My family needs me in different ways—and that's OK
This article first appeared in The Good Men Project on February 10, 2017.
For over six years, I was very comfortable in my role as stay-at-home dad. But I knew it was time for a change.
My kids are in school full time. They don’t need me in the same ways. They don’t need me to hover. A healthy sign of their growing . . .
Posted in: stay-at-home dad
By attending to our messy feelings, we found room for empathy
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on June 15, 2016.
I had never let my children see me cry before. I had this tough-guy notion it would make me look weak. But one morning, messy emotion got the best of me.
My eldest son was not feeling well. Although ill, he was looking forward to spending a day with me at home. . . .
Helping my son write is quality time together
Youngest makes his way downstairs and asks: “Dad, can I help you?”
“Help me with lunches?”
“I'm done. I did them while I made supper.”
“What are you doing?” he inquires.
“Can I write a story?”
“Sure!” I answer. He cuddles up beside me. “So, what do you want to write? You need a title.”
“Um, my title is The Name . . .
I felt conflicted forcing my child to attend school
“Daddy! I doan wanna go to school!” my youngest, aged 5 at the time, desperately pleaded. “I wanna stay home wit' you!” he sobbed, eyes reddened by salty tears.
“You have to son, it's your job.”
“To learn things. To make friends,” I responded nonchalantly.
“But I have friends already. And you teach me things. Why do I . . .
I am the economic equivalent of a zero
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on April 30, 2015.
As a stay-at-home dad, I am the economic equivalent of a zero.
This revelation came to me at my local Costco where, upon checkout, I am often asked to apply for their new cash-back credit card. Usually, I politely decline, preferring to leave the crowded store with my . . .
At times I wonder if I made the right decision. Then a pot of potatoes boils over or a grilled cheese starts to burn
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on March 3, 2014.
The year was 1978. I was 4. The morning light muffled its way through my pale bedroom curtains and turned an opaque blue. My mother was lying beside me, smiling, the skin of her face so smooth.
I looked up at her and felt at ease, at home with the one who loved me . . .