Bedtime rituals keep me connected with my children
When my eldest son turned seven we celebrated his birthday. I found myself daydreaming. I thought of the day he was born, returning from the hospital on a hot, sticky August night. My wife and I lay in bed and stared in joyous wonder at this newfound life we created. So small, so beautiful – so dependent.
She breastfed him, held him and sang . . .
I felt conflicted forcing my child to attend school
“Daddy! I doan wanna go to school!” my youngest, age 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 have . . .
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 . . .
I told my boys not to swap away toys I'd just bought them. Then my line in the sand crumbled
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on May 29, 2014.
Every schoolday, I pick up my kids at the bus stop and greet them with a big smile. I get toothy grins in return. Sometimes we walk home, sometimes we waddle. Sometimes it’s a piggyback.
Ambling home one day, my eldest son announces: “I’m gonna trade toys with my friend – . . .
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 . . .