The Adventures of Cal and Mac, Episode II: Happy Kids, Happy Dad

Yesterday was a very typical Sunday with Cal and Mac. They woke up before me (but after Katie), wandered into the bedroom to see if I was awake and got the usual answer of "I'll be up in a couple of minutes, but keep the noise down, willya." They kinda kept the noise down and I kinda got up 10 minutes later.

Katie gave me a cup of coffee, I got the boys bowls of oatmeal. Cal and Mac then went outside and played for a while. I had breakfast, showered, dressed, puttered around the house and felt awake enough to suggest going to the park maybe two hours later.

There are a few parks within walking distance of our place: the enormous athletic field with the small dog park adjacent to it that features the great, slanted climbing tree, the park with the pond, ducks and the shorter climbing trees and then Beatty Park, which has the great jungle gym. We ended up at this last park, climbed, chased each other and made like major goofballs for a half hour or so. The game of choice was something I called The Tickleinator, which had me relentlessly marching after the fleeing kids while providing an accompanying soundtrack: "Chi-chi-chiiiih, chi-chi-chiiiih, chi-chi-chiiiih." Kids get caught, Dad tickles, kids laugh until they hate the tickling, kids are released. Repeat as necessary. Game stops when Dad gets bored.

At that point, Cal, sitting on the park's slide and looking into the sky, said simply, "I feel so happy."

The best thing a father can hear. The very best. I hope he has the ability to find such moments forever.

A moment later Mac said, "Cool! That cloud looks like a dinosaur head!" And it did for a moment or two before it became a rooster, then a guy screaming with a tongue curling out of his mouth and finally a charging ram before it dissipated into wisphood proper.

All of this was followed by a 20-min walk to Leederville and Subway. Cal and Mac split a seafood sub—I can't believe my older boy managed to talk his brother into sharing his new passion, given how picky Mac can be—and I went for a meatball sub. We ate them at one of the sidewalk tables as it was a beautifully sunny afternoon.

"Cal, slow down. You're gonna be sitting there without anything to eat and I know you'll be eyeballing our food." He chewed a few mouthfuls before going back to the wolfing. Mac is always the last one to finish eating; he gives Cal a few pieces of food once the eyeballing starts. So do I.

We walk home. Cal grabs my hand.

"Thanks, kid. I know you're not going to want to do that for much longer. But you can always grab my hand if you feel like it." He hung on for much of the walk home, until we got to the big park, and at one point Mac clutched my right hand.

Mac is a lot less affectionate and I'm often apologizing to Katie or her mother, Louise, when Mac is standoffish at hellos, goodbyes and bedtimes. In fact, I have to prompt him for a kiss when he walks into our home or he's dropped off at his mother's. That fact always gets woven into those apologies to Katie and Louise: "Don't worry, he doesn't even kiss his father that much." No, he's more likely to climb on top of me while I'm lying on the couch watching a movie, as he did yesterday afternoon during Hellboy II: The Golden Army. Mac really has a warm and good heart, but he's a complex kid. Which is understandable.

A few times during the weekend I said, "Wow. The next time you're here you'll probably have a baby sister."

The threat of not seeing Cal and Mac had been suspended over my head a few times during the last half decade. Intellectually, I knew it was unlikely that I would never see them again, but there have been times when the emotions have won that internal battle.

Turbulence gives way to growth, things move on, and we manage to find a lot of happiness in clouds, chasing, climbing and typical Sundays that start with a grouchy father and his noisy sons.

Happy Birthday, My Boy!

My Pal Cal was born a decade ago today!

If memory serves, he came onto the scene at about 9:30 on a Friday evening. He took the emergency C-section option because he gave the docs the impression that he had a distressed heart rate, most likely due to his clutching the umbilical cord. Given that he was so well formed (I remember the doc saying, "This one's a Gerber baby!"), I like to think that he was just letting everyone know he was ready despite what the calendar said.

Of course he cried as a baby, but he honestly didn't cry a whole lot... although I have a picture of him during his first Halloween with a big, fat tear on his cheek. I had put a few wrappings on him, you know, so he could be a baby mummy for the holiday. I don't remember him wailing during that time, so I'm guessing the tear is evidence of his quietly enduring this weird seasonal humiliation. Selfish, I know: I was dying to share my own childhood passions with my kid as soon as possible.

I've slept poorly since 1993 and fatherhood didn't help things there but, although this is not a blessing for anyone and is a curse proper for the highly reflective, it did yield a gift once. Lying in bed late one night when Cal was not quite a year old, I heard him from his crib across the hall, in a baby's sing-song, say "Da-da." It sounded like total happiness! I got up to check on him and discovered that he was still asleep. Maybe he was dreaming, but I like to think that it was his way of saying, "The big guy is okay in my book." Anyway, it was his first recognizable word.

I think our first conversation, when he was maybe a year and a half old, was something like this:

Cal (pointing to a drink on the table): Dat yours?

Me: Yes it is, Cal.

Cal (pointing to his drink): Dat mine?

Me: It sure is.

And one of his other early questions was, "You got gas?" It's par for the course, but Cal and Mac still talk about gas a lot. I suspect it'll continue for, oh, 70 or 80 years.

I said to Katie the other day, "Despite how things turned out, I do have really good memories of those early years with Cal as a baby."

Some of the memories are very simple. Like standing out in the yard in Framingham on a cold autumn evening and showing him the full moon and stars. He cried out, "Moooooooon" and pronounced the sparklers "shtars." Maybe he was trying out a Sean Connery impression.

A year or two later, sitting on the porch up in Campton, New Hampshire, I pointed west and said, "Those are the White Mountains, Cal."

A small look of confusion. "But they're blue, Dad." The kid has always had a good grip on reality!

Sometimes on the weekends I had the kids after the divorce, I would wake up to have Cal standing there and giggling. He was only five years old, so his face would be at about the same height as my head on the pillow. Maybe he'd be poking my face or making goofy noises. At the time I probably thought the kid was being pesky, but the memories age really well.

  

Then there was the adventure in America back in 2007. Cal loves the fact that he was born there and he's gracious enough to let me know this all the time. You know... he really does make an effort to say things that will please me. I know he's doing this, and I often tell him, "Cal, you don't have to say that just to be nice to Dad."

"I know that, Dad."

What can I say... he's been a great kid and I like to think he's made the world a better place just by being a good kid in a world that's full of not-so-good kids and not-so-good adults. I know I'm awfully biased and I'm not going to make any apologies for that.

Enjoy your day, My Boy! And thank you.  

You Can Be Proud, Little One

I felt my daughter kick this morning! She doesn't make her appearance until mid-September, but she made her presence known through Katie's stomach. "What's happenin', Daddy?!" Bam! While there's a touch of anxiety regarding finances and some of the logistics involved, I'm really looking forward to the arrival of my baby girl. I have no preconceptions about how our relationship will unfold over the decades, and that's kind of liberating.  

You see, if we all have a major theme or issue to deal with in our lives—you know, something preordained by the universe—then I know mine focuses on fathers and sons. I did not know my father... that's not to say that I do not know who my father was or that there's some great mystery there, it's just that Charles Gregory McNeil, Sr. ceased to be a part of my life after my parents divorced in 1969. Everything else in my life has been viewed in the context of his absence. My stepfather loomed larger. Mentors like my Uncle Jim and Lou DeLuca and their teachings became all the more important and appreciated. When my own sons came along I felt I was repairing the damage from the earlier generation. Then the divorce and their having a stepfather... history repeated itself and everyone took their appropriate roles. A slow-starting career and any associated setbacks somehow seemed genetic. And what will my sons think of their father? Will they curse the connection? Have any sort of admiration or think me pathetic? Feel that I wronged them? There are just too many comparisons with the same-sex parent, I guess.

My daughter, though... it seems I can just be a parent without old ghosts floating around. As the late Lou DeLuca would have said (okay, some ghosts are benevolent), I can approach our relationship with an open hand and just let things be; nothing needs to be wrestled into place.

Don't get me wrong: I love my sons dearly and am thankful for them. Cal has the beautiful soul I could only imagine having; he is a kind boy, and I was not nearly as kind as a boy (and not as a man, for that matter). Right now it appears that Mac may harness his piss and vinegar, a trick I have yet to master. In varying measures and proportions they are both soulful and spirited and I could not be prouder. Every moment they are with me feels like a stolen gift, each hour just a bit more assurance that we won't forget each others' expressions, connections, quirks... which should not be the case but, hell... divorce. In the resigned words of Tony Soprano, "What are ya gonna do?"

At this point, all Katie and I really know about our daughter is that she has relatively long toes. Katie was concerned here because her toes are kind of short (well, the last three are wicked short). So, it looks like the girl will have at least something in common with Daddy. And that's another thing... I can call myself "Daddy" in context with her, but I tend to think of myself as "the Old Man" in the context of Cal and Mac. Jesus Christ... rumination always yields more baggage! "More issues than Time magazine, more baggage than Denpasar Aiport."

Anyway, a man looks at his sons and it can be like looking into the mirror—especially if certain family patterns repeat themselves. With a daughter things are just a touch alien and we don't know what to expect.

I can, however, tell you what I hope for my daughter. It would be a blessing if she had her mother's way with people, talent for kindness, generally sunny disposition and amazing work ethic. She'd be lucky if she got my mother's common sense, gift of doing things nicely and reverance for the family's traditions and elders. From Katie's mother she'll hopefully get great senses of curiosity and humor and conscientiousness. Perhaps Auntie Meggie's talents for friendship, conversation and the hard act of bringing equal parts wisdom and great humour into this life. Aunt Martha's hugely warm spirit and gracious soul. Kathy's appreciation and deft practice of a great many arts, from healing to folk. Debbie's sense of community, empathy and sentimental nature. Auntie Sal's entrepreneurial sense wouldn't hurt, that's for sure.

Going back, I know I was blessed with two amazing grandmothers, though I only met my mother's mother. A talented seamstress, she ran her own business out of the cellar, spoke Italian beautifully, loved to dance and play cards and was tough without being harsh.  My paternal grandmother died about six years before I was born, but from all accounts she was a vivacious and glowing soul... the kind of woman who would buy her Godson a puppy. There's no doubt she was the warm heart of that family, and her untimely death had huge repercussions on that family. Huge.

Katie's mother, Louise, describes her mother as formidable and Katie has a long line of wonderful memories that center on her grandmother's warm and protective nature.       

This is all just a long-winded way of saying to my unborn daughter that she has a lot of remarkable women in her bloodline. She can be proud of all the wonderful role models she has in her little community.

Hell... even her ghosts are good ones.

Growling, Cooing and Nyuck-Nyuck-Nyucking Through the Generation Gap

Katie and I went down to the Margaret River area over Easter. There we spent a bit of time with her sister, Sal, and three-month-old nephew, Jacob. At one point Katie had asked me if I wanted to hold the baby and my response was, "I don't know... I'm okay with my own kids; I don't feel funny cooing or growling at them, but not other kids."

Maybe it was a case of jitters prior to our own baby's arrival, but I started wondering if I had lost my touch with babies. Now, given the villain I have become post-divorce, I'm sure my ex-wife would say that I never had a touch with babies and that I was much more of a growler than a cooer, but when I was growing up I seemed to be pretty good with babies and people would say things like, "You'll be a good father some day."

Being entirely candid, I know that I was, for various reasons, quite depressed when my younger son Mac was born and I had offered up a spicey soundbite or two in regards to fatherhood and my tenuous connection to him. Thankfully, I grew close to him after I found a job and started settling on the new continent, but the pangs of guilt are still there. I figured if I held Jacob he'd pick up on my failings with babies in the past and would just wail.

Don't get me wrong, I like many babies, and I certainly don't dislike them on principle. My stepfather, Harry G. Nicoll, on the other hand, would often make the pronouncement, "I. Don't. Like. Babies." In a movie, you might have a central character say such a thing several times throughout the flick only to see him awkwardly cuddle-up with his grandchild during the last reel, but Harry's story, as far as I can tell, didn't have such a moment. My mother had the whole situation nicely pegged: "He just hates the fact that babies take the attention away from him." In his defense, Harry was great with older kids, teenagers and young people in general. But he really didn't like those beings that, in his words, "did nothing but eat, shit and squawk."

Getting back to me and babies and away from the digression, some babies I like and some are just okay. I certainly don't view all of them as adorable little angels, nor do I view them with the passion that some have for, say, a specific breed of dogs. Although you can't accurately say that a baby has a personality, you can say the little one has a presence. Some harmonise with us, others not so much.

Anyway, Katie is very persuasive. I held Jacob for a few minutes. He's too young to be bounced or tossed (to name just a couple of stereotypical guy-baby activities), but he was pretty cool with make believe dancing coupled with a mild invisible elevator sort of movement. I even got a few smiles out of him and a proto-giggle. In my book, that counts as bonding with Uncle Greg. We're pretty cool with each other. All of this bodes well for September and the arrival of Little Walker-White (whose sex is to be discovered in five days, by the way).

Moving up a few stages in the life cycle, last weekend Firstborn Cal and I were cruising through YouTube. Somehow we got to The Three Stooges.

"Oh, Cal! You're gonna love these guys! I used to watch them all the time when I was your age."

I explained to him how they were known for their particularly violent brand of slapstick. "But it's not the kind of violence you see in your video games or in, like, The Lord of the Rings." The clip we watched (linked above) was described as the "most violent sequence ever," but I knew no one was going to be killed and that it would be bloodless. Certainly it wouldn't be as bad as The Itchy & Scratchy Show, which he's seen tons of times on The Simpsons.

Well, was I surprised by Cal's reaction (picture at left)! Not only did he not laugh, but there were a few times when his eyes widened in disbelief. When Moe put Curly's nose to the grinding wheel he said something like, "Oh, my God, Dad! That is so violent!" He was really taken aback! At that point, I was more amused with the difference in tastes between the generations than I was the video clip. This kid (and all of his peers, lest I come off as the least-discerning father in Australia) has seen Orcs beheaded, Indiana Jones bloodying Nazis, Luke Skywalker have his hand amputated by his own father, King Kong chomping on Skull Islanders, hordes of the Na'vi wiped out on Pandora and Spider-Man receive plenty of graphic ass-whippings by deranged supervillains—but he was slapped out of his complacency by Moe Howard!

Honestly... I'm guessing it's Moe's bullying ways that did it. The guy really does have a nasty attitude and his expressions are genuinely mean when he whacks the other two. As far as I know, Cal has never been slapped before, so maybe that has something to do with it. When I was growing up, bullying was a fine art during recess at Avery School. I should be grateful that my boys are growing up in an age when grabbing another's nose is worse than decapitation, right?

Note to self : For pure entertainment value, invisible elevators have a greater shelf life—across generations—than The Stooges. You oughta know that by now, you chowdahead—crack! crunch! boink!

The Adventures of Cal and Mac, Episode I

I had my sons this past weekend. Always good to see them although, as a half month passes between their stays with Katie and I, I'm often taken aback at how much they've changed since our last time together. According to the markings on the study's door frame, both of them have grown about three inches during the past year. Each time I see Mac I notice a tooth is missing or one is coming through. Cal's sense of humour becomes more sophisticated, he picks up more in general and displays a lot of the behavior we associate with tweens.

Specific things? Well, this last weekend Cal read the whole of The Call of The Wild within a few hours. Mac, I came to discover, had won a merit certificate for language a couple of days before. He's only in first grade, but he's a standout in the basics of reading and writing. I figured he was pretty bright, but it's great to see it made official. So, they're both ticking along pretty well in terms of intellectual development. Along those lines, they'll be starting at a good private school in a couple of weeks.


It's fantastic that their mother and stepfather can afford to give them a superior education, and I believe that Cal and Mac (right) will thrive in such a setting. I'm grappling with my inability to pay for such things, though: as a fledgling high school teacher, half of their annual tuition would cost me just a touch under a quarter of a year's salary. What's the right thing to do here? Should I get a second job and forget about ever owning a house? Please bear in mind that Katie and I have another child to think about now and that I've not been involved with any decision-making processes regarding the boys' schooling.

Hold on a minute... I need to put the brakes on the guilt reaction here. I am not the only working class father of two in the Perth metro area who can't afford to send his kids to an exclusive private school.

What can I offer my kids? What do I offer them?

The Goofy Stuff

While the hour of tennis we play on Sunday mornings is a nod of the head to respectable activities, Mac, Cal and I spend a lot of time drawing at the kitchen table. This is a throwback to my own childhood: one of my earliest and fondest memories is of my Uncle Jim and I, back when he was dating my Aunt Kathy, circa 1970, sitting at the breakfast table drawing cartoon characters. A few years later I would develop a callus on my middle finger from my hours of drawing superheroes and monsters. My mother's brother, Uncle Frank, also a talented sketch artist, would often ask me, "That's pretty good, Gregory, but when are you going to draw something like airplanes?"


Most of my boys' drawings are of The Incredible Hulk, weird faces, pirates, King Kong and Star Wars characters, but the late Uncle Frank would be pleased to know that every now and again Cal will draw WWII era soldiers. Oh - I almost forgot! Lately both boys have been drawing Sasquatch quite a bit. My interest in the cryptid (please note that I am a hopeful skeptic with an accent on "skeptic") has been reawakened recently and I've shared this with them. They've seen the Patterson-Gimlin Film and are familiar with its famous Frame 352 (see Cal's photo at right). For a while they were both doing various Sasquatch calls around the house... but they eventually spooked each other so I had to issue a cease and desist order.


As you can imagine, we watch a lot of movies, too. They've been so steeped in the Star Wars canon that any prolonged periods of misbehavior are blamed on The Dark Side. Cal and Mac have also seen the original King Kong (1933... Cal used to call it "the gray one") and The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), so they'll have a jump on things if they should take a film studies class at the private school. Action figures go about their business to an urgently hummed Indiana Jones theme or an obscure motif from any of the Star Wars films. For a couple of years now they've both been able to pick out the Wilhelm Scream from a movie. The fact that I'm proud of this probably says something about my questionable values.


Then there are the adventures in the real world. A big chunk of this past Saturday was devoted to making a sculpture out of sticks in the park. You see, Perth experienced a hellacious storm last Monday and the grounds were strewn with tree limbs, bark and branches. We had a great time doing this and Mac really threw himself into the task... he imagined the kinds of creatures, both real and mythical, who might live inside. Cal grew bored after an hour or so, but it didn't tower over him like it did Mac, so you can understand. That's when he started perfecting Sasquatch's characteristic arm-swinging walk. I guess the twisted pile of branches made a good backdrop for the imagined antics of the Pacific Northwest's elusive beast.


The headmaster of this really private school gives its two creative students As for their efforts and talents.

Now It Can Be Told

Certainly there's a reason for this blog, right? I mean, other than it being another The World According to Greegor website, there has to be some theme propelling things. The future English teacher in me thinks, "There better be." Well, now that I've told my mother and the world (thank you, Facebook) the news, I can finally get to the point here.

In a sense, I've been given a second chance: my partner, Katie, and I are expecting a baby. Katie's first, my third. Wonderful news and definitely a planned-for pregnancy, although I thought it would take a while for the alchemy to happen. Why do I consider our baby a second chance rather than a third blessing (which it is)?

I have two sons, Callum and Cormac. I spent five years under the same roof with Cal by the time my ex-wife and I called it quits; Mac was 14 months old. When Cal blew out his candles on that day, I remember thinking, "Wow, I lasted a year longer with Cal than my father did with me." I'll be the first to admit that I harbored a defeatist mindset there. That's a failing in itself. The old apples, gravity and trees thing at work, I suppose. Always aware of most of my shortcomings—I have no doubt that I have my blind spots—I just assumed that the marriage wouldn't last. The bank account of resentments starts off with a big deposit when two hemispheres factor into the young union.

Let me quickly put the brakes on things: I can pillory myself here, but not the boys' mother.

Anyway, after the divorce I wrote up a list of things that I felt I did wrong and areas in which I might want to improve. I carried it around with me for a while and it soon had me thinking that maybe I didn't deserve to be a father. Sure, I paid my child support, had the kids on a weekend night and, initially, a night or two during the workweek. I did my best despite having a virtually non-existent support system but I wasn't really a father... I was Uncle Dad.

That feeling persists to the present day. Mac had his sixth birthday four days ago but I was not there. If he wants to come over this weekend, we'll do something to mark his special day. Hey, he's a little kid and knows that cake and presents are waiting, so it's a safe bet he'll be over. Another safe bet is that, when he first gets here, Mac will slip-up once or twice and call me "Papa," something I'm almost numb to after three and a half years.

Two weeks ago, when I was dropping the boys off at their mother's house, their stepfather was out front washing the Volvo. At this point Mac almost ran in front of a car while crossing the street, and to steer him off of what could've been a tragic trajectory I yelled (admittedly, my voice gets big and scary), "Mackie! Mackie! Mackie!" Screeching brakes and nasty thump were avoided, but not tears, wailing and a cry of, "No! You're not the boss of me!" All of this was within easy earshot of Papa, who probably is the boss of my son Cormac.

Uncle Dad.

Phoenix Fathers

No, I am not the only Uncle Dad in the world. What makes my situation a bit spicier, though, is that I too was raised by a stepfather and had my own you're-not-the-boss-of-me moment. I guess I was about 15 years old and it was Christmas Eve over at my Aunt Martha's house, sister of my natural father whom I had not seen in... maybe six or seven years. At one point in the evening, Aunt Martha handed me the phone and I spoke into the receiver, "Hi. Who's this?"

"It's your father."

"You're not my father. I have a real father now." End of conversation. Ouch.

Truth be told, I don't remember the incident. I think my sister, Meg, relayed it to me years later. But it certainly seems characteristic of me back then.

About 15 or 16 years after that call I had started feeling like the loser he was supposed to be. So I called him to apologise for my callous remark. Wow... it just dawned on me that the apology call is temporally equidistant from the remark and the present day. At any rate, we both apologised during that short phone call. Never saw each other again. Charles Gregory McNeil, Sr. died in subsidized housing in November of 2000.

We've heard time and again that being a parent is the most important job in the world. How many of us have screwed up that job royally or at least feel like we've botched things? How many of us toil under and try to escape the shadow of a bad parent? Are we ever allowed to say, "From this point on, I am indeed a good father"? Or shall we pay for those sins, real or perceived, forever?

When can we rise from the ashes of our failings, take wing and approach that job with a renewed purpose, confident in our good intentions and become a phoenix father, if you will?

Sure, if you go to any orchard you'll see that apples really don't fall far from their trees. Last time I checked, though, apples can be shiny but they're not reflective.

I have not wronged my sons in any significant way and probably not any insignificant ways, now that I think about it. They have enviable and privileged lives and I will again contribute to those lives financially when I'm finished at university and working full time. But I'm here for them, have a comfortable room for them and deny them nothing during their fortnightly stays. Hey... at least Mac has someone he can shout "You're not the boss of me" to! There is indeed value in that. Trust me.

Katie, thank you for telling me that I will be a good father to Little One. And for continuously reminding me that I'm good to Cal and Mac. Someday I'll get the message.

Little Moments with the Big Screen

I had a wonderful weekend with my older son, Callum, whom I see two weekends a month. Sometimes Cal is accompanied by his younger brother, Mac. Lately, though, almost-six-year-old Mac often doesn't feel like coming over. I can't blame the little guy for this; he was only 14 months old when his mother and I divorced and he started calling another guy "Papa" not too long after that. My guess is he's a little confused. I'll leave it at that.

Upon arrival, Cal said something about almost seeing Avatar earlier but the idea had been nixed in the other household because it was felt that the aliens in the movie might scare Mac. Fair enough. Since Mac wasn't with us, Cal and I had our opening to see what's being likened to a similar cinematic experience many of us had in 1977.

A great many people are going to catch the reference to '77 without any explanation—and I tend to get along with those people very well—but for the rest of you, I'm talking about Star Wars. Star Wars before there was anything about episodes or "A New Hope." Magic that's been talked about and referenced so much in pop culture in recent years as being magical that a lot of the magic has been washed out. I was 12 years old in '77 and I was one of the target audiences. Another member of another target audience would have been my 50-year-old stepfather-to-be Harry G. Nicoll. Harry read tons of science fiction, worked on some of the early space projects and could remember the Flash Gordon serials of the 1930s.

I'm almost certain that we saw the movie in early September of that year. Either that or late August. At the time the flick was just becoming a phenomenon and no one knew enough to keep and frame the ticket stub, but I can pretty much nail my initial viewing of Star Wars to the three-week window of late August to the first half of September. As a kid who spent a lot of time drawing and zero time playing baseball or other such sports, the movie hit me hard. I was Darth Vader for Halloween that year, collected the cards and kept a Star Wars scrap book.

That was the superficial stuff.

Three years later and the Empire Strikes Back comes out. When I discovered that Vader was Luke's father, the mythology knocked me for a loop and I found myself in a subset target audience of the original target audience: I had not seen my wheezing (he died of emphysema years later), villified and absent father in many years... and I would not see him ever again. All I can say is that I felt Luke's cry of "Noooooooo!" when he discovered his parentage. To put it simply, no one wants to be of bad stock; you feel damaged from the git-go. With that flaw, bullies and empires are hard to defeat.

Okay, let's get back on track. Harry didn't take my sister, Meg, and I to too many movies, but we saw the three original Star Wars movies together. I was not athletic like Harry and I'm sure I was generally pretty pesky, but we shared those movies. For me, they were honest-to-goodness father-and-son experiences (or, more correctly, stepfather-and-stepson experiences).

Every now and again I will try to kick the Aussie Rules footy around with my sons, but talk about feeling like an imposter. That's a sport that's indulged in the other household. I tried tennis with Cal yesterday because he had just finished a tennis camp and my amazing Katie thought it would be a fun thing for all of us to do. Still, my kid isn't coming away from our hour on the court knowing something about what his Dad does or likes.

Dad takes him to the movies and draws with him. A lot of the time we draw stuff from the movies. I'm sure to many it's not as worthy or authentic an experience as playing catch, experiencing the great outdoors or riding a bike. I can see the merit in those viewpoints. But it's also nice to see a kid's imagination fired: after the movie, Cal was wondering about the lives of Pandora's animals, the cryosleep required to travel from Earth to Pandora, having an Avatar, imagining a sequel.

When the house lights came up Cal said, "Thanks, Dad." I don't have a snappy and tidy way to end this entry. I just felt great when my boy said that, that's all.

I've Made All the Mistakes... Now It's Time to Get Things Right

A good chunk of my life is over. In fact, if I'm at the midpoint, then I'm going to have an enviable lifespan—and the guys in my family generally don't have enviable lifespans. Divorced, laid-off and living far from my New England homeland, I've reaped the fruits of my errors over the last half-decade. Several months ago I said to myself, "I better get serious in a hurry." So I decided to become a high school English teacher.

I'll be qualified to stand before a classroom in about five months. One semester to go. Although I make a bit of money by writing copy for a few Australian websites in the retail space, I'm burning through my savings. The local press says that there will be a great need for secondary-level teachers in a few years, but it'll be competitive for a while; finding a permanent teaching gig isn't going to happen quickly.

But I feel like I have a fighting chance in education. That's a new feeling for me.

Truth be told, I stumbled into my career in marketing. After high school I joined the Navy and became a military journalist; my dream at the time was to be a filmmaker, and my recruiter told me that journalists worked around cameras quite a bit. So I ended up reading the news for the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service. The military seemed like the adventurous thing to do and, besides, I was way too much of a cut-up in high school to go to college—and I had the grades to prove it. After my hitch, I went on to the University of Massachuetts to pursue a degree in English. I earned good grades there.

While at UMass I held all sorts of odd jobs: bouncer, barback, courier and emergency room clerk, to name just a few. After I received my degree I simply went on to a slightly better administrative posting at the hospital where I'd been working. Children's Hospital, Boston, to be less vague. Got married. Then went from that slightly better admin job to a start-up internet company that one of the hospital's physicians had founded. Amongst a dozen or so M.I.T. and similar computer hotshots I was woefully out of place and got laid off for the first time since I started working in high school almost 20 years earlier. Ouch.

Not long after that my ex-wife and I discovered that she was pregnant. Yes, it was pretty scary hearing that I was to become a father while there were no paychecks coming in... especially since my biological father, whom I had not seen in almost a quarter century—nor would I ever see again—had been a huge failure. A massive failure. Colossal. We'll talk about that later. Anyway, I got lucky and landed a job that actually made use of my degree about two months after I was shown the door at the internet company. I would be working as an editorial assistant in the marketing/communications department of a large consulting firm.

A few years later I quit that job when my ex-wife and I decided to move to her native Australia. It took me the better part of a year to find a job once I hit these shores. Blessings were counted when I successfully landed a marketing manager gig six weeks after my second son was born. Yes, it was good to be working again, but marketing in Australia, I soon discovered, seemed to have more of an accent on sales rather than communications. The marketing job I had before I left the U.S. was pretty rare in that it was primarily focussed on the written word, so I always felt like an imposter when asked to do anything business-development related in Australia.

Fast forward a year after getting that job and my marriage is over. Three years after that and I'm thoroughly burnt out. I get another marketing job. Nine months later the Global Financial Crisis is in full swing and I fall in its path. Add another 11 months and half a Graduate Diploma in Education (Secondary) and here we are.

There's ad copy that needs to be written right now, and a book that I've been trying to birth for a few years. My writings here definitely fall under the "Procrastination" banner.

It's time to get things right.