Lost

What parent hasn't dreamt of swaths of free time, time to do whatever their heart desires while their kids are nestled away in the competent hands of another? My brothers like to joke that they'd love to be stay-at-home dads if they could put their kids in daycare all day. As with so many things in life, though, the reality doesn't match the vision.

I suppose I'm living the dream - all of my kids at school for seven hours a day and me with little more than free time. Only it doesn't feel very dreamy. It feels weird and wrong.

I've been dropped into this big change, and at the same time I'm mourning the permanent passage of a time in my life. The strangest things get to me. I had to choke back a sob the other day upon stumbling across "Curious George" on PBS Kids and thinking how much I wished Gus had been there to ask me if he could watch.

It's been quite a month, filled with bitter, sweet and bittersweet. I sent my youngest son to kindergarten. We adopted and then returned a dog. My husband just got this amazing promotion at work. Through it all, though, I keep coming back to feeling discontent.

I've applied for a handful of jobs and have yet to receive an interview. My phone sits silent, and I feel like the woman the world has forgotten. I have a lot of confidence in my abilities and what I can offer, but I'm afraid all employers see is the gaping hole in my resume.

It's strange, this juxtaposition of Mark's soaring success at work and my inability to launch even a meager career. I don't have any regrets about choosing to stay home, but I do wish I'd focused more on the end game. 

You know that admonition to young women: don't go directly from being someone's daughter to someone's wife to someone's mother? Well, I pretty much did just that. And I'm happy with the way it turned out. Yet I see the wisdom in this advice. If could go back I'd tell myself to have a long-term plan. Now I'm in my late 30s and have not a clue about how to spend the rest of my life.

I've been through enough doldrums to know that inertia is your worst enemy, and I fight it at all costs. Tempting though it is some days, I will not let myself slip into indulging in a "Grey's Anatomy" rerun bender on Netflix. I fill my days with exercise and house work, decluttering the basement.

Mark encourages me to go easy on myself, enjoy this time. I have been raising kids full-time for almost nine years. Take a break. I try, and I know someday I will look back on this time and kick myself for letting myself get so angsty about it and not just living it up. I will not be here forever.

Sometimes I have a hard time telling what's really bothering me. Part of it is embarrassment with a generous helping of guilt that I'm a stay-at-home mom without, you know, any kids with me the majority of the day. 

Aside from self-loathing, I think what really gets me is that I want to do something meaningful with this time. I want the adult conversation and interaction with people that a job would offer. I want to do some good in the world.

I pictured myself in a part-time job with flexibility, leaving me time to volunteer and still be there fully for the kids. That hasn't come to fruition, at least not yet.

I'm determined to figure this out, though. My beginning plans are humble. I've signed up to do substitute secretarial work in the school district. I will be volunteering one morning a week at the hospital and am looking to do some work at St. Joe's Food Pantry. It's all in the name of soul searching, trying to figure out who I will become.

I've been in kind of a funk creatively, but maybe I'll use this time to write more, try doing a few things that scare me.

I'll tell you one thing, though, I most certainly am not going to go watch an episode of "Grey's Anatomy." The "messy side" of the basement is calling my name and the bedrooms could use a vacuuming. In the meantime, please do let me know if you know of a great part-time job or volunteer opportunity.

When life gets hard

If we knew the pain and suffering that could follow, would we ever make any big decisions or would we just sit, perpetually crippled, afraid to do anything? For me, sometimes I suspect the latter. It's a good thing I can't anticipate every eventuality, because as my husband so eloquently reminded me as we were going through the events of last week, these experiences, good and bad, joyful and sorrowful, make up life itself.

Things didn't work out with our dog, Finn. Even though I know it was the right decision for my family, it's hard for me to write about this because the guilt and sorrow I feel is wrenching. However, it's always my goal to write candidly about my experiences raising a family, so here goes.

Getting a dog was no impulse decision for us. Mark and I had talked and researched a lot. We knew we wanted to adopt a shelter dog, and we were heavily leaning toward choosing an adult dog. We didn't feel up for the trappings of raising a puppy. Breed didn't much matter; we wanted to find the right personality (and preferably a dog that was a little less allergenic for all of our sneezy noses and itchy eyes).

I had reservations about taking the boys to look at dogs with us - too easy to get attached, I reasoned. But Mark correctly asserted that the kids needed to be with us so we could see how the dogs interacted.

Our first visit was overwhelming, to say the least. Pushing open the door to the anteroom that housed the first group of dogs was loud, but as we made our way back to the back of the shelter, where more dogs lived, it was cacophony. We couldn't even talk to the person next to us, so loud was the barking. It was a lot for the boys and even for Mark, but I made my way around, trying to identify the dogs that remained calm through the chaos.

We settled on a few dogs that seemed like they could fit but couldn't interact with any of them that day, as most of the dogs there had recently come from Tennessee and were in quarantine. We filled out an application and decided to come again a few days later to meet the three dogs that had made our short list.

At the top of our list was a 1-year-old hound/shepherd mix named Todd. But when we returned on a Thursday afternoon, the first dog we met was Bruno, a Catahoula Leopard dog mix. We were a little skeptical upfront because Bruno was just shy of six months old - younger than the adult dog we'd said we wanted.

The connection with Bruno, however, was immediate. We all felt it. He especially seemed to bond with Mark. We adored the white stripe down the middle of his face and his calm demeanor.

We met Jada, also on our list, and she did not care for us at all. Todd was lovely, but we'd already fallen for Bruno. Flying high with euphoria, we made plans to pick up Bruno two days later.

In the intervening two days, I was wracked with worry and doubt. Were we really ready for this? Mark and I both read about Catahoulas. Some aspects of their personalities seemed like a perfect fit, others not. The hard part was knowing how much Catahoula he had in him and how much another breed, or even breeds. It made it difficult to draw any conclusions.

In the end, we took a leap of faith and brought Bruno home. As we talked with the worker at the shelter, we were delighted to hear her say that we could still change Bruno's name. We debated the possibilities excitedly as we drove to the pet store to pick up some supplies, Bruno peering curiously out the windows. We finally settled on Finley - Finn for short.

The first days Finn was with us, we couldn't believe our luck. We were prepared for the unexpected. We assumed we'd be dealing with some house training issues. We didn't look forward to the prospect of him chewing on our things but were realistic about the fact that it probably would happen. We expected a disrupted night or two as he eased into sleeping in the kennel we'd bought.

None of the negatives happened. Finn was house trained from the beginning. He didn't have a single accident. He half-heartedly picked up a Lego tire or two from time to time, but for the most part, he left our stuff alone. He slept silently all night in his kennel. He didn't beg for food, didn't bother people while they were eating. He rarely barked or made a peep at all.

In the end, what didn't work with Finn was not something we'd anticipated, and it felt like an issue that was much more complicated than house training. At first, Finn was fantastic with the boys. The entire time we had him, he gamely tolerated Gus's annoying habits of pulling at his hears and tail. The first time the kids took him downstairs for a romp, he chased and nipped at them a bit. Puppy play, we assured the boys.

The first time I felt truly nervous was when Finn spotted our 1-year-old neighbor boy playing at the outskirts of our backyard. I think it was the first time I'd really heard him growl and bark - perfectly normal, my mom and Mark told me when I fretted. He just feels protective of his domain.

Finn, though, began to behave unpredictably toward the boys. One day I'd taken him for a walk with my nephew. My nephew was walking beside us when Finn caught sight of his leash and got riled up, a common occurrence with him. He rounded on my nephew, growling, jumping up and snapping at his shoulder blades. The same thing happened again with Gus days later.

The day I decided I couldn't keep Finn, though, was Paul's first day of school. The day had begun in a lovely way. I'll never forget the sound of Paul's laughter and delight upon seeing that Finn could shake.

I was feeling iffy toward Finn that day because he had had the incident with Gus while we were out for a walk in the afternoon. Nevertheless, I took Finn out on his leash to wait in the driveway for Paul's bus. It was supposed to be one of those beautiful moments: dog, tail wagging, reunites with boy after school. Paul came running, and Finn began to bark, growl and jump. By the time Paul reached our driveway, Finn was so worked up, he would hardly let Paul pass. Poor Paul just cowered. That was it. I couldn't do it any longer.

I don't pin any of this on Finn. It's just his personality. It's in his nature to be protective, but our house is one of constant comings and goings. Finn's temperament just felt like the wrong fit for us. His unpredictability with kids was daunting to me, and I didn't feel like I had the know-how or the resources to train it out of him; I felt skeptical that it was possible. In the end, I thought it was best for us and for Finn for him to be placed in a more suitable home.

Telling the kids was one of the hardest things we've ever had to do. Paul was explosive in his grief, Ben more reserved yet determined to change my mind. "If he's really, really good tomorrow, can't we keep him?" the boys begged.

I was resolved, though, and remained so, even though the prospect of returning Finn to the shelter made me feel ill. I made myself do it, though by the time the day arrived to bring Finn back, I didn't want to anymore.

It's done now, and it hurts, the kids most of all. As a mom, I'm supposed to prevent pain, to relieve pain, not inflict it. To have done so is truly hard to accept.

I understand and respect if you disagree with our decision. To me, we tried and failed at something we went into with altruism and best faith. It came down to doing what I thought was best for the kids, as everything does when you're a parent.

As for now, I'm hoping for healed hearts and mended spirits as we walk through this painful part of our journey. 

An amateur parent

It's a good thing my kids don't know how utterly clueless I often feel when I'm raising them. If they knew how often I improvise and fumble, how frequently I have no idea what to do, say or threaten to get them to cooperate, I just might lose the slim amount of authority I carry. 

I suppose someday the jig will be up my kids will realize my ineptitude and look back and laugh at the phrases I repeat ad nauseam. For example, when I say, "Stop what you're doing or there will be serious consequences," really it means I have no idea what to say right now to get you stop. 

I can reasonably fake my way through small day-to-day situations. It's the big ones that worry me, and these often involve Ben, my oldest and my guinea pig as I try to figure out what works and what doesn't. As he prepares to enter adolescence, I struggle to find the right balance between asserting parental authority and extending him autonomy. 

As is the case with many almost 12-year-olds, Ben can be petulant as a toddler one moment and show remarkable maturity the next. He taunts Paul by running away with his favorite Lego minifigure, and that same day he surprises me by doing all the dishes while I have his brothers at swimming lessons. (I tried mightily to suppress my worries about washing temperature and ignore the smudges on the blender and the fact that he washed and left half wet glasses that I would've put in the dishwasher.)

My latest dilemma is piano lessons. Ben has been taking private lessons for more than three years now, not an inexpensive endeavor. He and we have invested time and money ... and he's grown tired of playing, whining whenever it's time to go to lessons, majorly slacking on practice time.

Do we let Ben begin to make some life decisions on his own, or is it better for us to step in and act in what we think are his best interests? I picture hauling a complaining Ben to lessons every week for years to come, nagging him to practice, shelling out big bucks for something he doesn't want to do. Then I envision Ben of the future, years after we've given up and let him quit: "Why didn't you make me stick with piano?"

Situations like these arise in nearly every family, I'm certain, but what to do? My waffling was evident. I'd talk to Ben one time and emphasize how much we'd invested in piano; another I'd tell him that if he was no longer interested, maybe it was time to consider giving it up.

Ben was feeling the effects of my dithering. He complained mightily about going to lessons on Wednesday, and as we drove, I broached the subject once more. Ben laid it out for me: he doesn't really like playing anymore, but he didn't want to disappoint Mark and me or his teacher.

Ben's teacher had been noticing a change in Ben, too. My oldest is a natural at reading music, and piano has come fairly easily to him. If he does this well without practicing, we like to say, just think what he could accomplish if he actually practiced. Lately, though, Ben's apathy has been showing. He's been stuck on a particular song for weeks, and everything right down to his posture sends an I-don't-want-to-be-here message.

I usually just drop off Ben at lessons, but luckily I was able to stay on Wednesday. My preferred technique in dealing with tough, potentially awkward situations often involves strained, phony optimism. I half-planned to say to his teacher, "Oh, we'll get this scalawag practicing again, and everything will be fine!"

As I sat in the other room listening to Ben play, though, I decided to try candor. When his teacher had stepped away from Ben, I took her aside. "What do you when your students just plateau?" I asked. "Ben says he doesn't want to play anymore."

I'm sure in all her years of teaching, this has NEVER happened before. It has. All the time. Then Mrs. Anderson hit me with a much-needed dose of tough love and reality. "This happens to every musician," she said. "I tell parents to remember that their kid is a kid and they're the parent, and the parents need to make the decision."

It's the kind of statement that usually would make me bristle and feel defensive. But I realized instantly, she was right. 

Mrs. Anderson went back into Ben's lessons and talked him through the situation a bit. She discussed the summer slump that kids often face when it comes to music and the importance of finding a regular practice routine. Ben loves nothing more than a good lecture (and any time an adult talks to him in a serious way, it's perceived as a lecture), and I'm sure he took in her words with good grace.

Ben emerged from his lesson wearing his serious face, eyebrows knit. "Everything OK, Ben?" his teacher asked.

"Yeah," he muttered, as I squeezed his shoulder and told him to smile.

On the way home, though, something amazing happened. "I think I need you and Dad to tell me exactly when I need to practice," Ben said. "And you can't let me say I'll do it later."

We talked about what would be the best time of day to practice, and I was reminded that sometimes kids need to hear important messages from someone other than their parents. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd taken in what he needed to hear.

Going forward, no situation will be exactly like the next. All I can hope is that as I accumulate parenting experiences, somehow I can sew a convincing tapestry that will see me through each challenge. Now Ben, what say we practice some piano?

August blues

On this, the last day of our vacation, it strikes me that this week has been like a microcosm for the last several years of my life. I began the week flush with anticipation. Wow, a whole week! I was going to savor it. But before I knew it the week was drawing to a close. Where did the week go? Where have the years gone?

Perversely, I often find vacation challenging. I'm a pretty tightly wound person, and it's hard for me to let go and just relax. I'm a homebody and tend to miss my own space under even the best of circumstances. We're here with my whole family on a big, gorgeous spread of prairie land, yet I knew that with 18 of us it could be tight and nerves could flare.

I'm so thankful that I've been able to enjoy our time here to the fullest extent. A couple of acquaintances have experienced losses recently, and it's been on my mind how much I shouldn't take for granted time with people we love.

In true Ceman style, we filled the week first and foremost with lots of game playing, but that was only the beginning. We had an impossibly beautiful week of weather, so we got a lot of time to enjoy Wisconsin's natural beauty in all its summer glory. We took in two state parks, kayaked, canoed, tossed frisbees, and even played a family game of kickball.

One of my greatest joys this week has been watching our small army of boys - seven grandsons plus Ben's friend. I'll hold onto the sounds of Paul, Gus and Truman playing Hero Factory, of Ben and his friend, Ben (Ben Squared) giggling at stupid jokes. I like to think the cousins are forging bonds that will last a lifetime.

The last day of vacation is always so hard for me. I can only hope that as we pull away later today, I'll hold it together enough in the car to cry softly and quietly rather than loud and hiccuping.

I feel so vulnerable and tender lately, like one giant bruise. In a few short weeks, Gus will turn 6, and soon after that, a chapter will close, and a new one will begin. Don't worry, I'll write an epic opus on my grief about that in a few weeks.

I was watching my 2-year-old nephew sit on my mom's lap watching The Wonder Pets. For a brief moment, I lost myself and thought, oh Gus hasn't seen this episode yet! Of course, Gus long ago moved past his love of The Wonder Pets. But the memory of him as small, the warm weight of him on my lap watching that show felt almost close enough to touch.

Like vacation, summer can be hard for me, too. Usually by August, the bickering, the heat and the lack of structure in our days begin to take a toll. I start to long a little bit for the beginning of school.

I can't say that this summer has been some kind of miraculous transformation and that I've been impervious to irritation. I have, however, been appreciating and enjoying this summer in new ways. It's been a season of skinned knees and elbows and boys playing the way boys should.

It's been a relief to take a break from rousing Ben at 6:15 a.m., a joy to let Gus do what he does best - roam free. This has been a desperately needed respite from "Gus had a rough day" reports.

I know we have nearly an entire month left of summer. I also know all too well how quickly these weeks will evaporate, leaving nothing behind but sweet memories. All I can do is make the most of it and try to savor every moment.

Just because he's sullen, doesn't mean I need to be

Yesterday I was thinking about 11-week-old Ben and 11-year-old Ben. As an infant (it doesn't feel so long ago), Ben didn't sleep particularly well. As an 11-year-old, he sleeps until 9 and wakes up complaining that he's still tired.

I've traversed the bumpy waters of guiding three children through sleep difficulties and now relish being able to get a full night's sleep. Yet yesterday I thought I just might prefer to go back in time and parent 11-week-old Ben for a while. At least he smiled then.

After suffering upper back pain for a few months, I finally made an appointment with a physical therapist a few weeks ago. As I sat on the table, she told me to slump my back like a teenager would. I know all about that, I thought. I see it every day.

Slump-shouldered and sullen seems to be Ben's default state most of the time these days. I try to understand and be sympathetic. It's odd how I can remember feeling the same way when I was his age, yet it's still so hard for me to honor those feelings.

Ben is no longer the boy who chirps excitedly about topics that interest him. Consider this interaction he had with my brother, Mike, the other day. Mike teaches seventh grade social studies, and Ben is going into seventh grade. 

Mike: Ben, have you read Chasing Lincoln's Killer yet? (Mike had given Ben this book for Christmas and was trying to glean whether his seventh-graders might like it.)

Ben: Yeah.

Mike: What'd you think?

Ben: Good.

Sorry, Mike. If you were hoping for more insight, that's all your going to get. Though I know Ben has the most amazing brain residing in his skull, one that regularly devours several books at an astonishing pace, I expect he will speak to adults exclusively in monosyllables for the next several years. And don't go looking for eye contact, either.

It's hard to lose the boy who used to actually want to spend time with me. It causes me no small amount of pain, but I know if is natural for kids Ben ages, this seeking of autonomy from parents. His peers are the center of his world now. He reserves his smiles and his levity for them, and I get precious little.

My interactions with Ben seem to take on an unintentionally negative note. Yesterday Ben and Paul were in my room listening to a Harry Potter audiobook. Gus was bored and wanted his brothers' attention. He kept going in and bothering them. 

I went into the room to referee and found Ben lying on my bed, the comforter rumpled and the throw pillows discarded on the floor. No one would accuse me of being a neat freak, but I like a nicely made bed. It's just one of those little things that helps me hold onto my sanity. 

Using a stern voice that I was sure would be misinterpreted as yelling, I asked Ben to please get off my bed and sit on the floor instead. (Earlier I'd come upon Paul listening to the book while pacing circles on the bed, so I was pretty annoyed already.)

Ben followed me into the kitchen and served up a steaming pile of hyperbole. "Gus is on your bed now, and you're not punishing him horribly!"

I had given no punishment except that of him having to listen to my (admittedly) annoying voice. By this point, though, I'd had it with the boys' fighting, and I told Ben to go chill in his room for a while.

Shortly later, I decided we all needed to get out of the house. We headed to Memorial Park. I softened and apologized to the boys for being crabby. I had grabbed my iPod and scrolled for music Ben might like. I settled on The Avett Brothers' "Kick Drum Heart." Ben surreptitiously glanced at the device, noting the artist and song, tapped his fingers on his knee but said nothing. It occurred to me that this might be as good as it gets right now: small moments of connection.

The boys ran and played tag for a while before Ben grew bored. He wandered over to where I was watching Paul and Gus play in the sand. "Do you feel like I'm criticizing you all the time?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much," he murmured.

This is what I'd feared. I don't want it to be this way. I want positive interactions with Ben. More than anything I want him to know that he can talk to me, that I'm there for him unconditionally, that I'm a safe and loving place. I want to be the sane person helping shepherd him through this insane time of life. In short, I need to start speaking and acting with intention. It's going to be a long several years (and I've got two more boys coming to this place!), but I want to do better.

On the way home from the park, I selected a song from my younger days, Everclear's "Santa Monica."  

"I'll walk right out into a brand new day/Insane and rising in my own weird way/I don't want to be the bad guy/I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore/I just want to feel some sunshine ..."

Today's a brand new day. I know it's somewhere between hard and impossible for Ben to change the way he copes right now. Luckily, I know I'm capable.

Activity overload: my annual summer struggle

If I could write my March 2015 self a letter, it would go something like this: "Hey, girl, I know it's cold out there and you're dreaming of the wide, expansive summer laying before you in a few months. Summer school brochures have just come out, park and rec, too. Soon it will be time to sign up for the summer session at the Y. You're feeling optimistic about how many enriching activities you can fit into a week. I urge you: stop and think. Remember last summer. How much do you really want to do? I know you're having a hard time seeing it clearly now, but you just may drive yourself crazy. Love, your summer self."

I think I end up here every summer, having the realization that I've undertaken too much. Maybe this is an issue for most parents, either under-scheduling or over-scheduling. Or maybe some just do happily embrace the unscheduled life for their families during the summer.

I talked to Paul's friend's mom the other day. She told me how she chooses as few activities as possible for her kids during the summer. They wake up when they want to each morning, keep things leisurely.

That sounds good. I let myself entertain the thought for a bit. But it wouldn't work for us. And I stand by that. If we went that route, I'm quite sure we'd have fighting, lots and lots of fighting.

Take this morning as an example. Gus woke up at about 5:40 and made enough noise to wake up Paul soon after that. Paul discovered that Gus had broken down his Lego creation for parts and loud, embittered rage ensued.

I thought thankfully of separating my two boys, sending them to summer school later this morning. The classes are fun and short - only an hour and 40 minutes (but good Lord, it's impossible to get anything done in that amount of time). I'm a big fan of summer school.

My boys need time apart or things start to get hairy. It's when I tip the balance and start to schedule too much that I begin to have a problem. And I tend to do that. Every summer.

Maybe t-ball would be a great outlet for Gus, I thought. And the younger two really should take swimming lessons. Add in soccer and piano lessons for Ben, and our weeks become uncomfortably full.

When I laid out the schedule in my mind, it all seemed to work. In actuality, I'm running myself ragged. Technically, I can get it all done but it's not pretty.

T-ball falls right after summer school on Mondays and Wednesdays. It's not a great situation. Gus needs a little downtime between activities. Furthermore, every third time, he plays back-to-back games, and two hours of t-ball is so not Gus's thing. 

After I walked into the family locker room the first day of swimming lessons, I quickly began to think that maybe it wasn't so important that the boys learn to swim after all. Picture a small, dank locker room and every bit of floor space covered with a toddler or preschooler from the Y's summer program. We got there a little late, as usual, and literally waded through little boys to hurry to Gus's class. 

Gus and Paul's swimming lessons are back to back. Again, I thought this would be fine. In actuality it's tedious. It's close to lunch time, and Gus is none too interested in sitting around waiting through Paul's 40-minute lesson after his own is finished.

The truth is it's hard to find balance with three kids. Activities are important, but they cost money, time and patience. I want to keep Ben going with piano, foster his love of soccer. Paul doesn't share Ben's love of athletics, so I like to get him involved in activities like swimming. Gus needs some physical outlets for his energy. I want to meet all their needs.

My mom was telling me the other day about when she took Paul to the park, how he observed the way that the grass was blowing in the wind, moving like waves. He needs time for that, too. Time to just be. All my boys need time without hearing me say, "We've got to go! We're late, late, late!"

Spring 2015 self, here's what I propose: err on the side of keeping it light. Yes, there are non-negotiables like soccer and piano. Take the summer school, skip the park and rec, and maybe save swimming lessons for another time of year. Summer is short. Leave some room to breathe, too.

Here's to strong father figures

I think it probably sometimes feels like moms get all the glory. And don't get me wrong. We moms are pretty glorious. But a loving, involved dad? That's gold.

Each day I'm filled with profound gratitude that I found a man as good as Mark. He's my confidant and my best friend. His kind eyes and adorable dimples make up the face that I long to see at the end of every day.

I tend to think that Mark is more virtuous than I am. Where I can be petty, he overlooks all my faults. I am moody; he is even - maddeningly so sometimes. How does he do it?!?! On my good days, though, I think we make a pretty great match. Mark is a natural at speaking in front of a group; I'm hopeless. I, however, can small talk anyone, a task that Mark finds difficult.

Similarly, when one of us has had it with the kids, the other usually can miraculously step in with the calm. If I'm feeling all bad cop, Mark can play good cop, or vice versa. 

If one of the boys has an interest, it becomes Mark's interest, too. He's always been pretty much a football-baseball-basketball guy, but he has evolved into a soccer enthusiast thanks to Ben's passion for it. (Mark has explained "off sides" in soccer to me repeatedly, but I don't think I'll ever understand or remember what it is.) My husband draws pictures with Paul and builds Legos with Gus.

My husband is the dad who plays catch with his sons, who has taught each boy to ride a two-wheeler, who takes Paul on a drive to spot snowy owls after a long day at workbecause he knows how much Paul loves them, who reads aloud from Harry Potter even though it makes him sleepy and sometimes he nods off.

Mark attended the Voices of Men breakfast last week. Voices of Men is a Fox Valley organization whose mission is to make a clear and powerful statement that committing, condoning or remaining silent about men's violence against women and children is not acceptable.

When Mark told me about the breakfast and what it meant to him and shared with me a video of the poem, "Man Prayer" by Eve Ensler, my love and respect for him grew even more. "May I be a man who understands that vulnerability is my greatest strength, who creates space rather than dominates it ..." I saw that Mark embodies so many of the attributes in the beautiful poem. 

When I look at Mark and the example he's setting for my boys, I have great hope indeed about the men they will become. Happy Father's Day, my love. Be proud today of the man and dad you are.