Fatherhood. You kind of have to Taste it.

I work at a brewery. In a beer hall. At least 5 times every shift, I will be trying to explain the flavor profile of a beer to a visitor. After about 90 seconds of an attempt if I still see the bewilderment and confusion on their face, I usually just pour them a sample.

Inevitably, as soon as they taste it, the cartoon light bulb above their head lights up. They get it. Because they tasted it too.

For me, Fatherhood is the same way.

I spent most of my childhood, I looked at my father with that same bewilderment and confusion. Why was he always telling me what to do? Why the constant logic? Why does he make this so difficult?

Why?

It was something I didn't learn until I learned what fatherhood meant.

Fatherhood isn't about making a child. Children do that all the time. In many ways I was still a child when I had a child. It took time to learn how to be a father. It took work.

Every rough draft of a paper I have ever written has been mostly torn to shreds. Rightfully so. Even in grade school and high school I could hastily slap a research paper together that was good enough to pass. But it wasn't good.

I remember the dread of walking down the stairs with my 3.5 inch floppy disk (old alert!) to print my paper off in my father's office. Sometimes I would try and rush so I could just print it off without him knowing. Because if I could, I wouldn't have to revise.

But there was always a lack of paper or some cosmic event that brought him into the room. He'd see the words on the screen or pick up a page from the printer. Immediately my dreams of half ass-ing my way through it were dashed.

I hated it. I knew that the paper was good enough. He knew it wasn't good. So the battle would begin.

My teenage angst against his unwavering expectation to actually do my best.

We'd argue. I'd pout or use what I perceived was a rapier like wit. (It wasn't). And after an hour or two, we'd print out a vastly superior paper. It wasn't always an A. Mostly because I would in my stubbornness resist enough that I shot myself in the grade book. But it was better. 

I used to hate those workshop sessions. But I never once considered that my father might too.

They weren't fun. But they were necessary. Because I could do better.

I never once thought he might hate the battle as much as I. 

When my son and daughter were born, I was a Dad. But not yet a Father. It took me a long time to learn that a big part of being a Father is doing things that you don't necessarily want to do. Things that aren't always fun. Like discipline. Like consequences. Like you know, actual parenting.

I'm a better Father today than I was when my children were born. I will be a better Father years from now. It is the hardest job I have ever had because it is the most important.

Thank you Dad for doing the things you might not have wanted to do. Thank you for pushing me to do more than just enough. Thank you for helping me see that being a Father is like jumping out of an airplane trying to catch a falling man and put a parachute on them while they try and stop you.

We only get so much time to make a difference. To get the parachute on. It's a fight. Often the person falling refuses to acknowledge the help. But it's our job.

Thank you Alan Winegarden for showing how to do it.

 I could never truly understand until I tasted it myself.

PS - thanks again for not red carding me when I told you that my obviously late slide tackle and subsequent yellow card was BS. Even if you can't remember being a ref. ;)

The Unintended Good is the Best

I have struggled with sleep most of my life. Many people find sleep a comfort. A relaxing period of rest. A respite from the reality of real life.

To me, sleep is the worst.

Dreams. Nightmares. Night terrors. Just weird shit. It happens. It's always happened. Some days better than others. When it's just a nude speech in high school it's unsettling. When it's fighting zombies or demons off my children, it's time to have breakfast at 3 am.

As a child I would read with a flashlight under the covers. The first night terror I remember was awaking to a ghost floating out side my closet when I was in first grade. I ran and told my folks and the did the normal thing. Clearly there was no sign of a ghost. But I didn't believe. I took my kangaroo and two lego guys into bed with me to make sure (my alter ego and his andriod bodyguard)  I needed the support. I needed the placebo.

As I've grown older, I've learned that for me, perception is reality. If I perceive a benefit, there will be one. Mountain Dew was my spinach. I could always reach for it in time of need. Pot roast. Broaster Chicken. Tot dish. Green Bean Casserole. All became some mythical food. If I could just have that I would be ok. Clam Chowder. Surge.  Unrequited Love. The right pair of socks. Family. Fear. The ideal of the one. All have at one time or another kept me going. Propped up my ego my id and my soul.

I am not able to shake these needs. I am not above placebo. If anything, I have learned that for me there is little more important than what I think I feel.

Which brings me to tonight. And steak and eggs and a woman who shamefully, who's name I don't even know.

Yeah. Yeah the whole shame and women thing is not the issue here. Another time perhaps.

What is the point, what is the focus is that Steak and Eggs from my favorite greasy spoon is the best placebo I have ever had.

Well it's not the steak and eggs at all. Or the hashbrowns. Or any of the actual nutrients.

It's a completely different nutrient. It's the nutrient, the drug of being remembered.

There is nothing so intoxicating as being.

It's why I love many of my favorite places. Life is painfully full of anonymity. 99% of the world will never know my name. Never learn anything about me.

And for someone who trend toward ego-centric. That sucks.

Yet.  Being remembered is the best. It's like crack. Like a shot of adrenaline. Like love.

And in a way it's the basest form of Love.

Some nights. When I know that sleep will be especially rough. When I can't find the right recipe for solace. I will seek my solace in steak and eggs from a greasy spoon diner.

But even then, I will wait until I see who is working.

Not which cook.

Not which grillmaster.

Just which server.

If I don't see her. I leave.

And no. It's not a crush. Yes, I am prone to crushing on those in the service industry who excel.

No.

I need to know that my comfort, my placebo is safe.

She sees me enter. Either comes to the counter or gives me a nod. (A simple acknowledgement can change the world).

Eventually she comes to take my order. Yet that doesn't really count. Which is the point.

She knows my order.

Medium Rare Steak
Scrabbled Eggs.
Hashbrowns.
To Go.
No Bag or napkins.

(She always tries to talk me into the napkins)

....she's right.

It's hard to describe the joy and power that comes from being known. From having your wants and needs met before you can even express them. From service on a level that is. Unusual. Yet right.

I keep my tip in the appreciative but not creepy range*

Tip Range
*0-10% Probably a Jerk or HS kid
*10-20% Normal Ignorance of the Industry
*20-30% Service Industry/Great Service
*30%+ Probably a creepy stalker.

So it's not about that. It's the service and the fact she remembers me before I can remind her.

Nothing feels so good as being remembered.

So much of life is admitting that through the normal passage of time, we are all forgotten.

Thank you server at my greasy spoon midnight bad decision place.

You'll never know how much it means to be remembered.

And I'll never truly be able to tell you.

But I'll probably creepy tip as an attempt.