and birth. I think the research is starting to catch up and shine more of a spotlight on dads.

How has your parenting evolved in learning about the Dad Brain? Has it informed your mom brain?

I’ve probably become a worse parent in the course of writing this book, because it’s absorbed so much of my time and energy! And my husband has had to pick up the slack in multiple domains. So if anything the book-writing experience has made me appreciate alloparenting (MIKE NOTE: “alloparenting” is a term for any form of parental care provided by an individual towards young that are not its own direct offspring. In a word, the “Village.”) and the extent to which we truly do need a lot of helpers to raise our kids.

Potential Spoiler Alert: What was the most jaw-dropping thing you learned while researching and writing the book?

There’s a chapter on paternity uncertainty and how fathers can tell whether a particular child is actually theirs. This is tricky for humans because we conceal our ovulation, so men don’t always know whether a particular coupling will lead to a pregnancy. In digging into this research, I discovered that there are also high rates of uncertainty and confusion among marmosets, tiny South American monkeys. Marmosets are almost always born as twins or triplets, and they have very high rates of chimerism, in which fetuses exchange blood and stem cells in utero and end up being genetic mix-ups. A marmoset can actually have two different fathers, because a male marmoset’s sperm can carry the DNA of his twin brother. That means he can produce a baby who is actually his brother’s genetic offspring. Scientists think that this shared gene pool makes it easier for marmosets to recognize their relatives and helps motivate cooperate, hands-on care in marmoset fathers. Multiple babies could theoretically be related to them, so they work harder to care for all the offspring in the community.

Dad Talks typically end with the same question: "What kind of father was your father? And what about his fathering style have you adopted in your own work as a dad? What about his style have you consciously tried to avoid?" And I want to ask you the same question but (and hopefully without causing any marital strife!), I wonder this about your husband. How has watching your husband be a father informed you as a mother? What have you learned from him? What missteps have you watched him take along the way? And how have you helped him correct those things?

I am very lucky because my dad was a great dad - I write about him in the book and how he really stepped up as a father after my parents got divorced. He invested a lot of time and energy into me and my siblings, and he did it solo, because my mom moved out and remarried. I am doubly lucky because I married a great dad. In fact, part of why I was so attracted to my husband from the very start of our relationship is that he was good with young kids and seemed to be good dad material. Raising teenagers has its own challenges, but he is patient and emotionally present with our kids when they are struggling, and he is also fun and genuinely enjoys spending time with them. Honestly one of my favorite parts of being married to him is watching him as a parent. In terms of missteps, he can sometimes overreact when my son talks back to him. Fourteen-year-old boys can be genuinely infuriating, but I often have to remind him to take a breath and calm down before taking the bait.

“What, being a dad?”

I’m wasn’t sure in the moment if my wife was being serious or just trying to get a laugh but, on a recent car ride, this was her response to me explaining how I was planning to stop writing this newsletter.

But that’s really all there is behind it. Because, what once was something that came easily and rapidly every Monday morning, no matter what, has become something that feels more of a chore than an adventure. And I just don’t feel up to it anymore.

It’s not that I’m writing too much, because I can’t really do that. For someone who writes somewhere in the ballpark of 300,000 words a year, most of which is paid and published, some of which is not, quantity and workload are never an issue. Writing is how I’ve always made sense of the world. For me, it’s like going to the faucet and pouring water into a cup; a simple act that doesn’t require much work, yet one that keeps me alive. Writing is something that I do for money but something that I do for nothing at all. And I’m super fortunate to be one of the people in the world who has figured out how to make a living doing something I love, something that I’d be doing even if I wasn’t getting paid to do it. Which probably means I’ll no doubt keep writing about my kids and about fatherhood in some fashion. Just not (almost) every week. And probably not so publicly.

So why don’t I feel up to it anymore?

To be honest, I don’t know. I’m not sure why. When I really dig in to my emotions and to the ho-hum everyday of fatherhood, my relationship with and to my kids, and my job as a dad still provide me with plenty of shit to write about.

I started this newsletter a few years ago as a place to not only write and record some of my thoughts about fatherhood but to help normalize and foster honest and earnest conversations about and around being a dad. Because, for some stupid fucking reason, we men are too often culturally unallowed to talk about our challenges, about our fears, about our wins and our losses. We can’t talk about our feelings. And this newsletter was my way of combatting that silly, silly blockade.

And over 160+ essays, 20-something interviews with other dads I know, appreciate, and/or admire from afar, thousands of email responses, notes, comments from and correspondence with readers, I’ve tried my best to do that. And throughout the journey, I learned so much about myself as a man, a husband, and, most importantly, a father.

But now that writing this newsletter seems more like a chore than it does something I get to do, it seems like as good a time as any to bid it farewell. At least loosely.

Which is why you shouldn’t go clicking that unsubscribe button.

Why not?

Because sometimes I might want to put something out there, to reconnect on occasion. Might be once a year. Might be once a month. It might be never again and, if that’s the case, you’ll never hear from me otherwise, so why not stay on the list?

(However, if you are a paying subscriber, you should go ahead and cancel that, as I don’t want you to keep paying for nothing.)

So, to you, my dear readers, I say thanks for coming along on the ride. Thanks for taking the time to read, to comment, to drop me your notes, your thoughts, and your feelings, whether publicly or privately. Thanks for making me and tons of other dads feel a little less alone in our journey.

Being a dad is hard as fuck but it’s the greatest thing any of us will ever do.

With love, your friend,

VM

But it’s cool because, working as “The Dadvocate,” YouTuber Lauren Corbett has made a huge name for herself (to the tune of a humble few million followers) on social media, advocating for shared parenting and healthy relationships, highlighting healthy fatherhood practices and masculinity, and never shying away from calling out some of the bullshit that can clog our feeds. And that’s a lot of bullshit.

You can check out Lauren’s work here and watch our conversation below. Enjoy!

We also measure time through milestones or core memories. That summer trip to France, an unforgettable afternoon, or the time I had to rush my son the emergency room because he busted his forehead open so bad, you could see his skull.

“That was FOUR summers ago?! Damn.”

But, for us, another metric to measure the passage of time is mileage. Because when you have an odometer on your family ebike, it’s easy to see how far you’ve come and how quickly they grow.

Not long after our daughter was born, Emily and I bought a big ebike in the hopes of replacing one of our two cars, at least for in-town errands, weekend runs to nearby playgrounds, and just the plain, never-gets-old fun of riding a bike.

I configured the bike we ordered so that our son would sit directly behind me on a little pad and our daughter behind him in a more secure child seat that had a five-point harness. I strapped blinking lights to just about every tube imaginable, joking that, in an effort to keep my family safe, I wanted our bike to look like the runway at LaGuardia as we zipped around town.

Over the last few years, Emily and I have used our ebike to get to just about every corner in our leafy little college town. In the earliest months and years, our son was exultant with joy every time we climbed aboard “The Asshole Wagon,” as I lovingly dubbed the bike. He’d hoot and he’d holler as he thrust him arms outward, pretending to be a plane or a bird. He’d ask me to send it down hills as fast as I could and would shout encouragement as I did my best to pull the combined 350 pounds of me and my kids up the many hills around our town. He’s thrust his little arm to the right or the left to signal a turn to cars or other bikes behind us. He loved each and every mile on the bike.

When he first started kindergarten, I would ride him the three-and-a-half miles up to his school nearly every day that it was warm enough to do so. Sometimes, I’d take my daughter as well and we’d zoom back through town, down to her preschool (though, the ride to her school is a bit more treacherous and involves riding in the unprotected bike lane on a pretty serious four-lane road… fucking American infrastructure).

But somewhere in there, my son started to get embarrassed about being the kid on the back of his dad’s bike. Somewhere in there, offers to take the ebike—offers that were once met with joy and a mad dash to go grab his helmet—became negotiations, of me basically pleading with him to take a ride with me. Somewhere in there, he started taking the bus to school every single day. And I love that for him. I love that he feels safe and comfortable enough with and around his peers that he looks forward to his daily bus rides. But I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t break a little bit when I realized that our daily commutes would be no more.

Last week, the bike’s odometer ticked past a thousand miles.

And as soon as it did, that number, the one I’d previously all but ignored, became suddenly, real. A thousand miles, most of them spent together as a family, most of them the cause of big, stupid smiles smeared across each of our faces.

These days, our daughter has taken the place of our young son, always thrilled when I say “Let’s take the bike instead.” I recently replaced her secure child’s seat with a little pad, just like her brother’s, as she’s just about too big for the little harness. I cried a little bit as I unscrewed it from the frame. She jumped for joy when she saw her new Big Girl seat.

Meanwhile, rather than ride on the back of the ebike, our son chooses to ride his own bike beside me and his sister. He’s getting big enough to tackle the big climbs around our town, big climbs that, just a few months ago, were far too long and far too big for his little legs. And when he does, I don’t look at the past anymore; I look at the future and dream of the amazing bike trips we’ll take together, when he and I are closer to equals than we are father and little boy.

He’s getting bigger. So is she. But he’s inching closer to young man than he is my little baby every day. And those side-by-side bike rides are stark reminders of that.

But every now and then, my son will cop to my pleas and hop on the back of the Asshole Wagon with his sister, knowing how my it means to his dad. And then, about a mile or two or three into our ride, he’ll forget himself, thrust his arms outward, forget his pretensions about riding on the back of his dad’s bike, and become the little boy he was just a few short years ago.

A thousand miles passed; a son growing too old to sit on the back of his dad’s bike; a daughter growing too big for her baby seat. Both of my kids growing up too fast, too fast, too fast.

Anyway, I recently spoke with internet personality, funny dad, and New York Times Bestselling author (which, despite Chips’ daughter’s protestations, IS a cool thing to be) about being a dad, writing about it, and some of the hilarious shit kids say.

Check out the video below and check out Chip’s work below the video.

Visit Chip’s website here and check out his new book, Dad Can You Not? A Dad’s Guide to Being Less Cringey here, which is available April 21.

Thanks to of all of these very desirable attributes that she seems to have been preternaturally gifted with in her first four-and-a-half years, she’s also usually covered with some combination of bruises, scrapes, cuts, and Band Aids.

Because, whenever she can, wherever she is, my daughter is usually fully sending it. She’s climbing trees or scaling to the highest peak of the playground. She’s trying to keep pace with her brother as he works on catching air at our local pump track. She’s sending it and those sends usually result in her fucking herself up to some extent or another. At least once a week, Emily or I will get a phone call or a message from her daycare, telling us that our daughter banged her elbow or her knee, scraped her forehead or her chin. And it’s almost always a result of her doing something most kids her age wouldn’t dare.

One of my many nicknames for my daughter is “The Cannonball of Love.” I think it encapsulates her perfectly.

But the funny thing about my daughter is, whenever she falls (or, more aptly, crashes), she often refuses help, comfort, and even the warm embrace of mom or dad. Rather, she’ll typically stand up, scream in pain for a few moments, tell me or Emily that she’s fine, wipe her face, and resume whatever maniacal stunt she was doing that resulted in her hurting herself in the first place. Every time, Emily and I tell her that it’s okay to be hurt, that it’s okay to want to find comfort and safety. And nearly every time, she tells us, in her own way, to fuck off with that shit.

To wit, at a recent BMX race (she’s been racing since she was not-quite-three), the starting gate dropped and my daughter sped down the 20-foot-tall hill. As she hit the track’s first jump, she inadvertently caught about a foot-and-a-half of air and went careening off the side of the track, down in to the small ravine between the first and second straightaways. Everyone could hear her screams as Emily and I sprinted to her. Once we arrived, like clockwork, she pushed us away and told us through sheets of snotty tears that she needed to finish the race.

Fearing I’d look like a neglectful stage dad, I asked her two or three times, each increasing in volume, “ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO TAKE A BREAK!? ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO KEEP RACING?!”

She was sure. And, crying the whole way around the rest of the track, she finished the race.

As an avid cyclist and diehard bike-racing fan, my brain equates my kids to one of two types of bike racers. My son is the time trialist—the kind of person whose singlemindedness and dedication to the task at hand make him readily able to hold both his physical position and maintain his power output at precise points for extended periods of time. He is the paragon of focus. My daughter, on the other hand, is the downhill mountain bike racer, the woman whose real teeth are long gone, who has had more broken bones than she can count and more surgeries than she can remember. The one who fully sends it, crashes hard as fuck, and then gets back up to keep going because she only knows one setting and that setting is “Go.”

And as I said in the intro to this piece, this is a good thing. I love the fact that I have a kid who continually risks life and limb to get her kicks in. As a man who was raised by a small army of some of the toughest women I’ve ever met, I hope that my little girl lives up to the strength, resilience, and perseverance just about all the women in my family have exhibited before her.

However, that doesn’t make it easy for me.

Because my natural inclination has always been to be a helicopter dad. And, if I’ve had to learn one thing more than anything in my eight years of fatherhood, it’s how to let the rope out a little bit; how to be there for them, but not all the way there. How to learn to give them the space they need and want to explore themselves and the world around them without being there to bulldoze all of the dangerous shit out of the way.

My little girl is going to fuck herself up. She’s more than likely going to break some bones and get more bruises, scrapes, cuts, and Band Aids over the course of her life.

I know that because that’s what little kids do. I know that because of what I’ve already watched The Cannonball of Love do over her first four-and-a-half years.

It’s good. Toughness is good. But one thing I don’t want is for my daughter to develop an exterior so tough, she becomes impenetrable. It’s why I always tell her that being hurt is okay; that she doesn’t have to fight through pain or fear or discomfort. That she can let her mommy and daddy hold her, rub her back, to comfort her in times of pain, fear, and stress.

Hopefully she hears me and, as she grows, realizes that being tough doesn’t mean she can’t also be vulnerable; the she can continue to fully send it while also recognizing there’s comfort and safety waiting for her, whenever she feels she needs it.

A few months before that, Emily and I asked him what kind of birthday party he wanted to have. He could either take two or three of his closest friends to do something really cool—go karting or paintball or whatever—or he could invite as many people as he wanted to a lower-stakes party at the park.

Ever the includer, our son chose the latter.

And so Emily and I, ever the includers, sent out an evite to just about everyone we know, most of whom have kids who are friends with our son, but some who are just friends of the family. And, much to our chagrin, most of them RSVP’d yes. And so, before we knew it, we were planning a party for more than 60 kids and another 20-to-25 adults.

No problem. That was the idea. Again, low stakes. Park play, get some cupcakes, and let them run wild.

Given our son’s current obsession, we made it a Pokémon party, which, for us, meant little more than buying a disposable Pokémon tablecloth and some Pokémon balloons (low stakes). I also took a few trips out to a nearby store which has a big bin full of loose Pokémon cards where, for six-bucks-per-bag, you can fill tiny Ziploc bags with the cards. I got about a dozen bags, we got some cupcakes, cookies, and drinks, and <BOOM> the party was ready.

Until it got rained out.

No problem. A few weeks later, we reconvened on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in one of our kids’ favorite parks where those 60 kids ran amok on the playground, traded Pokémon cards, and even spent some time wading knee deep in the clear, cool creek that runs alongside the playground.

At one point, Emily and I stood atop a small hill that overlooks the playground, chatting with our son’s teacher and a student services administrator—both of whom amazingly came to the party—as the kids played below. Emily or I remarked on how great it was that so many kids showed up.

“It’s because he’s so nice,” the administrator said.

She told us that he’s one of the most popular kids at his school, not because of his clothes or his attitude, his style or his athleticism, not because of some elusive, indefinable trait of coolness, or anything else that contributes to popularity in the macromicrocosm of school age. It was, she said, because he always does his best to include as many kids as possible, because he’s always quick to lend a hand, because he looks out for the kids who aren’t as bold or as fortunate as he.

It’s because he is kind.

My wife and I looked at each other silently, both playing and replaying the line in our heads.

It’s because he’s so nice.

At that moment, I couldn’t have been more proud of my son. It felt as if my heart was going to burst from my chest. My son, the kind boy.

If nothing else in life, if my kids become the President or a bricklayer, if they change the world or simply exist as tiny parts of it, I want nothing more for them both to be kind. Because, at the risk of sounding purple, it’s really the only thing that matters.

As I watched my son dash around the playground with his dozens of friends, I thought of the famous Kurt Vonnegut quote, one of the few I’ve tried my best to live my life by*:

“Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies: God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

I don’t know if kindness is something we can teach. But I do know for certain it’s something we can display. And I also know that our kids, that all kids, watch and see absolutely everything we do. And so, it’s something that I always do my best to keep that at the front of my mind.

My kids are watching me. They’re watching my wife. They’re absorbing everything and all of us; the good, the bad, and the ugly. They’re watching when I buy a homeless man a meal but they’re also watching when I call another driver on the road a “dumbfuck cocksucker.”

Hopefully, the former impresses more on them than the latter, because, if Vonnegut was right (and he usually was), god damn it, they’ve got to be kind.

*Here are a few others:

“I will find a way, or make one.” - Hannibal

“Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.” - Marcus Aurelius

“They don’t like who you are? Fuck ‘em.” - my mother

What are some of yours?

Thankfully, I occasionally get to do all three of those things at once, as I did with a recent story that the amazing people over at Cycling Weekly—which has the rarified distinction of being the oldest cycling magazine on Earth, having been in print since 1891—commissioned for a recent print issue.

The piece I wrote focuses on how, since the minute he was able to ride a two-wheel bike, my son has shown immense promise as a bike rider. And so, I wondered, how do I balance the idea of pushing him to achieve his maximum potential while also realizing that A: it’s statistically unlikely he’ll ever become a professional bike racer, B: he should always love riding his bike first and foremost, and C: he’s only eight.

For the story, I talked to some people who really know what they’re talking about: an elite youth cycling coach whose charges have raced in the Olympics and Tours de France; a son and aspirant racer whose father is one of the greatest bike racers we’ve ever seen; and a father who is one of America’s most successful bike racers ever, whose oldest son is now at the dawn of his own professional career.

Most importantly, I also talked to my son at length about whether or not he was comfortable appearing in print and online for millions of people to see and read about. Emily and I sat him down one night, explained as best we could what that all meant, and how the nature of the internet meant that this story would, in theory, live somewhere forever. Despite our cautious tone, he was thrilled at the idea and gave us an enthusiastic green light.

And so, with accompanying photos shot by our dear pal, amazing photographer, and world-class dad himself, Brian Hueske, we were overjoyed when the print edition arrived from the United Kingdom a few weeks ago. And just this morning, the piece went live online. I’ve posted a snippet of it below but encourage you to head over to Cycling Weekly Dot Com and read the story in full.

Ride on. Keep the rubber side down. And don’t be a dick.

As my seven-year-old son turned his first ever laps at our nearby velodrome, it was immediately clear that he was a natural. It was even clear to some of the other coaches, timers and racers at the track, one of whom, a USA Cycling official, leaned in and said to me, “He really gets it, huh?”

My lizard brain took over: immediately, I saw my son as a young man winning in velodromes around the world. I saw myself cheering him from the stands as he stood atop the podium as an Olympic medal was placed around his neck. Gold, of course. I urgently needed to remind myself that whatever became of his cycling future would be his story, subject to his motivations, not mine.

On the long drive home, as my little boy dozed in his seat, I wondered, as I often do, whether or not I’m doing a good job as a father. Specifically, I thought about my influence on my son’s cycling. My wife and I have had countless hours of conversations about his natural competitiveness and how best to harness it, not tamp it down in the name of good sportsmanship.

We’ve also discussed ad nauseam the other side of that coin: how do we foster an environment that allows our kids to stoke their competitive fire while also teaching them to be good, humane people. Let’s face it, the likelihood that they’ll actually become pro cyclists is very small. Competitiveness can be helpful in many facets of life, and so I wondered: where is the line?

How do I encourage my son to be unafraid to achieve greatness while also remembering that he is, after all, just seven? How do I maintain this love of bicycles without beginning to see them as a tool of work and career ambition?

Unfortunately, as in most aspects of parenting, there is no clear answer. But the first question I had to answer was, when? As in, when do I start pushing him and allowing him to push himself? When do I start concerning myself with his performance?

READ THE REST HERE!

I was drawn to the story for a few reasons. First and foremost, it was an honest and earnest account of fatherhood. Second, “toughness” is a concept that fascinates me as a father. When and why do we need to teach our kids to be tough? How do we balance that with vulnerability? How do we raise good kids (more specifically, boys) who realize that there is a place for toughness and a place to be vulnerable? How far do we push our kids to toughen up? Finally, Graham-Felsen’s story was geographically relevant to me, as, a few years back, I went out to the very same part of the country, to spend time in that hard land, to report a story for Condé Nast Traveler.

And so I emailed Sam, asking if he’d be interested in answering the BADIHAF Questionnaire. You can check out more of his work over at his website.

You’ve written a few high profile stories about your kid. What have you learned about yourself and your role as a father throughout the process of writing these stories?

Joan Didion said that she writes in order to figure out how she feels about things. And that’s true for me too. What I’ve learned about parenting but writing these stories is… basically, to not judge other parents. Parenting is the hardest job in the world — it’s basically impossible to get right. All you can hope for is to get it minimally wrong. One of the biggest things I’ve learned is to put more trust in my kids. They’re smart, and they are good at figuring things out for themselves. I’m trying to be more of a supporter and less of a molder.

How did you reckon with putting your son’s story out there in such a public light? Was there any conversation with him about publishing? What was his take?

Well, for one, I didn’t use his real name in the piece, to try to give him a modicum of privacy. I definitely worry about embarrassing people I write about — especially if they are members of my family, and especially especially if they are my kids! But my general feeling is, if I’m telling the truth about something, my sympathies will come through. I basically only write about things I love.

I told him I was going to write about our trip and his first response was “Cool! I’ll be famous!” Funnily, he has shown zero interest in reading the article — though he has looked at the pictures. I hope that by the time he is interested in reading it, he will see that it was a loving portrait, and see how much I admire him.

After your trip, how do you view the idea of toughness in your son? How has it changed since his focus shifted from Teddy Roosevelt to Paul Reubens?

First of all, the title of my article was pure clickbait. It managed to get a lot of people to click, and to get a lot of people who didn’t click mad. I wasn’t really trying to “toughen” him up — I was trying to bring him on a fun trip. I certainly do care about him being resilient, though, and being willing to try hard things and stick with them. Since the trip ended, he has gotten into rock climbing and conquered his earlier fear of heights. He’s overcome his fear of math — something I struggled with a lot as a kid, too. That’s been cool to see.

I still feel strongly that resilience is important — in terms of living a fulfilling life, and rebounding from the inevitable disappointments, setbacks, and struggles. But I think resilience is only half of the battle. The other half is having fun — being able to enjoy the good things in life. Letting the Pee Wee Herman side in. He’s still very into Pee Wee, and watching him enjoy life on his own, idiosyncratic terms, has been really gratifying to see.

What’s changed in your approach to fatherhood since taking your trip? And what did your trip help you realize about the father you were before the two of you set off for North Dakota?

If I’m 100% honest, I made myself into a bit of a character for the sake of narrative in the piece. I don’t think I’m particularly a hard-driving dad, nor have I ever been. My general approach is to try to be as hands-off and supportive as possible. I think it’s good to trust that kids know, deep down, what is best for them, and when they don’t know right away, that they’ll get there through trial and error.

One thing I’ve really tried to do as a dad is support my kids’ interests. If they get into anything other than using my phone or watching TV, I will go all out to support those interests. So, when my son got into National Parks, I started making plans to go to parks right away. We’ve been to 35 parks in the past year-and-a-half together.

What kind of father was your father? What about his parenting style have you adopted as your own? What have you consciously tried to avoid?

My dad was (still is) a very loving, accepting, and supportive dad. He never pressured me to do anything I didn’t want to do, and never set any expectations about what “masculinity” looked like. He said something to me that I’ll never forget: something like, “To me, the definition of ‘masculinity’ has nothing to do with toughness or fighting or anything like that. It is about being willing and able to take care of other people.”

The only thing I’ve really tried to avoid (unsuccessfully) is not being as much of a busy-body as he is. Alas, I think being a busy-body is hardwired into the Felsen DNA.

I explained that we don’t learn anything by being told we’re great (not that I expected that to be his response… hoped, maybe… but not expected); that we learn a lot more from our losses and mistakes than we do from our wins.

He chewed on a piece of pasta, pondering the question. His eyes darted around the room as his brain recounted god knows how many moments in his life as my son (knowing his brain, it recounted every moment in his life as my son).

After a few silent moments, he pulled his hand up to his face and rotated it from side to side.

“So so?” I asked.

He smiled.

“Yeah. Menza menz,” he said with a laugh, repeating a old Italian-American phrase he’s heard countless times that colloquially means “so so.”

My gut feeling was obvious: it hurt like a dagger. But I couldn’t let that emotion show, lest my son try to sugarcoat the truth, and did my best to remain unphased.

I pressed him a bit, asking what could take me from “menza menz” to “Best Dad Ever.”

“Look at your phone less,” he said. “Don’t drive to Winston-Salem every day. Don’t curse at other people when you’re driving.”

Expecting a whole lot more, more that cut to the core of who I was both as a human and as a father, I was relieved.

Look at my phone less.

Like most of us, I absolutely look at my phone too much. And so I need to develop better habits, to keep it more in check. For a while, Emily and I had a little space on our kitchen counter where phones went and stayed while we were in the house. I think we need to go back to that.

Don’t drive to Winston-Salem every day.

To be clear, I don’t drive to Winston-Salem every day. I drive there—90 minutes west of our home—twice a week, to teach journalism at Wake Forest University. And I only do it between early January and late April and again from early September until early December. It’s a gig I love and one I think I’m pretty good at. But I leave the house as soon as my kids are off to school and I don’t get home until around 6:30pm, which is about an hour before their bedtime. This gives me roughly one hour of quality time with them on Mondays and Wednesdays. But, to my son, those two days feel like every day. And that means I’m gone too much. I either need to reorganize my teaching schedule so that I get back closer to when they arrive home from school or I need to quit that job completely. It’s not worth missing out on time with my kids, especially when it feels to them like more than it actually is.

Don’t curse at other people when I’m driving.

He’s right. And so is Emily, who gets upset when my Jersey-bred road rage (too often) rears its ugly head. All my kids see is a father who can’t contain his anger and who thinks calling someone a “goddamn motherfucking jerkoff cocksucker” from the sanctity of my own car is somehow acceptable. It’s not. Even if people down here drive like goddamn motherfucking jerkoff cocksuckers. I need to fix it.

“That’s it?” I asked.

He cocked his head sideways, thinking for a moment before pursing his lips and shaking his head up and down.

“That’s it.”

“Well I can do that.”

“Do it then,” he challenged.

What shocked me about my son’s revelation wasn’t that he thinks I’m doing a so-so job, as much as it hurt to hear him say that. It wasn’t that he apparently doesn't see my big flaws and shortcomings—at least the ones that I think are big—as both a man and a father.

It was how things that, to me, seem tiny and relatively innocuous are, to him, massive.

My phone holding too much of my attention. My anger at other drivers. Most importantly, the two days I spend away from home each week. In my son’s limited purview, these seemingly small transgressions are huge. Huge enough to downgrade me from great, past good, and all the way to so so.

Menza menz.

Fare meglio.

February 9, 2018

After having tried all of the other wives’ tales with which to spark labor—the long walks, the long drives, the repeated sessions of sex, the primrose oils and spicy foods—we decided to go to the gym.

Being both a health coach and a fitness fanatic, thus having kept extremely active throughout her entire pregnancy, Emily was happy to try and sweat this baby out. She would stretch and do some light movement exercises while I would attempt a slow and steady twenty-thousand-meter row.

I put earbuds in and pressed play on my audiobook while Emily stretched on the floor beside me. Eventually, she pulled a rower down next to mine and began to pull her own meters, doing her best to work around her bulbous belly.

About twelve thousand meters in to my row, Emily left for the locker room.

A few minutes later, she returned with a look of confusion and excitement on her face. I pulled the earbuds from my ears.

“Hey,” she said, “So my underwear are pretty wet.”

“Yeah?!”

“Yeah but it definitely wasn’t a gush like the doctors said it would be.”

We agreed to not chance anything and left for the hospital.

****

An hour or so later, we’re in a small, windowless exam room, Emily propped up on the table and me seated at her side rummaging through the snack bag we had packed before heading to the hospital.

“Stop it,” she said with a quiet laugh.

“What?” I replied, my mouth full with mini pretzels, cashews and raisins.

“You’re getting trail mix on the floor.”

“Yeah. But I’m cleaning it up,” I said, handing her a plastic container full of strawberries, which she politely declined.

The doctor returned with his nurse in tow, ready to examine my wife, to see whether the discharge was in fact a water break or something more mundane. He took a swab of Emily’s crotch and handed it to the nurse. They spoke amongst themselves for a few moments before turning back to us.

“So there’s nothing here that is super indicative of anything,” the doctor said, “And your physical examination feels normal. I’m going to wait a few minutes and try again. If the results are the same, we’ll just send you home and have you come back this evening.”

With that, he and the nurse left the room.

Twenty minutes later, they returned to do what appeared to be the exact same test. As they stretched pairs of purple exam gloves over their hands and prepared to administer the test again, they were interrupted by a stern call on the intercom system.

“Emily, I’m very sorry,” the doctor said. “I have to go deliver a baby. As soon as I’m done, I’ll be back and we’ll do this test again.”

Another hour passed and the doctor returned, apologizing for rushing out earlier.

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “We aren’t going anywhere. You want some strawberries?”

“No thanks,” the doctor replied, unsure if I was serious.

He cleaned his hands, put on gloves and swabbed Emily again. This time his face lit up.

“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t send you home,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Emily.

“Yep. This baby is on his way. Now, he’s a long way off and you haven’t really even begun much dilation yet. But we’re going to transfer you to your room for the delivery.”

“It’s a good one,” said the nurse with a smile. “Got a beautiful view of town.”

Within a few hours, Emily’s contractions came on in earnest. She bounced on a big gray yoga ball while gripping her lower stomach and breathing deeper than I had ever heard. The pain was extreme and when Emily could talk, we marveled at women who birth without painkilling drugs. Like my mother did. Twice.

The sun had set outside of our wall-length window and the lights of Chapel Hill flickered like summer fireflies.

“Turn something on the television,” Emily implored. “I need to be distracted.”

“Oh!,” I said. “The opening ceremonies are on,” figuring our sequester would be as good a time as any to watch the ridiculous pageantry of an Olympic opening ceremony for the first time.

“Whatever,” Emily said, wincing in pain. “Just put something on.”

****

The only way the Winter Olympics will matter in any real sense to me going forward is the way in which they relate to you, kid.

I think how those games will be markers of your life, how every four years, as the opening ceremonies commence, your mom and I will recount the night you were born, about the terrible food court egg rolls I devoured and the big grey yoga ball on which she bounced.

I think I’ll always remember how, during your first few weeks, we watched the Olympics together, mom and dad exhausted on the couch, baby boy sleeping silent and content on our chests at all hours of the day and night.

I think of the near and further future.

You are four and I am explaining what exactly a luge is as we sip hot chocolate under our fuzzy Mets blanket while mom putters away in the kitchen, as cooking for us makes her most happy.

You are eight and have been to a few mountains, ski trips with mom and dad. You’ve taken some lumps and gotten back up, ready to tame the wild hill. You learn how to fall, how to take a mouthful of snow without giving up. You learn resilience.

You are twelve and skating circles around your creaky old man, with a preternatural sense for puckhandling and a devastating slapshot. I insist on telling you stories of the pond hokey I used to play on Otis Bog Road when I was your age, but you don’t care. You just smile and nod at the story I’ve told you a thousand times before.

You are sixteen and you’re hitting the massive halfpipe, much to your nervous parents’ dismay. Your confidence is higher than it will ever be. You are invincible.

You are twenty. You’re a man now and are starting to create your own life.

Maybe you’re off at college. Maybe you’re across the street at UNC. But we’ll talk on the phone while the Olympics play on the television and I’ll remind you once again about the night you made us a family. And maybe you’ll roll your eyes but still, you’ll realize that talking about that night makes me happy, even though I’m crying.

Whether those years culminate in Olympic glory or not doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is that you’re safe, healthy and confident. There are far too many variables to make any sort of a prediction as to where your life might lead.

The only given is that by then, we’ll be done changing diapers.

****

“Go to sleep,” Emily said.

It was almost midnight.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be a while. Get some rest. I’m gonna need you later.”

I pulled a pair of gym shorts from the overnight bag, put my glasses and phone on the window ledge and stretched out on the hard couch, listening and counting along with our baby’s amplified heartbeat as it rang out across the room.

February 10, 2018

4:33am

I was asleep on the hard couch, lulled by the rhythm of his amplified heartbeat for a few hours when the nurse tapped my shoulder.

“You might wanna wake up, daddy,” she said in a buttery North Carolina drawl. “You’re about to have this baby.”

The couch was positioned alongside a window that ran the length of the room and I rose to see the darkness outside. The lights flickered in Chapel Hill as our university town stretched below us. The room hummed with activity behind me as the nurse’s words settled into my brain.

“You’re about to have this baby.”

A million thoughts roared through my head, the first of which was how completely and absolutely unprepared I was to be a father.

All of the thoughts I had, the feelings I felt, the preparations Emily and I had made in the nine months leading up to this night flew out the room-length window and all I could think was how terrified I was by the nurse’s simple, declarative and very imminent statement.

“You’re about to have this baby.”

I’m not ready yet.

It didn’t matter because he was coming.

But I thought I was.

It didn’t matter because he was coming.

How on Earth were we going to take care of this baby?

It didn’t matter, because he was coming.

I have no clue what I’m doing.

It didn’t matter, because he was coming.

Could Emily just rest for a few more hours?

It didn’t matter, because he was coming.

I thought of my father, how elated he’d be to have a new grandson, and of Emily’s father, one building over in the psych lockdown, battling the demons that have plagued him for over a decade.

I thought of our mothers, both dead, and how this boy would never know a grandmother’s love.

It didn’t matter, because he was coming.

I wondered how we might do this without their guidance. I wondered what would happen to all of the questions that only our mothers could remedy. I wondered what he might miss out on as a boy without grandmas.

But it didn’t matter, because he was coming.

I rose faster than my mid-night legs would allow, almost running into a table that brimmed with various bagged and sealed syringes, sterilized tubes and color-coded caps that meant nothing to me, but everything to the team that would be coaxing my son from his womb. I shuffled my feet around our overnight bag, bursting with the supplies we might need for an unforetold stay in the hospital; an extra pair of shoes, the little Bluetooth speaker that would play our carefully curated labor playlist, comfortable underwear for Emily and a pair of gym shorts for me to sleep in, two books for us to read should this take a while, my notebook and a favorite pen, extra bottles of water, Tylenol and plenty of socks.

“Mike,” Emily beckoned as her legs were lifted into stirrups.

“Yeah? What do you need?”

“Glasses.”

“Glasses. Right.”

I began to root through the overnight bag, tossing aside a sweater and a few extra pairs of socks.

“Em,” I said, my focus still trained on the bag. “I don’t see your glasses.”

“Mike,” she said.

Her response that was so calm that I looked back over my shoulder and saw her somehow smiling at me despite our child passing through her birth canal.

“Your glasses.”

“Right. Glasses.”

I reached behind the couch where I had left my glasses, wallet and wedding ring before falling asleep and grabbed my thick-rims. The room came into focus.

Emily in the bed, two doctors below her waist, discussing the course of action that would transpire over the next few minutes, two nurses lifting her legs, pulling industrial grade lighting fixtures from hidden ceiling compartments, positioning her body at the ideal angles for pushing.

I grabbed the Bluetooth speaker from the overnight bag and moved to Emily’s side. We’d decided long before that I would stay topside for the duration of the pushing.

“Can you start the music?” Emily asked.

I cued up the playlist we had mapped out in the weeks leading up to this moment.

At the ready were Claude Debussy, Fairport Convention, The Pretenders, Otis Redding, Big Star, Nilsson, the Carpenters, Sam Cooke, Pinback, The Sea and Cake, Perfume Genius, Bobby Darin, Belle & Sebastian, Little Joy, Bob Dylan, Patsy Cline, Sigur Ros, The Velvet Underground, Bill Fox, Nick Drake and so many others.

The nurses began to cue Emily on how to push.

“Curl your pelvis up,” one said, “and kind of push toward the ceiling.”

Emily moved her hips and shimmied her lower back down toward the doctors.

“That’s exactly right,” the other nurse commended. “Now when the contractions come, I want you to push.”

She grabbed my hand and squeezed with power and strength I had never witnessed in our nearly decade together.

She was pushing.

The first contraction subsided. Emily took her breath while Vashti Bunyan’s “Winter Is Blue” crept out from the Bluetooth speaker.

“You’re doing great,” I whispered in her ear.

“Emily,” said the doctor, whose head was buried in my wife’s crotch, “you are doing great.”

The second contraction rose like a tide in Emily, my fingers crushed between hers and she curled into herself, her chin meeting her upper chest as she pushed.

“Deep breaths, girl,” said the nurse.

She pushed again. I looked over the top of her pelvis and asked anyone who might answer, “Is that his head?”

“That’s his head,” replied the doctor.

I had no idea it could go so fast.

“Em. His head is already there. I see the top of it. He’s almost here.”

“He’s almost here, mama,” replied a nurse. One of the doctors repeated the sentiment.

“He’s almost here.”

The third contraction.

The push.

Nothing.

The previous two contractions had moved our son along so fast and I had assumed that this meant Emily was settling into a long labor. No way it would be over so soon.

“That’s good, Emily,” said the doctor. “Just keep breathing.”

Harry Nilsson’s version of “Everybody’s Talkin’” began lilting from the little speaker.

The next contraction, the next set of pushes, the deep breaths, the tight grip, the nurses’ instructions, the doctors’ hands grabbing at the baby’s head, the bright lights, the sheets twisting beneath Emily, the darkness over Chapel Hill outside of our wall-length window, everything repeated in cycle once more.

Emily breathed one last time, pushed again, squeezed my hand in hers, and just like that, she was done.

I saw the mass of blue-white flesh fall into the doctor’s arms. I saw the nurses rush to clean some of the birth off of him. I watched his little mouth open for the first time, his first breath of air rush through his tiny lungs, his first scream come back out to the world. I saw them bring him to Emily’s chest, to place him skin to skin on her, the residue from the birth canal intermingling with the sweat pooled on her sternum. I saw the elation in my wife’s face. I felt her grip on my hand morph from pained to wonderment.

And for the first time I looked down at what had very suddenly become my family.

****

You’re here, kid. You’re finally here.

You’re in our arms, squirming, crying, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. You had a long couple of days and I’m sure you just want to be back in the warmth of your mother’s womb. But that’s not your place, kid. Your place is here with us, in the world, with your family.

A combination of exhaustion, wonder, fear, anticipation, excitement and a million, billion, trillion other tiny feelings flood my chest.

I want to run the halls, screaming in joy. I want to cry. I want to call everyone I know. I want to tell my father. I want to tell my mother.

I want to tell you everything right now but I know it’ll have to wait. Right now you have to sleep, kid. You need some rest. You’ve had a hell of a few days.

I was so scared, kid. When I walked into the hospital yesterday, I was more terrified I think than I had yet been. But then I saw a little guy as we checked in. He was about to head home for the first time, brand new in his mother’s arms and I was totally calmed by the sight of him.

In my mind, I spoke to you then.

“We can do this, kid,” I said. “If they can do it, we can do it.”

I took a deep breath and thought about how soon you’d be here. I worried about the next few hours, of course. About the pain that your mom would endure and whether or not you’d know what to do once you came out.

And then we went upstairs, the doctors poked and prodded your mom, they gave us a room and made us comfortable, we watched some Olympics on the television, I went to sleep, they woke me up, your mom pushed and you were here.

Just like that, you made us, kid.

You moved from a world of fluid to one of air. In an instant, you went from being one with your mom to a whole and physically independent human being.

In an instant, we became a family, thanks to you.

I thought there would be some sea change, some emotional awakening that would boil over or some new eyes with which I’d view the world this morning. I thought that your mere presence would immediately change everything.

But the reality is that, in the grand scheme of things nothing has changed. One day you weren’t here. The next you were. The world is almost exactly the same as it was yesterday.

Except it isn’t.

And now here I sit holding you, six-and-a-half feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds, thirty-five years old, terrified by twenty-two inches and eight pounds of tiny, sleeping flesh. And just like you did when you were three centimeters and barely a blob on a grey-black screen, you’ve once again reduced me to a crying mess, speechless, awed, amazed.

I spent the last nine months writing forty-five thousand words about you, kid. And now that you’re here I can’t find a single one to adequately describe how amazing you are.

All I can think is just how much I love you and how I can’t wait to become your father.

Love,

Dad

I don’t write in hopes of becoming a famous writer (though that would be nice). I’ve never made music to do anything other than to make myself feel whole (though becoming a famous musician would also be nice). And, with my recent return to one of my lifelong loves—the theater—I’m reminded that I never acted in hopes of making it in Hollywood (though being a famous actor would definitely be nice, though, I can imagine less nice than the other two). I do those things because they all compose the whole of the person I am. They are all things that make me not only feel happy, but make me feel like a human. They are the lenses through which I can best understand and interpret not only the world around me, but the world inside me.

Which is why I’ve never given much thought to or chased recognition for what I do.

Similarly, I don’t really give a fuck what other people think of me as a father. Because fatherhood is something that makes me feel whole and complete, even on its worst days.

There are some parts of fatherhood that I’m pretty good at:

My kids feel safe and they feel seen. They’re emotionally healthy and they have no doubt that I love them more than anything in the world.

There are some parts of fatherhood that I’m pretty bad at:

I yell too much. I’m far too impatient and allow my own anxieties to dictate how I approach my family life.

But, overall, I think I’m doing an okay job.

And that’s the place I like to be because, as my mother once (or twice) told me, The shittiest parents are the ones who are certain they’re doing a great job. Because absolute certainty leaves no room for self-analysis, for reflection, for making yourself better.

And while I neither need nor require any sort of external validation in my work as a parent, just like I don’t in my work as an artist (if I dare to sound like such a douchebag that I might call myself one), it’s still nice to be recognized.

In the context of the art that I make, recognition is easy. People buy the albums I make, share the stories I write, or fill the theater when I act. They pay their hard-earned money and spend their valuable time listening to my songs, reading my stories, or watching my scenes. They clap and cheer or they send me private emails telling me how my essays have affected them (though, far more often, though, my inbox is filled with people who haven’t read past my stories’ headlines telling me what an idiot I am).

But in my work as a father, in the work of any parent, that recognition is much harder to parse.

Why?

I’m sure there are a variety of reasons, not the least of which is scarcity. I mean, think about it: when was the last time you witnessed a parent doing a good job and told them as much? It probably happens far less frequently than you find yourself clapping for a musician or telling a writer how much you loved their essay or their book. When was the last time someone approached you at the playground or in the airport to tell you they saw or heard you do or say something and commended you for it? It happens. But it’s rare.

And, for as much as I say I don’t need any recognition; that I’ll keep doing my best to be my best, regardless of whether or not anyone is paying attention; and that I could not give less than a single fuck about what anyone thinks of my work as a father (save, of course, for the opinions of Emily and our kids), it’s still nice to hear. Because it’s always nice to be validated, even if it’s not required.

So, you can imagine how my day was made the other afternoon, when, after a morning spent sledding down a local hill with a bunch of other families, a friend and neighbor emailed our entire neighborhood listserv, apropos of nothing, praising the kindness and camaraderie of the local kids she was sledding with. I won’t go into detail, lest I get into peacocking territory. But reading her email, I felt a certain validation that can only come with recognition.

Because, as much as I don’t crave it, it’s still nice to be recognized; to hear that other people see and appreciate the work you do.

And, seeing as our kids are a reflection of the way we parent, it was reaffirming to read. Especially if, like me, you’re always questioning whether or not you’re doing anything right.

Once again, I apologize for the relative quiet over the last few weeks. Things are BONKERS here at BADIHAFHQ for about a million reasons. Not the least of which is that I’m teaching a three classes this semester at UNC-Chapel Hill and Wake Forest University, as opposed to my typical two or two. Class prep, grading, and staying on top of my students’ queries has taken a huge chunk of time this early in the semester. On top of that, I have to keep on writing to make a living (those of you who’ve ever taught as adjuncts know all too well how that shit hardly pays the bills). Oh, and this biblical ice storm which has kept my kids home from school all damn week. Anyway, excuses excuses.

Speaking of writing to pay the bills, I recently wrote a feature for the venerated British bicycling magazine Cycling Weekly all about how to embrace my son’s obvious natural talent and instinctive competitiveness on the bike while also not becoming a psycho sports dad. It’s in print in the UK this week and will be online in a few weeks. I hope you’ll click on over to CW and read it when it’s live (I’ll post a link here). And if you’re reading from the UK, go buy a copy at the newsstand. It’s my son’s first print feature.

But before I do that, I do want to talk about something I wrestle with constantly with in regards to this newsletter (and all social media, to be honest); something I’ve written about here before and will continue to keep my mind on for as long as I write publicly about my children.

That is, where is the line?

In other words, how much can I say and what can I say in print, in public, and, thanks to the internet, in perpetuity about children who don’t understand the impact, the ramifications, and the potential pitfalls of having their stories published.

There have been times throughout the life of this newsletter where I’ve realized that I’m veering too far into territory that would be in violation of my children’s autonomy. Times when I’ve had to remind myself that this newsletter is about ME. Not them. That it’s about us, as fathers, and not our children. Times when I’ve had to delete entire newsletters and write something from scratch because I realized that what I wrote was in violation of my kids’ trust and, potentially, their right to privacy.

But when it came to Cycling Weekly, it was a different paradigm entirely.

Though, in theory, anyone on Earth can access these posts, the reality is that they’re only reaching an infinitesimally small percentage of people. And while Cycling Weekly is hardly the front page of the Sunday edition of the New York Times (ahem, where, notsohumblebrag, my byline has appeared), it’s still a massive magazine with global reach. And, seeing as the story they wanted from me was a print feature, it would have to be accompanied by original photos. Big, glossy pictures of my son—whose face I keep private on social media and whose name I’ve never mentioned here—along with a story about him for the whole world to read.

Before accepting the assignment, I sat down with him and Emily and the three of us had a long conversation. I explained that some people I work with wanted me to write a story about him and how much he loves bikes. But moreso, that it was a story about me and how I’m always trying to figure out how to be a good dad to him and his sister. I told him that our dear friend Brian would come to take pictures of the two of us to accompany the story. I told him that people all over the world could read about him and I told him that this magazine was especially popular in London, a city he and I have both come to love desperately over the last few years.

I tried to downplay CW’s popularity, so to not influence his decision one way or the other.

I told him that, in the end, it was his decision.

He agreed without missing a beat. I asked him to sleep on it. To think about whether he really wanted his photo splashed on pages across continents. He said he didn’t need to, that he thought it was super cool and that, maybe someday, when he was a professional bike racer, we’d look back on this as the first story that was written about him.

I paused and smiled before explaining how that was kind of the crux of the story.

I haven’t seen the print issue of my story yet. A copy is winging its way across the Atlantic as I type this. But, as I do with all of my other major print pieces, I’ll file it away in a box in the back of my office closet. Maybe someday, whether he’s a professional bike racer or—far more likely—not, my son will find the box of all of his dad’s old magazine clips and he’ll see the big glossy picture of him and me in the old British bike magazine. Hopefully, he’ll still be excited to see his name in print.

That’s what I had to work with.

Five weeks.

Five Saturdays, to be more clear. Five Saturdays to do one of the things I love to do more than most things in the world. That is, to get on my bike and set out for a sixty, seventy, or hundred-mile ride with a great group of really strong bike riders over some of the best cycling roads on the east coast.

Between the end of my son’s little league season and the start of his youth basketball league—both teams I coach—I had five Saturdays off, Saturday mornings with no games, no practice schedules, no commitments. Five Saturdays to disappear, to go ride my bike, while Emily shouldered the whole of our parenting load for three, four, sometimes five hours.

But here’s the thing: I’ve never once been upset about it. Never once, have I groaned or pissed and moaned that I have to spend my Saturday mornings doing his thing rather than my thing. Never once have I woken up on a Saturday, looked wistfully out my window at a perfect riding day and thought that I’d rather be anywhere else than with my kid. Never have I considered coaching my kid’s teams, spending time with my son, a sacrifice.

Why?

My mother used to have a saying: “Perfect love makes sacrifice easy.”

And, as with most matters of the heart, of emotion, and of wisdom, she was spot the fuck on. What she meant by it was that sacrificing for the things and, more importantly, the people you love perfectly is not much of a sacrifice at all.

I love my kids perfectly. And so, these things don’t feel like sacrifice. Rather, they feel like an essential part of the journey that I signed up for and, most importantly, a stop on that journey that, once gone, I’ll never get back. The bike will always be there. My son the little leaguer will not. Someday, that boy will be a memory, someone I wish would let me show him how to field a ground ball or how to box out for a rebound.

Because, in what will feel like about ten minutes, my son might be playing on a real, big-kid basketball team with a real basketball coach. And in that coach, he’ll find another man who might fill some sort of father-figure role the way many of my beloved coaches and mentors did in my life. It wasn’t a failure on my father’s part, nor will be a failure on mine. As boys matriculate into young manhood, teen-age, and young adulthood, it’s essential that they have healthy, strong, male role models to look up to, to model their own impending manhood after; men who aren’t also their fathers.

I look forward to the days when my son finds one of those men. I look forward to learning from those men myself, to see my own shortcomings as a father through their strengths; to be a better dad to my kids.

But right now, I’m my son’s biggest role model (I hope) and I’m the man he needs most in the world. Which is why eschewing my beloved bike rides in order to coach my son’s teams (and soon, I hope, my daughter’s) doesn’t feel like any sacrifice at all.

Because when that time comes, when my kids spends their Saturday or Sunday mornings at high school basketball practice (or whatever they choose to do), then I’ll get back to my group rides, back to the thing I love more than most things in the world.

Most things. But not all of them.

The installation was super cool for kids and parents alike. Each room was a section of Gabby’s dollhouse that the kids were intimately aware of. Here was the kitchen, stocked with cooking toys and games; there, the garden, where the kids rode small scooters around the room and climbed in a treehouse. There was a “pool” room featuring the beloved MerCat character and even a meet-and-greet with Gabby herself (not the actor, of course. Rather, a young employee dressed in a giant Gabby head). There were secret doors that magically opened when our guide—an ebullient woman in her mid-60s who guided us step-by-step through each of the dollhouse’s rooms, often having as much fun as the kids—spouted of some magic cheer that the kids all knew by heart. There were treats and candy and the show’s popular songs playing throughout the installation. We even “shrunk” down, Alice in Wonderland style, in order to enter the dollhouse (in the first room, there was a small projection of the dollhouse on the wall. After reciting the song that makes Gabby shrink to dollhouse size in the show, the projection grew and grew until the dollhouse’s door lined up with a secret panel in the wall, allowing us to push through into Gabby’s dollhouse. It was rad. Some real Willy Wonka shit).

For our daughter, it was a ten-out-of-ten experience.

However, perhaps the only reason our daughter came to know Gabby is thanks to our son who, when was two, three, and four years old, was equally obsessed with the show. As Emily and I would sit and work (especially during the Covid-lockdown era), our son would watch episode after episode, answering the questions Gabby asked from the television, singing along with all of the songs, and dancing like a madman whenever Gabby told him to get up and move.

Shortly before our daughter was born, Emily and I bought our son a Gabby’s Dollhouse play set, telling him it was from his soon-to-be baby sister. Over the next year or two, it became a staple of his playtime.

But now, on the precipice of eight, he’s developing an acute understanding of the cool/lame paradigm. No longer are things just things to be enjoyed the way they have been for the first seven years of his life. Now, certain things come with a stigma. And, for an almost-eight-year-old boy, Gabby’s Dollhouse comes with such stigma. Gabby’s Dollhouse is decidedly lame.

And so, as we entered Gabby’s dollhouse the other day alongside another family with two young girls in tow, as our daughter’s faced beamed with excitement, joy, and glee, our son was decidedly dour and reluctant to participate in any of the interactive games the installation’s host lead, instead, choosing to stick close to my side through the first few stages of our adventure.

Yet, for all his hesitance, was easy to see how he wanted to let loose; easy to see him mouth the answers to our guide’s questions without actually saying the words.

First, I tried to lead by example, singing my heart out, doing all the cheers and songs, playing all the games, showing him that being lame can be the most fun thing of all. He wasn’t buying it. Emily encouraged him to answer the guide’s questions, questions he clearly knew as he slowly closer to the other kids. He wasn’t buying it.

Finally, I took him aside and asked if he was okay.

“Yeah,” he said. “This is just… I don’t know… weird.”

I told him I understood. I also reminded him how much and for how long he loved Gabby’s Dollhouse. I told him that I appreciated that, while he was clearly uncomfortable, he wasn’t trying to ruin the magic for his little sister. I told him that he could continue through the installation however he saw fit.

Then I explained one of the cornerstones of my approach to fatherhood. That is, you’re not going to get out of taking your kids to shit like Gabby’s Dollhouse installations… or Disney or Great Wolf Lodge etc. etc… so you might as well put the damn Mickey Mouse ears on, buy in, and have a good time. I reminded him that he was stuck there for the next hour or so and, considering, he might as well abandon his façade and enjoy it.

Slowly but surely, over the next few rooms we were led through, our son’s stony exterior melted away. Soon, he was jumping at the chance to shout the songs, answer our guide’s riddles, to solve the puzzles in each passing room, to decorate a cake in Gabby’s kitchen.

Soon, our soon-to-be eight-year-old boy—our son who, in no time at all, will be a teenager likely obsessed with the cool/lame paradigm—became the five year old he used to be, forgetting about the paradigm of cool and lame, ignoring any posturing he might otherwise have been inclined to, and, most importantly, not giving a fuck what anyone else thought of him.

He never had one of those phases that most little boys have (this one included) where he knows the names of every dinosaur or every fighter jet. He’s always loved the look and sound of hot rods and racecars, but never to the point where he was committing makes and models to memory. He’s jumped from show to show in his still-short life, but was never a devotee of Ninja Turtles or Bluey. And, outside of a few weeks when he was a toddler, where he’d always be carrying a remote control, he’s never had a specific toy or tool that was basically glued to his hand.

He just kind of floats from one thing to another, omnivorously taking in whatever seems to fall within his purview.

However, there has been one constant over the course of the last few years: a tiny, stuffed dog named Bruno.

Our son got Bruno a few Halloweens ago, when a neighbor of my sister’s was handing out small goodie bags to each of the trick-or-treaters. Inside each one was some candy, plastic trinkets, and a Beanie Baby-style stuffed animal. Whatever my daughter scored has been long lost to time. Bruno, however, who came in my son’s bag, has become the fifth member of our family.

Every night since that Halloween, my son has gone to sleep clutching Bruno. And if Bruno is not waiting for my son in bed, a frantic search of our entire home ensues until we can find him. My son even sleepwalks toting the little dog from his bed to ours, when he invariably comes to find my wife and me in the middle of the night, and climbs in to sleep between us.

Bruno has been to France, London, Italy, Philadelphia, and New York City on multiple occasions. He’s taken road trips, boat trips, and plane trips.

However, last week, I noticed that, for the first time in years, my son fell asleep without Bruno tucked beneath his arm.

You see, I usually hold my son in his bed until he falls asleep. Under my arm is him, under his arm, Bruno. And often, in the ten or fifteen minutes it takes my little boy to fall asleep, Bruno gets lost in the tossing and turning of pre-sleep. And so, after my son has konked and I climb out of his bed, I’ll root around in the blankets until I find Bruno and tuck him back beneath my son’s arm.

However, about a week ago, I couldn’t find Bruno. I gently rolled my sleeping son around, wondering if the dog was underneath him. I lifted covers and turned over pillows. Nada.

It wasn’t until I tiptoed back out to our living room that I saw Bruno sitting high on the mantle above our fireplace. I had no idea how he got up there nor did I have any clue how long my son had been falling asleep without him. But, rather than grab Bruno from his perch and return him to my sleeping son, I decided to do a little experiment, to see how many nights my son would go to sleep sans Bruno before he realized his beloved stuffy was missing. And after the fourth or fifth night, as I held my little guy while he dozed off, I mentioned Bruno, wondering if my son knew where he was.

“Eh,” my son said. “He’s probably somewhere. I’ll find him in the morning.”

My heart broke in that moment, realizing that suddenly and out of nowhere, a tiny part of my tiny boy was gone; that part that needed his little stuffed dog to fall asleep. Was this another big domino to fall in the evolution of baby to boy, boy to young man, young man to adult? I mean, surely we’ve had these moments before. That first time I realized his once-soft baby feet were now calloused and rough from playing shoeless in our yard; his first full night spent in his own bed; hell, even now, when, every morning, I watch him climb onto the schoolbus and wonder when my baby became an almost wholly independent, sentient human being.

Still, there was something different about my son’s sudden detachment when it came to Bruno. Perhaps it’s because there is no totem more indicative of small personhood than a beloved stuffed animal. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent hundreds of nights turning over our house in search of Bruno. I’m not sure why. But that tiny moment felt especially huge, like a cannonball dropped in a teacup.

I told my son, who was on the verge of sleep, to sit tight, that I would be right back, and climbed out of his bed to go grab Bruno from the mantle. When I returned, the blankets were pulled tight over my son’s head—he doesn’t like being left alone in the dark—and I feared that such a disruption would reset the process of falling asleep. I gently pulled the blankets back from his head and presented my son with Bruno.

“You found him,” my son said in a groggy voice, a wry smile creeping across his face. And with that, he grabbed his beloved Bruno, tucked him beneath his arm, rolled over, and immediately fell asleep.