For now, I think my level of engagement is acceptable to Kailey and Tyler. To them, I am still somewhat cool. I can walk Tyler to his class, hand in hand, and even give him a hug at the door without it causing him too much angst.

Let’s face it, kids can be cruel, and it won’t be too much longer before the elementary school social system takes shape and he would rather lose a leg than have his dad give him a hug in front of his friends. To be clear, even probably well into his high school years, I will still be there trying to give him a hug – that’s just the way I roll – but I don’t think he will be quite as enthused with my level of engagement at that time.

As my son, my boy, my-chip-off-the-old-block, Tyler definitely has a special place in my heart. He is my little buddy, and I am so proud of him it hurts. Now, before you think I am getting too mushy, let me assure you that our relationship is not all wine and roses. After all, we are father and son, and that relationship is typically rife with tension. But even as my blood pressure periodically spikes as a result of his antics, there is no denying that he brings an incredible amount of joy and fulfillment to my life. And that is why I am terrified.

I’m terrified because I don’t want to lose this special relationship we have. He is growing up way too fast for my liking, and I am afraid that as he continues to grow into the incredible person he is meant to be, that the far too common trappings of the dysfunctional father-son relationship will rear their ugly head and we will lose what we have. He is my pride and joy and it breaks my heart to worry about stuff like this, but I need look no further than my own relationship with my dad to know that great expectations don’t always ensure great relationships.

People have children for a whole host of reasons. I am confident that my parents’ motivation for having me was not to burden me with countless insecurities and then turn me loose on the world armed with a nagging sense of not being good enough. I’m sure that, just like the rest of the sane world, they wanted to have kids for the obvious tax benefits. All joking aside, I’m sure they had only the best of intentions, but somehow along the way this is how I ended up. I went from anything’s possible

to a neurotic mess with an unhealthy amount of self-doubt.

In the beginning, there was no telling who I was going to grow into. Doctor, lawyer, artist, ball player, firefighter, accountant, you name it and it was a possibility. I couldn’t even hold my own head up or eat solid food, but I was good enough, or at a minimum I wasn’t aware of the fact that I might not be.

The hard part to swallow – the part that has me worried about my relationship with Tyler – is the fact that somewhere along the way in my childhood, things changed. I don’t know when, where or why, but there was definitely a shift. When a father has a son, look out world. Your little chip-off-the-old-block is something special, and everything they do – from first poop to first step to first base hit – is a monumental accomplishment worthy of a write up in the local sports page. Granted there really isn’t anything earthshaking about the achievement, just the fact that “your boy” did it is more than enough to set off the old pride-o-meter.

I am sure that, just like all dads, my dad had those same great expectations for me, but at some point I must not have lived up to them, and the weight of not being good enough crept into my life. I have read that fathers have a tendency of living vicariously through their sons trying to achieve what they themselves were unable to achieve. I’m not sure if that was the case with my dad, but whether it was realizing that I wasn’t athletic enough to become a pro ball player or not smart enough to become a doctor, somewhere along the way my “sky’s the limit” was replaced with self-doubt.

It is almost frightening the amount of power fathers have over their son’s emotional well-being. As son’s, we are almost hardwired to need our dad’s approval, and when that approval is not forthcoming, the result can be a lifetime of not feeling good enough that can shape almost every aspect of our lives.

Now, before you launch a fundraising campaign for my therapy (please make checks payable to Zach Streight or Cash, either is acceptable) I think it is important to point out that I wouldn’t change anything. It has been fairly difficult working through some of the issues I have been carrying around as a result of my own special brand of family dysfunction, but the reality is that I love my parents, bless their heart, and I love my childhood. Sure they could have done better on some fairly impactful aspects of child development, but nobody’s perfect. They did the best they could with the tools they had, and the must have done something right, because, to quote Stuart Smalley, “I’m smart enough, I’m good enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.” Some of them do at least.

Unfortunately, the reality is that the story of the neurotic adult who has spent a lifetime not feeling good enough, is almost boringly common. In fact just yesterday, 32,476 new blogs launched with that as their primary theme. The more I talk about my own parenting challenges with my male friends, coworkers and colleagues, almost universally they all share a similar story of having a painful relationship with their own dads. While it is nice to know that there is nothing special about my particular brand of family dysfunction, I must admit, the recurring theme has definitely increased my level of worry for my relationship with Tyler.

What is it about the father-son dynamic that seems to always lead to such heartache? Why do so many doting fathers end up being angry, disapproving critics who focus on what their sons aren’t as opposed to what they are? Don’t get me wrong, I would love for Tyler to end up breaking a home run record, winning a gold medal, or curing cancer, but more than that I just want him to be himself, to live a great life and to know that he is loved. I bet the vast majority of dads want that as well, so what happens? What ends up causing the shift? And more importantly, how can I stop it from happening?

I have heard that worrying serves no purpose and is basically just a waste of time. For the most part I agree, but in this instance, I am okay with worrying about my relationship with Tyler because the stakes are too high. I don’t want him to grow up constantly doubting himself and feeling like his best isn’t good enough. I want him to focus on simply being the best Tyler he can be, and to know that, I will always be proud of him for that.

The good news, from my perspective at least, is that even when all I can do is sometimes go to another room and silently yank clumps of hair out of my head through clenched teeth because of his behavior, I still love him more than words can say, and I rest easy knowing that he is good enough for me. I just hope that I am going to be good enough for him.

On the rare occasion – no more than three times a week – when I find myself with a mouthful of shoe leather, I can’t help but wonder where things went sideways on me. What I have slowly started to realize is that communicating is an art form, and like art, it is completely subjective and open to interpretation. Whereas Picasso is an artistic genius to some, to others he is simply a crazy person who clearly lost every game of Pictionary he ever played.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am an “expert” at poor communication, but having been on both the giving and receiving end of a variety of ineffective communication styles, I am definitely no slouch. As a result, I would like to convey some of the various pros and cons I’ve picked up relative to some of my favorites. Think of this as my own little public service announcement, a thank you as it were, to you for being a faithful reader. In the interest of complete honesty, however, be careful what you do with this information since 1) I still regularly end up with my foot lodged where it shouldn’t be and 2) my “expertise” has not been validated by any objective third party.

The Direct Approach (aka the Drill Sergeant) – On the plus side, it is virtually impossible to misunderstand what the Drill Sergeant is trying to tell you. If nothing else, they are incredibly clear. In my own experience, I often find myself more comfortable being politically correct than being direct. Whenever I have to say something that I expect will lead to conflict or turmoil, I often end up watering down the message to the point where I end up sounding like I’m reciting a children’s book.

The Drill Sergeant could care less about being politically correct. Andrea’s grandmother Lil was a staunch advocate of the direct approach. An amazing woman, she never bothered with the trivialities of political correctness whenever I interacted with her. On the second occasion we spent time together, she greeted me with “wow, you sure have gained some weight, looks like you’re eating okay”. Nothing politically correct about that. Just the facts, followed by a quick smile and a hug. No ill intent, just direct and to the point.

One of the biggest challenges with the direct approach is that if you are like me and you are not necessarily the most secure and comfortable with yourself, the feedback can be fairly discouraging. In the case of Lil and my “weight gain”, after the initial embarrassment wore off, I proceeded to spend the next 3 hours sucking in my gut to try to compensate. While this did little to alter the fact that I had, in fact, gained some weight, it did help me realize that holding my breath for extended periods of time is not a viable alternative to diet and exercise.

The Passive Aggressive Approach (aka the Smiling Assassin) – I am not proud of it, but I am a recovering Smiling Assassin. As opposed to being direct and potentially causing conflict, I have typically opted for the indirect path, saying what I need/want to say wrapped in a beguiling shroud of humor. Or attempted humor, at least. Often the recipient doesn’t find me funny in the least, but in my defense, I come from a long line of Smiling Assassins.

The biggest challenge with the Smiling Assassin approach is that it is has the potential to be completely lost on the person with whom you are communicating. The ultimate success of the passive aggressive approach relies heavily on the other person being a mind reader, and the vast majority of the world seems to lack that ability. I know I do. Whenever people have tried the Smiling Assassin approach on me, given my relative lack of clairvoyance, the end result invariably involved them angry and me utterly confused, mumbling things like “how was I supposed to know ‘I would love to’ really meant ‘I think you are taking advantage of me and I want to kick you in the kidney’”?

One derivative of the passive aggressive style that I believe came about as a direct result of our inability to read minds is the fairly popular “bless your heart” approach. Admittedly, I wasn’t that familiar with this method until I spent some time in the South, but after seeing it in action, I must admit, I find it fascinating.

Definitely still in the Smiling Assassin genre, the “bless your heart” style is for those of us who aren’t comfortable being completely direct, but still want to ensure that our message is not lost. Struggling with telling someone you don’t enjoy spending time with them and “I can’t stand being around you” is just too direct for you? Slap a smile on your face and try “Wow, it really isn’t enjoyable being around you at all now is it, bless your heart”. They might be disarmed by the smile, but they will get the message. Having been the recipient of my fair share of “bless your heart” daggers, I can assure you of that.

The Condescending Approach (aka the Know-it-All) – As a parent, I regularly am required to play my “Father Knows Best” card when engaging in familial debate. This typically leads to a hearty round of laughter from my family, but if nothing else, it does help to slightly diffuse the situation.

While it is true that the bulk of dismissive, patronizing (or matronizing), know-it-all behaviors are most effectively utilized by parents, the reality is that everyone is capable of being condescending. Personally, I adopted this approach well before I became a parent.

My first job after college was with Deloitte Consulting, and my first project was to manage a software development team on a fairly decent sized project. The average age of the developers was probably in the neighborhood of 42, and I was the ripe old age of 22. Always eager to prove my worth, I regularly behaved in a way that could be used in a “What Not To Do At Work” training video for new hires. At the time, I had no clue how condescending I was being, how “listen to me, I know best” I was behaving, because I don’t think the Know-it-All ever really sees the impact of their actions. In my case, I was so wrapped up in trying to compensate for my own insecurities, I completely missed the fact that I was seriously ticking off a group of seasoned professionals who knew a lot more than I did.

The main problem with the Condescending Approach, at least from my perspective, is that with the advance of technology, it doesn’t really work anymore. You see, more often than not, Know-it-Alls are little more than BS artists. I know, because I was (am?) one, and trust me it just doesn’t work anymore. Oh sure, there was a time when people would just accept whatever BS you threw at them, but now, with information so readily available, if you don’t have your facts straight you are in serious trouble. Even Andrea, my loving, supportive wife, has the audacity to regularly question me when I start spewing my worldly knowledge. And the Internet has made it pointless for me to even argue anymore. Well played Google, well played.

There is no denying the fact that communication is an art, and that there are countless ways of doing it. While some styles seem to work better than others in different situations, I have found that the direct approach seems to be the most effective. It’s clear, concise, and avoids any potential confusion. As mortifying as it is to have your weight gain called out in front of your in-laws, at least you can’t complain about misinterpreting anything or missing a hidden clue buried in a backhanded compliment. But if you do give the direct approach a try, it wouldn’t hurt to sprinkle in a little empathy every now and again. And remember, if things start going sideways on you, just throw in a quick “bless your heart” and you should be good to go.

After a spirited debate on the definition of “old”, I end up tap dancing around the subject with poor analogies and befuddling metaphors until even I am confused, and they have forgotten their initial questions.

Sadly however, I fear that the day of confronting the realities of death might be coming sooner rather than later for them. Thankfully, everyone in the family is healthy. Even Amy, our 16 year old dog, while definitely slowing down, is still going strong.

No, it is highly unlikely that old age or ailing health will be the catalyst which forever alters my precious children’s innocent views on mortality. It will be murder. You see, I am precariously close to killing Sunshine.

To be clear, I am decidedly conflicted about bringing harm to another of God’s precious creatures. As both a pacifist and an animal lover, I am not at all happy with the thoughts currently rattling around in my head. That said, Sunshine has not left me much wiggle room. I am still not entirely comfortable with a rodent living under my roof, but the reality of the situation is that Sunshine and I have actually developed a nice little working relationship. I don’t bother her, and she doesn’t cause any undue burden on me. All was harmonious until about a month ago.

During the day, Sunshine’s cage stays in our game room. This lets her feel like a part of the family, and gives the kids easy access to playing with her when they want to. As a nocturnal animal however, she typically wakes up right as we are trying to drift off to sleep, and without fail, begins to exercise with a ferocity similar to Andrea in a cardio-kickboxing class. For those of you who haven’t seen my wife in a cardio-kickboxing class, suffice it to say that hundreds of thousands of calories are being burned.

As a result, and largely due to the fact that Sunshine’s exercise wheel – despite being advertised as “silent” and being regularly oiled – has roughly the same decibel level as a fully operational chainsaw, we have started putting her in our laundry room at night.

This has allowed us to get some sleep, while still letting Sunshine get out her obvious anger issues.

The real trouble started a little over a month ago when, with everyone quietly sleeping, I heard some strange noises in our house. Naturally, like any heroic husband and father, I immediately took action. I buried myself further under the sheets, and tried to get back to sleep.

In my defense, it was like 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, so I was a little out of it. Unfortunately, the noises did not go away, and I eventually woke up and realized that something out of the ordinary required my attention.

With my bat in hand for protection against any and all potential trouble, I slowly tracked the random scraping noises to the laundry room. Heart beating at a precariously high rate, I threw open the door and quickly turned on the light. Nothing suspicious. No burglars, no criminal activity, nothing. More scraping noises drew my attention to my immediate right. Something was inside our washing machine.

It was at this point that I began putting two and two together. I noticed that Sunshine’s aquarium-style cage with a mesh metal top had a jagged hole in one of the corners.

It appeared that Sunshine, in a desperate bid for freedom, had gnawed through her roof and was now running amuck in our washer.

At three o’clock in the morning, I didn’t really know what my options were. I seriously contemplated waking Andrea and delegating the problem to her – before you judge me, remember that she was the pro-hamster advocate who vouched for Sunshine – but even I knew that would not be in my best interest. Ultimately, I chose to close the laundry room door and go back to sleep. The problem would keep until morning.

In the morning, we ultimately were able to coax Sunshine out from underneath the washer with a carrot stick. We all had a good laugh and thought that was the end of it – thought we had dodged a bullet – until later when we realized the washing machine no longer worked. 10 days and $193 dollars later, we were once again able to launder our own dirty clothes.

Apparently Sunshine, drunk with power during her escape, had decided to chew through several key electrical components, rendering our washing machine worthless. Sunshine was skating on some very thin ice.

We had every intention of replacing the top of Sunshine’s cage to ensure that escape was no longer an option, but, as is often the case, we were busy with other things and it didn’t seem like a high priority. I thought we were covered since we had eliminated her ability to reach the top of her cage, and the existing hole was being adequately covered by a large book. The setup looked a little rednecky, but from a functional perspective I felt we were good to go. Until I overheard this:

Tyler (in the laundry room): “Mommy, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

Andrea: “What is it buddy?

Tyler: “The good news is that I was going to play with Sunshine. The bad news is that she’s not in her cage.”

As value-oriented folks still stinging from the recent washer repair bill, both Andrea and I covered the nearly 60 feet from where we were to the laundry room in a shade under 2 seconds. Immediately, we noticed that, much to our surprise, Sunshine had chewed yet another hole in the top of her cage.

Believe it or not, Sunshine had climbed – and precariously hung on – her loosely hanging, round water bottle long enough to chew her way to freedom.

Angry, frustrated, and admittedly a little impressed, I began removing the front of the washing machine to check for Sunshine. Sure enough, there she was nestled in and amongst the expensive electrical components we had just recently paid through the nose for.

That day, after a lively debate on the future of Sunshine, we purchased a new cage for her. It is larger, is made of a much thicker wire, and includes many more items to entertain her so she doesn’t feel the overwhelming desire to leave.

The down side is that it does have two front doors that, if left open, provide an incredibly easy way for her to escape. I say down side because, the fairly intuitive notion of closing these doors proved to be slightly too advanced for our children.

While doing my rounds before heading to bed, I checked one last time on Sunshine in the game room and saw that one of the doors was wide open, and she was nowhere to be found. Before launching a full-scale search and rescue operation – she could have been anywhere at all in our entire house – we decided to check the washing machine.

It seemed highly unlikely to me that, given all of the options, she would head back to the washer, but sure enough, after I had taken the front off of the machine yet again, there she was.

6 days and $129 later, we once again had a functioning washing machine.

The easy thing to do would be to kill, or at least get rid of, Sunshine. Well, the killing wouldn’t be easy, but at least it would be easily rationalized. After all, she has now cost me about the same amount as my first car. But I know I can’t kill her. No, I have decided against sending her to the big exercise wheel in the sky because I don’t think it would send the right message. At some point – as much as it pains me to admit it – I have to own up to my part in each of these costly Sunshine escapades, and take some responsibility for my choices.

The truth of the matter is that we were the ones who had stopped playing with her regularly, I was the one who didn’t replace the cage after the first escape, I was the one who didn’t teach Tyler and Kailey how to shut – and the importance of shutting – the cage doors.

For her part, Sunshine was just being a hamster. A hamster of Macguyver-like independence and fortitude to be sure, but ultimately just a hamster doing what hamsters do. How can I punish her for that?

Having had a fully functional washing machine again for nearly two weeks now, I think keeping Sunshine around is definitely the right decision. Blaming her for everything and then getting rid of her would definitely provide an opportunity to teach the kids about mortality, but I don’t think it would teach them anything about personal responsibility or the importance of making good choices. That said, animal lover or not, I am most decidedly at the end of my rope with Sunshine. Any more damage to our washing machine and she will quickly find herself on Craig’s List.

I am fully aware of the fact that, as people age, they have a tendency to grow hair in places where hair hadn’t previously grown.

Just the other day I saw a distinguished looking grandfatherly figure who appeared to have a pair of sheepdogs coming out of his nose. I understand that this is part of the wonderful circle of life, but I wasn’t prepared for having to worry about runaway hair at the boyishly charming age of 36. I figured it would be years, if not decades, before my level of hygiene escalated to random spot checks for wild hairs.

Perhaps the most troubling part of my discovery was just the timing of it. Only days before, while getting ready for work, I became painfully aware of a severe increase in scalp exposure. While not “bald” by any stretch of the imagination, I have definitely started thinning in the traditional “bald spot” location. I’ve never thought much about my follicle future, I just kind of assumed that someday – probably when I was well into my eighties – I would have to cross the bridge of strategically positioning my remaining hair to hide certain thinner areas. I didn’t expect to be thrust into that future reality so soon.

I probably should have seen it coming, I mean it’s not like baldness just happens overnight. It’s just that historically, the extent of my hair grooming has been simply trying to tame unruly curls as opposed to worrying about scalp exposure.

Needless to say, the recent revelation that my hair was definitely thinning kind of put me in a bit of a funk. Admittedly shallow, but a funk nonetheless. And finding a random ear hair that seemed better suited on an octogenarian was almost more than I could handle.

The hair itself was almost an inch long and was shooting out along the top of my ear, a place where a younger, hipper version of myself might have a row of hoop earrings. After I had discovered the hair, and quickly, shamefully ripped it out, my thoughts quickly turned to vanity. How long had that been there? Had anyone noticed, and not said anything? What other runaway follicle activity was I unaware of? Despondent, I conducted a meticulous investigation of ears, nose and eyebrows to check, and thankfully came up empty handed.

More than anything, my recent unsettling discovery has made me aware of just how much importance – way too much importance – I place on appearance. To be clear, I will never stop traffic with my looks, but I have always made an effort to put my best foot forward. At least as much effort as you can make with inexpensive haircuts, discount grooming products and a wardrobe that screams “suburban value”.

It seems as though I had somehow convinced myself that I was above the somewhat judgmental nature of our society. A more visible scalp and one wild ear hair proved otherwise. I couldn’t help but wonder about vanity – when do we start being vain, and perhaps more importantly, when do we stop?

I know we aren’t born vain. Tyler and Kailey have proven that to me. For a good six months Tyler’s favorite pair of shoes – shoes that he wore everywhere, school, shopping, restaurants, church, everywhere – was a pair of lime green neon crocs. From a sheer fashion perspective, granted I am no fashionista, his crocs went with absolutely nothing else that he wore, yet he wore them proudly.

He never seemed to care about, or even notice for that matter, whenever anyone commented on the intensity of the green neon. He didn’t – and thankfully still doesn’t – give a second thought to how he looked, or how he might be judged wherever he went with them on.

Similarly, Kailey, now old enough to have a strong opinion on what she likes to wear, is comfortable enough in her own skin to be seen in public in anything from fleece pajamas to a royal princess gown. In getting ready for school, regardless of whether an outfit has been laid out for her or not, she will dive into her closet and pick out the oddest assortment of clothes to wear. Of course I might be just a tad biased and think she looks fantastic in anything, but on many an occasion, the objective observer would have to assume that the poor child is color blind. Or, at the very least, Canadian.

I also understand that there clearly comes a time in our lives when we evolve past vanity. I have seen enough rogue ear, nose and eyebrow hair in the senior citizen community to realize that we must get to a point in our development where our time is too precious to waste on over-grooming practices. Plus, with respect to wardrobe, if I had to guess, I would say that the vast majority of us have at least one older relative who has tried to pull off the shorts, black tube socks and sandals look. I often theorized that the aged among us didn’t have the same hang-ups regarding vanity as the rest of the adult population, but it wasn’t until I saw pictures of my 80 year old grandfather mowing his front yard in nothing but a red speedo that my suspicions were confirmed.

I look back at pictures from my childhood and often get nostalgic for the days when worrying about bald spots and facial hair management practices were reserved for “old” people. I see myself smiling ear to ear under horrendous haircuts, or above outfits that would make anyone with the gift of sight cringe in horror and realize that, at least at one point in my life, I clearly wasn’t overly concerned with how others saw me.

In fact, most of the pictures seem to suggest that vanity wasn’t a word I was even aware of. “Bowl cut”, on the other hand, seems to be an expression I was very familiar with.

I don’t know when or how exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way I became entirely too self-conscious about my appearance. And it only seems to be getting worse as I creep further into middle age. Now, I can’t go anywhere without checking the mirror for runaway ear hair and scalp coverage. I wish I didn’t care as much as I do, but for better or worse, the world is a judgmental place, and I am not strong enough to not worry about being judged. Even if lime green neon crocs were the most comfortable shoes in the world, I doubt that I could wear a pair of them in public.

Life is definitely too short to empower the world with our self-esteem. While I am not yet prepared to cease my newly implemented ear, nose and eyebrow hair check policy, I am excited about trying to worry more about who I want to be, as opposed to worrying about who I think I need to be to fit in. I’m not quite ready to adopt the black socks and sandals look, or even think about doing my yard work in a speedo, but I am definitely ready to stop worrying so much about being judged. I am hopeful that I will get to a point where I will be so busy “living now” that I won’t even notice if people snicker at my bald spot.