I Fail...

During my first training academy for juvenile caseworkers, I challenged my trainees with the following question:

“What is your greatest fear?”

As they wrote and discussed the depth of my inquisition, my mind wandered off. My wheels began to turn and I thought about all the things I am afraid of. While doing this, I realized two things:

• I am afraid of a lot of things
• I am afraid of the fact that I am afraid of a lot of things

It’s true. From the moment I presented the question, I regretted it. In an instant, I was suddenly playing that dangerous but necessary game of self-reflection. Self-reflection, which I am afraid of, brings upon us vulnerability, which I am also afraid of. Still, it was happening. Like Greased Lightning, I was flying down that quarter mile with my mind running wild. Why?! Why did I decide to ask this question? Better yet, why did I decide to contemplate the question I asked them? Why? Why? Why?

I could have stuck with the softball toss. I could have given the standard interview question about weaknesses. I could have asked about lions, tigers or bears…oh my! Instead, I opened the door to self-criticism and self-doubt. Thus, the process began. I accepted it and I let it happen within me.

I do not hide behind a façade of masculinity, toughness or bravado. I can’t. It just won’t work for me. I am sensitive; overly sensitive at times. I am not sure where it comes from, and I cannot help it. I cry. I am not a stranger to it. I have cried during movies about dogs, YouTube videos about adversity, discussions about my family and while looking at pictures of my wife and kids. I am a sappy guy when it comes to my feelings, and I know it. I am afraid of it. But, it is just one more thing to add to my list of fears.

Still, all this self-reflection hadn’t led me to my greatest fear. While my list of fears was growing by the moment, my greatest one wasn’t there yet. As I watched my trainees work away at their greatest fears, a picture of my wife and kids caught my eye. Next to it on my corkboard, a quote was pinned up that reads “No one can be perfect.” There it was. My greatest fear was sitting in plain sight. A puzzle pieced collage of pictures of my family and quotes about failure, vulnerability and love was the answer. The question of “What is your greatest fear?” was answered clearer than ever before.

My greatest fear is failure. It is not failure in a general sense. It is failure when it comes to being a father and a husband. That is what terrifies me. The idea that I could fail at raising those two handsome boys that are so full of life and love rocks me to my core. The idea that I could fail at loving the most beautifully, perfect woman that I have ever met haunts me. And, most of the time, I feel like I am failing at both.

I worry about how to provide, be a role model and love my boys. Am I doing enough? How could I be better? Am I enough? And, often times, I feel like it is never enough.

I worry about how to provide, support and love my wife. Am I doing enough? How could I be better? Am I enough? And, often times, I feel like it is never enough.

Between work, my boys and my wife, I feel like I am pulled in a million different directions. In reality, it is just four directions, but my boys are fast so it feels like more. Those directions are all necessary, positive and ultimately wonderful but my fear of failure sometimes overshadows them.

However…that fear…that vulnerability…that sensitivity gives me the chance to be the father and the husband that I hope to be. I hope that my boys know that I am sensitive. I want them to see that fear, vulnerability, and sensitivity are necessary parts of life and love. I want them to know that behind whatever toughness and bravado that I am able to muster, there is a gentle, loving and understanding man underneath. I want my wife to know that under all the stress and overwhelming concern that there is tenderness and compassion. I want my family to see the weakest side of me, the most vulnerable and sympathetic, in order for them to know truly who I am.

So, yes…I am a man. And, yes…I cry. And, yes…I am afraid more often than I really would like to admit.

As I read Facebook feeds, parenting articles and watch “romantic” videos with my wife, I often feel like a failure. I usually feel like I am falling short somewhere. And, that is hard. It is heartbreaking and overwhelming at times. But, in the end, what really is the definition of failure? And, whose definition truly matters?

As a husband, I don’t sweep my wife off her feet like I used to. We rarely have the time, or the money, for romantic one on one dates at fancy restaurants. Instead, we share chicken nuggets with our twin boys while water cups and toys are thrown about. We don’t go out to late night movies and make-out in the dark. Instead, we snuggle on a mattress in the living room sharing popcorn and juice with two boys that climb all over us as the latest Disney/Pixar movie plays. We don’t take trips to romantic destinations. Instead, we spend our money on visiting family in Las Vegas for the holidays. And, when we finally get those moments alone, we usually end up eating Top Raman while watching re-runs of Friends until we fall asleep far too early. I fail.

I leave notes on the mirror, tell her she is beautiful and kiss her goodnight. It isn’t enough. It doesn’t truly show my love for her. I cannot afford flowers every weekend or expensive presents on Christmas. I cannot provide endless dreams when reality is knocking on the door. Still, I know I fail to be the man that she fell in love with. I am no longer the guy that can always sweep her off her feet with the right words, the right gifts and gestures. And, while I know the material items are not important to her, I cannot help but wish that I could provide them. I am the guy who still loves her with all of his heart. I am the guy that worries about her constantly. I am the guy that feels privileged to have her in his life. I am the lucky one. Still, I fail.

In this chaotic life, in those small seemingly ‘normal’ moments, she still sweeps me off my feet. My heart still flutters at her touch. I still smile with pride as she falls asleep to the rhythm of my heartbeat. And, through it all, I still feel amazingly blessed to wake up next to her every morning. Messy hair, stinky breath and sighs that the night was too short are common, but I wouldn’t change our ‘romantic’ moments for the world.

As I try to be a father, I know that she makes up for my failures. And, in reality, what could be more romantic than that! She is the parent that I strive to be.

I lose my patience. I get easily frustrated. I get overwhelmed. I ask for too much help. I struggle to provide. I struggle to teach. I watch too turn much television. I fail.

I give them too much milk, and it isn’t organic. I give them too many fruit snacks, and they aren’t organic. I serve my boys frozen chicken nuggets and fish sticks, neither of which is probably really chicken or fish. And, we share Kit-Kats and Gummy Bears. I fail.

I raise my voice. I sigh. I grumble. I’ve cursed. I pull the little hair that I have left out. I worry until I’m sick. I cry when everyone is asleep. I fail. I provide for them as best I can. We sacrifice so mom can be with them. We struggle so they can have us at home as much as possible.

I get to eat lunch with them every day. They smile. They giggle. They throw food at me. They wait for me at the door at the end of the day. Both of them reach out for me begging to be held. I hold them. They kiss me. I rub their heads. I chase them around the house, tackle them and tickle them until they cannot stop giggling. I bathe them. I play cars in the bath. I lotion their little bodies, brush their teeth and help put on their jammies. I snuggle them as they drink their milk at night. We watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or Henry Hugglemonster as we hold hands. And, as I put them to bed with my beautiful wife, the one who makes our house run, I kiss them good night. I tuck them in and as they tell me “ni ni”, I cry. The tears may not be streaming, but I cry.

Somehow, someway…I was blessed with this life. It is a life that terrifies me. It is a life that I don’t deserve. It is a life that I love. So, for at least one more day, I can say…I failed. I failed again. But, if this is failure…then maybe, just maybe, failure isn’t always so bad.

Justin AKA The Bad Idea Dad

Same Love - A Letter to Paula and Lee

Dear Paula and Lee,

I am not sure where to begin. There are so many thoughts and memories running through my head that I am not positive I can share the emotions I have properly. But, I will give it a try. Words, when spoken, have always been very difficult for me to express. However, words, when written, have always been a little bit easier for me to share. This is one of those times where the words just have to be written to truly be expressed with the emotion that I feel deep inside my heart. Please bear with me as I attempt to piece together my thoughts, memories and gratitude.

Today, as I stood leaning on the doorframe, I gazed proudly at my two little sons who had just completed their classic and timeless wobbly sprint down the aisle. As I surveyed the scene, I began to ponder just how far we have all come in this journey that we call LIFE. More specifically, I began to ponder just how far I’ve come on this journey because of the two of you.

As I watched Lee take Boston and Braxton into her loving Hawaiian arms, they both beamed with an indescribable pride and a simple joy. They glowed as she held them. In an instant, I couldn’t help but be overcome with an incredible rush of emotions. Tears formed. Paula, as you made your beautiful walk down the aisle, I thought about closing the door on your dress. But, as I know the consequences of crossing you, I thought better of the idea. As you approached Lee, with your gorgeous girls watching, I thought about how all the minor tweaks and the major changes played a role, both small and big, in bringing this collective group of people into YOUR MOMENT. It was a moment that I never thought I would be a part of.

As I looked around the room at family and friends…friends that we consider family and family that we wish we could consider just friends, a realization of the inexpressible love that I feel for the two of you simply overwhelmed me. It was one of those moments that everyone experiences, that priceless moment when something you already know and have known for quite some time is reaffirmed to you. However, this time is unique because it is reaffirmed to you stronger, more powerful and clearer than ever before. As the two of you stood, preparing to share your timeless vows, I had my own MOMENT while in YOUR MOMENT.

It is truly a difficult experience to explain, but it happened. While I have so much to say about it, I am not exactly sure how to express it. I am not sure if my feeble words will be able to adequately paint the picture that is in my heart.

Nine years ago, as I am sure Paula can recall, we met. I was a simple nineteen year old boy absolutely infatuated with the overwhelmingly dramatic beauty and stimulating sense of humor of your sixteen year old daughter. That is how we crossed paths. A young crush that consumed me had me twisted and turned completely upside down. At the time, I didn’t know your daughter was only sixteen. I am not sure I would have cared, but she didn’t act sixteen. She definitely didn’t look sixteen. She refrained from telling me that she was sixteen, so how was I supposed to know she was sixteen? However, regardless of her age, from the first time Meagan caught my eye (yes, I was caught staring), my heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t long after that first drooling stare that Meagan had me wrapped around her finger. And, thus my assimilation into this eccentric but extraordinary group of people began.

The process was truly a culture shock for me. As a sheltered little boy, I tried not to be judgmental, but I hadn’t been exposed to the vast varying changes occurring throughout the world. For the most part, I lived in my bubble, enjoying a level of comfort I had become accustom to. Even as a nineteen year old, I knew very few people openly practicing a sexual orientation different from what I would have considered NORMAL at the time. The only person that I knew reasonable well had not openly admitted to me that his sexual orientation differed from my own. Needless to say, when Meagan nonchalantly mentioned that you were a lesbian, I can guarantee that my jaw hit the floor. I know that some judgmental thoughts ran through my confused head. However, those thoughts were more out of fear of the unknown as opposed to any hatred of something that was different from what I considered, at the time, normal. More than anything, I was scared of myself and my own narrow mindedness that made my meeting you difficult.

From the second Meagan let me know of your sexual orientation, I was concerned. That fear of the unknown can be pretty scary. It wasn’t right, but it was there. I remember that I would always refer to something as “gay” when I thought it was stupid. It was one of those things that I never thought about until I met you. Meagan would laugh at me as I would say, “that’s gay”…always trailing off before finishing that disrespectful statement…only to end up apologizing and saying, “I mean, that stinks”. That small change was nothing compared to the bigger concerns I had.

I remember wondering how I would explain to my children that they had two grandmas. Two grandmas that lived together, that slept in the same bed and sometimes kissed. At first, in my mind, I wasn’t sure that I could do that. I was letting the narrow mindedness of society control my thinking. I was judging before I actually got to truly know you. It was wrong, but it happened.

Initially, as I nervously interacted with you, I realized one thing very quickly…you are a SMART ASS. There are countless SMART ASSES in this world…and then…there is you. I always fancied myself as quite the smart ass, but with you, I met my match. And, your daughter didn’t trail far behind. Over time, with each witty remark and exchange of playful banter, I began to relax. The initial unfounded and uncomfortable judgment that I subconsciously placed on you melted away. That initial judgment spoke many more volumes about me and the changes I need to make as it ever spoke about you. However, your unique ability to help change a judgmental soul spoke many more volumes about the person you were and still are. Over time, I didn’t think of you as GAY or STRAIGHT, which you clearly weren’t the latter. I didn’t think of you as a LESBIAN. I didn’t think of you as HOMO or HETRO. I just thought of you as Meagan’s mom. I thought of you as Paula. I thought of you as a friend…a smart ass, but a friend. After all, is there really any other kind of friend worth having?

While you had countless opportunities to judge me, to question my motives with Meagan and to push me away from your family, you never did. You accepted me for me. I don’t know why. I am pretty sure that I didn’t deserve it. Maybe you could see just how enthralled I was with your amazing daughter. Maybe I wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe you just knew what it was like to be judged without merit so you reserved judgment on me. For whatever reason, you refrained from passing judgment that could have happened so easily. Instead, I was accepted into your circle. While it was truly a unique circle for me to navigate at times, it absolutely opened my eyes to the real world. It opened my eyes up to change. It opened my eyes up to acceptance. It opened my eyes up to love.

Love. That word had new meaning then and it definitely has a new meaning now. Patience. Tolerance. Understanding. Change. I always knew what these words meant, but as I proceeded on this journey with your family, I made them words in my life. I took ownership of them by becoming one with them.

As my understanding grew into acceptance, my heart was breaking. Depression had tightened its insidious grip on me. I had already almost lost the battle once. So, as I struggled with myself, the two of you opened your doors to me. At a time when I was a serious liability, you accepted me. At a time when my family was away, when I needed family the most, a group of ladies became my family. It was a move that helped to save my life. It stopped me from slowly withering away. It kept me from hiding in the shadows until it was too late.

I learned love from a family that eagerly accepted me. I learned patience from inheriting two little sisters that never knocked on a door. I learned tolerance for myself as I understood that I was the one that needed to change. I changed because you taught me to understand that love doesn’t have requirements. Love is not limited to those that a portion of society deems worthy. Love is love. And, I felt love from both of you when I least deserved it.

Fast forward almost nine years and here I am. It is hard to believe. The concerns of an uneducated, judgmental and confused nineteen year old boy have been replaced by understanding, love and friendship. Today as I watched Boston and Braxton, your grandchildren, lead you down the aisle towards your loving partner, your spouse, your love…I no longer wondered how to explain to my boys that they have two grandmas. Yes, they still live together, sleep in the same bed and sometimes kiss, but there is nothing to explain. It is just love. And, in reality, can we explain love? Can we put love into words? Love has to be felt. It has to be experienced. Love is love.

I couldn’t explain my love for their mother, your daughter, or my love for each of them any easier that I could explain your love for one another. It is just love. It doesn’t need an explanation and I think that is beautiful. I can’t explain it, but one day they, like I, will understand. I can guarantee that it won’t take them the nineteen years though. They will grow up with understanding, tolerance and love.

No matter how you slice it, no matter what you think…love is love. No matter how many times I shake my head, it happened. A vastly different person attended your beautiful wedding and witnessed your union than the one that each of you met all those years ago. I have been changed, molded and refined by a group of unique, loving and absolutely crazy individuals.

Like a fine wine (PS: I know nothing about wine), or maybe a crisp Apple Cider, a refinement has occurred within me. The refinement is difficult to explain, but it occurred due to an absolutely perfect combination of distinctive factors: Victoria’s overwhelmingly caring and concerned attitude, Alexis’s complete lack of a filter and zest for fun, Meagan’s super cocky but wonderfully playful sense of humor, Lee’s unmatched generosity and enduring spirit (complete with loud Hawaiian laughter), and Paula’s unwavering, understanding example and super smart ass remarks. That recipe, as unstable and unpredictable as it was and still is, couldn’t have been better for me.

It is a recipe that helped me find true love with my soul mate, a woman that amazes me every single day. It was a recipe that helped me stick to love despite all of our differences. It brought me two perfect and amazingly handsome twin boys. Boys that I am proud to raise in a family that is a little different. Yes, they still have two grandmas that live together, sleep in the same bed and sometimes kiss. It gave me a FAMILY, one as unique as any that I know of. It gave me LIFE.

I no longer worry about the future as I accept and love the present.

Paula and Lee, thank you for accepting me. Thank you for looking past my many faults and judgments. Thank you for allowing me to be part of your special day. I feel privileged to have been there and witnessed the union of two amazingly special people. I am so thankful that my boys have yet another example of love, no matter how different some people may view it. Love is love.

All love is powerful. All love is special. All love should be recognized and accepted as such. All love faces countless challenges. Witnessing your love overcoming challenges is truly remarkable.

I love you. I am indebted to you. Congratulations on this, your special day.

With a heart full of indescribable gratitude and unconditional love,
Jammer

PS: Thank you for giving me such a beautiful and amazing young lady to share my life with. Sharing the journey of parenting with her has been the greatest experience of my life. I am indebted to each of you for her. Her amazing spirit of love is inspiring. Hopefully, those two little silly dudes help, in some small way, to repay some of that debt that I will forever owe.

Spray Bottles > Sippy Cups

Money. For those of you that are parents, that is the green pieces of paper covered with the pictures of those dead old guys that used to be important. Before your child, or if you are crazy, children arrived, you used it to purchase items of your choosing. Whether it was a hot date at the steak house followed by a movie, a new pair of kicks or the latest Apple product, you used that green paper to get it. If not, you probably stole it, but we do not have time to discuss that now.


Now, that money thing has disappeared. Every month, your dollars seem to flutter away. Your wallet is always lighter, although your Visa or Mastercard is probably heavier. Day by day, those precious dead guys seem to be exchanged for items that you never thought you wanted. In the beginning, they are exchanged for bottles, breast pumps and boppie pillows. And, of course, diapers. As time goes on, those precious bills are used for Stride Rites, sippy cups and Similac (possibly). And, of course, diapers. In time, the transitions will change. It may jump from Elmo to Barbie or Ninja Turtles. It will skip to dance, soccer, or swimming. Probably all 3. It will change to designer clothes, cars and college. And, of course, probably not diapers...unless they are for you. In the end, that money thing is gone. Exchanged time and time again for the needs and wants of your children.


Having been a dad for almost 16 months, I am pretty sure that I have this parenting thing down. Or, as kids these days would say, "I have it on lock." Read my blog. I am pretty sure you would agree. Clueless? Possibly. Awesome? Absolutely. And, I have no idea what "on lock" means. Regardless, I think of myself as a pretty saavy dad. Between doubling the use of butt paste for both the mouth and the booty and teaching my son (which I still deny) how to be Triple H, I am on top of my game. But, just when you think you have reached the pinnacle, your wife asks you to buy Sippy Cups.


The purchasing of sippy cups wouldn't be so bad, but your wife, like mine, has undoubtedly spent the last 48 to 72 hours tirelessly reasearching on Pinterest, Facebook and mommy blogs which sippy cups must be purchased. They are the ones that are BPA free, are easier to drink from, make your kid smarter and possibly cure childhood diabetes. These are also the $12 sippy cups. If you have twins, that is $24. Twenty freakin' four dollars...on CUPS. Now, while you stand in Wal-mart as some random kid rams a shopping cart into your cankles (What?! I'm still carrying some baby weight), you have a decision to make. Do I buy a 12 pack of Trojan's finest or risk it and get $24 in sippy cups? The risk might yield you with $36 in sippy cups and a mini van in your future.


The decisions, the consequences, it all weighs heavily. But, for the saavy dad, you snag a 24 pack of Trojan's finest and two spray bottles from the dollar section. Victory is yours. After all, kids are like hamsters...except the cage is a crib.

 

 

 

 

Don't judge me. I have twins. And, 23 of Trojan's finest...wink, wink! Saavy dad, fo' sho. Parenting 'ish on lock.

 

 

Justin Barrow AKA The Bad Idea Dad

Facebook Rumors and Lies About A Triple H Dad...

Facebook. The social networking giant is an amazing technological advance that connects us with people around the world. I probably would not be aware of what 99% of the people I went to high school with were doing if not for Facebook. Hell, sometimes I might not even know where my wife is without it. But, Facebook also has a dark side. It beckons to people. No, I am not talking about a Darth Vader style dark side, but Facebook's side is still dark nonetheless.


Facebook gives people the ability to spread rumors and lies. People can make accusations in front of the world about a person. And, while the person can defend himself/herself, the damage is done. People are guilty until proven innocent.


While I eagerly share many of my shortcomings as a father on my blog, I do not appreciate some of the wild accusations that have been posted on Facebook about me. The mud has been slung. My reputation has been damaged and it hurts. Just when you think you can trust somebody, they log on to Facebook and post a video like this...

The video wasn't so bad, but then I was blamed for teaching this child how to spit water like Triple H. Now, first things first...that kid is damn cute. Second, he is mine. Third, I think this video is doctored. Seriously! I have never seen the kid do that before. I have never seen him spray or spit water everywhere. But, for some reason, his mom decided to ask me if I taught him to do the Triple H WWE ring entrance. I adamantly deny these accusations. I would never teach my son anything like that.


As a father, we have to set an example for our children. And, hopefully that example is a positive one. At any rate, we often spend Saturday mornings with just the boys. We let mommy sleep in and we hang out. Apparently some hidden camera caught the actions below...

 

At this point in time my lawyer has told me to refrain from answering any questions, but I adamantly deny that I am in the video above. My likeness may have been my stunt double from my RMI After Hours days. But, it is definitely not me.

 

 

However, I will be sleeping on the couch until further notice. This is purely coincidental. I am sleeping on the couch by choice. After all, couch pull out beds are widely recognized by chiropractors to be better for your back than Sleep Number mattresses. PS: No chiropractors approve this message.

 

 

However, Triple H approves of this message. And, if you ask Bossy... It's time to play the game.

 

 

Justin Barrow AKA The Bad Idea Dad

Toothbrushes & Butt Paste...



A good night's sleep is a golden treasure. It is a rare diamond in the rough of parenthood. There are many days, while I'm sitting at the office or teaching a class on sexual harassment, that I would pay any monetary amount for a peaceful nap. And, while many of the people in my classes get paid to snore while I discuss how it is inappropriate to grab a handful of ass in the workplace, I am not as lucky. Over the past 15 months, since my tornado and hurricane were born, sleep has never been as good as it once was.

 

At first, as any new parent knows (especially those blessed with multiples), sleep comes in short, sporadic and restless spurts, if at all. As your children age, go through teething, illnesses and just those rough nights, sleep improves but it is never great. On those rare instances where you are lucky enough to end up with a babysitter for the night, you get a glimpse of what sleep used to be like. Those incredible gifts remind you that when you chose to get "busy" with Boyz II Men or R. Kelly in the background, that you forever changed your life. Sleep will not be the same, not in a few months, a year, or in a decade. When you chose to be a responsible parent, you forfeited your right to sleep in. You chose to stay awake when your child is sick, scared or just refusing to do that "sleep" thing that you would literally give your left arm for. Even now, as my boys almost always sleep through the night, I still find myself sleeping lighter than ever before.

 

Subconsciously, I wake up to every small noise wondering if my babies need me. After all, they could be being attacked by ravenous raccoons.

 

So, while people worry about The Walking Dead, I just worry about parents, particularly moms, that are deprived of sleep. And, I know my fair share of them.

 

If you read the title of this post, you are probably wondering what all this has to do with toothbrushes and butt paste. But, if you have read my posts in the past, you know I write with ADHD. I jump all over the place, occasionally connecting topics that don't always seem to go together. But, at some point, I at least try to make a connection. So, here it goes...

 

The problem with sleep deprivation is we become unpredictable. Suddenly, people who were previously what we would consider smart, sophisticated, and perfectly sane become insane dummies that forget to wear pants. We walk around in a daze trying to remember to latch our children in their car seats and trying not to fall asleep in line at the grocery store. It happens. We start to slowly lose our minds. I am pretty sure that my twins are secretly sucking my brain matter out of my nose on those rare occasions that I actually fall asleep on the couch. After all, they are always plotting against me in their secret language. They point at me and giggle. But, little do they know, I will unintentionally get back at them one day.

 

The other day, towards the end of another long week, I was dragging. My wife wasn't doing much better as our boys had run her ragged for the past week. They used her as a jungle gym, held her down when she tried to do her crunches, and had her constantly picking them up and putting them down. When bath time came, I volunteered to get splashed, possible peed on and wash little cellulite cheeks. When bath time ended, my wife asked me to bring the toothbrushes and toothpaste. After all, little piranhas need their teeth cleaned too. Half asleep, trying to hold on for just another 15 minutes of teeth brushing and story time, I brought the toothbrushes and toothpaste...

 

Or what I thought were those things...

 

 

 

Somehow, the above is what I ended up with. Without noticing, I prepared two Sesame Street toothbrushes with a slightly cream/eggshell colored paste that just didn't look right. As I got ready to brush the first set of teeth, the toothbrush approached Boston's mouth, but my wife yelled "STOP!”

 

I jerked my head around to see her holding up BUTT PASTE not TOOTHPASTE.

 

"Are you using this?" she questioned.

 

To which I responded, "What? Their breathe smells like ass!"

 

I told you one day I would get them back. And, while my plan was foiled by their loving mother, there will be another day that I am sleep deprived and their breathe smells like their posterior.

 

Justin Barrow aka The Bad Idea Dad



Goat's Milk, Baking and Sinking Ships...

Writing provides me with an outlet. When I sit, staring at that tiny, blinking cursor, a valve opens up to release all the pressure and emotion that resides inside of me. Using the mighty written word, I can share my innermost frustrations, my hidden vulnerabilities, and my deepest fears. All this can be done without the glaring, staring eyes of another human being. After all, I tried therapy once, but that was one time too many. As I am writing, there are no outside judgments. There are no interruptions. It is just my keyboard, that blinking cursor and my thoughts. I can hide. I can share. I can delete. I can add. It is all up to me. I have learned more about myself from writing than from anything else.  In the words of Hemingway, “The writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.”

However, I do not consider myself a writer. I write, but I am not a writer.  A therapist would love that comment. But, please don’t get me started on that. I write with the small glimmer of hope that the few words that I do share have some small, minimal impact on someone, somewhere, somehow. For those who I find willing to read the words I share, I am grateful. In my times of vulnerability, when I share my words, I just hope that someone finds something of merit in the words that have escaped me. If, on a rare instance, my floundering words make you crack a smile, shed a tear, or ponder just a little longer then I have achieved something. Hell, even if I make you crazy, drive you mad or piss you the hell off, then I have succeeded. In those rare opportunities when a genuine response is released, I am happy.

I share much of what I write, however, I have been holding one piece hostage for about a year. I have contemplated and wrestled with myself on whether to post it or leave it alone. It is a piece that is special to me. It is a piece that shares a lot of emotion of the past year. It is on a topic that is always in debate. It is on topic that I see every day on Facebook and since I am not a woman, I keep to myself when it comes up. But, it rattles me. It offends me. It pisses me off, so someone out there is achieving something.

This past week, and probably long before I noticed, there has been a blog post making the rounds on Facebook. It is a post that I greatly enjoyed and I have written similar ones myself on numerous occasions. But, like this post, the others always stayed in “Draft” status. But, after reading and re-reading Jeanne Sager’s “10 Things Never to Say to a Formula-Feeding Mom”, I finally decided to pull the trigger. Will this make me popular with some people? The answer is emphatically “NO!” But, like I said before, if I piss you, I achieved something.
 

And, in reality, if I piss you off with my words here, I would suggest a little self-reflection because nothing that I write here should offend you unless you are guilty of it. Much like Mrs. Sager’s article, I am just speaking from experience.

When did parenting become a competition? When did parenting become a toot your own horn and judge others affair? When did moms start feeling the need to make sure every other mom knows the right way to parent? Maybe it was the introduction of the internet and Facebook that caused the thin red line to be drawn.  I am not sure. I am not naïve enough to think that moms didn’t judge and compare themselves to others since the beginning of the human race, but it wasn’t as public. The internet has provided all of us, not just moms, with the ability to share our thoughts while hiding behind our computer screens. I’ll be the first to admit it. I have said things on Facebook or in my blog that I probably wouldn’t have shared in a face to face conversation. It happens. The invention of the internet has given us the ability to share our innermost feelings without fear of true retribution. Retaliation, if any, will show up in the form of comments that could easily be ignored.

Maybe, my generation has taken this competition to a whole new level. Things like Parenting Magazine, Teen Mom, and online blogs have created a vortex of information where every mom (or dad) can share her (or his) two cents regarding anything and everything. Those thoughts can be shared on Facebook and Twitter connecting a world and causing resentment and conflict.

One may ask where, why, when and how these questions, emotions and thoughts came into my mind. In order to answer those questions, a few stories have to be told first.

It started on the most glorious day of my adult life. It was an early Tuesday morning in June, and as I drove my beautiful, bloating (or glowing) wife to the hospital, tears were already filling my eyes. As we arrived, checked in and prepped for the C-Section, my beautiful wife was visibly nervous. She was in that state of excivous. Yes, I made that up. It is a mix between excited and nervous. Still, she was much less visibly shaken than me. I was a nervous wreck. I paced back and forth, sighed, felt dizzy and squeezed the luck penny in my pocket.

Ahhhhhh, the lucky penny! What a relief. Throughout my life, I have lost countless things; just ask my wife, my mother, my father, my brother, my sister. The list goes on and on. However, I prefer the term misplaced as opposed to lost. I have misplaced numerous house keys, a few wallets, an ID or two, my wedding ring and countless other items. But, even through all the turmoil, all the chaos, and all the miscues, I have never lost the lucky penny. Have I misplaced it? Yes, of course. I have misplaced it, sometimes for months at a time, but it always turns up. It has found a home taped to a page of my journey,  next to dog tags that hung close to my heart, on a piece of twine that was placed on my wrist, and on my key ring.

It is tarnished. It is dirty. It is beaten and battered. Much like the condition of my heart on that fateful evening that the penny was bestowed to me, it has been brighter, shinier and seen better days. Still, it is a beautiful penny. It is a vessel for memories, hopes, and dreams. That soiled penny traveled limitless miles and exchanged countless hands before it ended up in mine. Eighteen years ago, when that little penny was pressed with Lincoln’s head, I would have never thought it would become so important to me. That flawed, imperfect piece of copper from 1987, which must have been a pretty stellar year, still finds its way into my pocket every day. A hole resides where Lincoln’s head once did, the product of a young man, a boy really, who was smitten with a beautiful young lady. With all his might, he squeezed and shook until the cooper recessed, bended and eventual fractured leaving a perfectly round hole inside. That penny is a reminder of what it is to be alive. It is a reminder of love.

I was shook from my thoughts by a young nurse asking us if we were ready. I laughed, maybe not out loud, but I laughed. Can you ever truly be ready for the journey of parenthood? I didn’t think so. It is more of a jump in head first, hope you can swim and survive type of journey. As we began to roll down the hall to the OR, I thought about the countless times we had been asked about a C-Section. Since the time we found out it was twins, we had gotten the obligatory remarks that a C-Section was unnecessary. Remarks were shared that we should give birth at home or naturally, free of drugs and without a doctor telling us what should be done. Judgments were passed when we chose a C-Section as necessary for my wife and my babies. In reality, my wife and Boston would have been in serious danger had we not decided on a C-Section. With all the unknowns in this world, we elected what we thought was the safest route for our children to be born. Still, that didn’t stop the unnecessary comments and articles from being posted by friends.

If it would have stopped there, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up so irritated, but that was only the beginning. The first 48 hours in the hospital were a struggle. Our children were healthy. We were extremely blessed. My amazing wife had carried our twins for 38 weeks, which was full term especially for multiples. They were beautiful, incredible bundles of joy. But, when the second night came and they screamed uncontrollably, unable to latch, unable to receive the nourishment they desperately needed, I became concerned. Nurses at St. Rose, Nipple Nazis as a friend of my wife would say, push a breast feeding agenda. And, I do not use the term “push” lightly. It was not until I lost my mind, demanding formula that it was given to us. Unfortunately, try as my wife did, her milk was not ready. My boys needed comfort. My boys needed nourishment. And, at that point in time, mommy with a bottle was able to provide the comfort they needed. For the next eight weeks, my wife would cry herself to sleep as post partum depression wrapped her in its tight grasp. She would breast feed when her body would allow it, but on occasion, we would supplement with formula. She struggled. She hurt. She attempted to feed our child, but in the end, it was not working. The physical and emotional drain on her body was too much. She fought like hell, but in the end, it was in the best interest of our family to embrace formula.

I had to look my beautiful wife in her eyes and tell her it was okay to stop. The mounting pressure and expectations were slowly killing her. As I looked into her soul, I told her she was an amazing mother and that our babies would be perfectly fine. Life would go on. I held her as she sobbed, reassured her as she shook and listened as she shared her innermost fears. The fears that revolved around judgment were truly heart breaking. In the coming weeks, I would see the comments posted by friends on Facebook that made me feel disheartened.

When we moved to formula, one would have thought that we tarred and feathered our children in town square. Apparently, the use of formula was child abuse. We had plenty of “friends” and acquaintances that made sure to let us know of their disapproval. Some did it directly and others indirectly. Regardless, the judgment hurt. My wife was already struggling with the fact that breast feeding wasn’t in the cards for her and the comments from people added insult to the injuries.

It didn’t stop there. Whether it is squeeze pouches, organic milk, television or whatever else, people judge. People have their own opinions, and I am grateful for that, but judgment can cause a great deal of hurt.

Back to the original questions, when did parenting become a competition? When did parenting become a toot your own horn and judge others affair? When did moms (or dads) start feeling the need to make sure every other mom knows the right way to parent?

The journey of parenting is an amazingly intimate experience. As we embark on the journey that forever changes each of our lives, support and friendship is a must. Mothers (fathers too) can become a sorority of unwavering support and understanding.  Rather than turning parenting into a judgmental competition filled with a desire to prove superiority, each mother can become a beacon, an example of love.

If you choose to breastfeed, I support you. If you choose to bottle feed with formula, I support you. If you choose to supplement, I support you. If you choose a natural home birth, I support you. If you choose a natural birth in the hospital, I support you. If you choose a birth in the hospital, epidural included, I support you. If you choose a C-Section, I support you.  I support organic milk. I support cow’s milk. Hell, I support goats too. As a fellow parent, I support those of you just trying to do your best with the beautiful boys and girls that you brought into this world. I support you in a hope that you are raising a happy child full of love that will make this world a better place.

In the end, isn’t that what we all want for our children? We want them to live in a world free of hate and judgment. We want them to live in a world where they can be what they want to be. We want them to be accepted for who they are. We want them to be loved. We want a world free of hatred where they can be straight, gay, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, mixed, tall, short, fat, skinny, Goth, jock, nerd or any combination of things.


The future adults of this world, the ones we are raising now, will shape this world as we shape them. If we teach them judgment now, they will judge in the future. If we teach them love, they will love in the future. If we teach them acceptance now, they will accept in the future. We are the whisk, they are the mix, and while I don’t suggest baking them, we help mold them into who they will be.


Parent in the way you see fit. Let others parent they way they see fit. It is their journey, one that they should enjoy without worry of judgment. Support them as they support you whether you breastfeed in the park or share a bottle with your baby in church. Support them as they support you whether they give birth in a plastic pool at home or on the operating table at the hospital.  In the end, we are all in the same boat…one that we hope doesn’t sink. We work hard to keep our heads above water, struggling day by day to raise our kids as best we can. The journey, as hard as it is, can be smoothed over by love and understanding. In the end, life is short. Our parenting journey will end quicker than we could have imagined, and we should be able to look back on it with a smile.

“Life is short and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those

who are traveling the dark journey with us. Oh be swift to love, make haste to be kind.”

-          Henri Frederic Amiel

Justin Barrow aka The Bad Idea Dad

Introduction to Bad Idea Dad...

              Just shy of one year ago, I was blessed to become a parent to my identical twin boys, Boston Jammer and Braxton Parker. This new experience, while still in its infancy, is extremely overwhelming. In a short time, my entire life changed. The challenges that came with providing for my new family were challenges that I have felt and, at times, continue to feel less than adequate to take on. Occasionally, I am terrified at what the future beholds. But, as I sit here on a Saturday morning, watching my two boys smile and giggle at one another, I know it is all worth it.

Parenting of the proper, good and loving variety comes with an endless and always multiplying price tag. That price tag includes the traditional dollars and cents, which you never seem to have enough of. That price tag comes with sacrifice of the random spontaneity that you experienced in your early, less responsible years. And, the biggest, most important, and ultimately necessary portion of that price tag comes in the form of your time. Time is love. It has been written by Abigail Van Buren, "If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money." While I often feel like I am falling short of providing that parenting of the proper, good and loving variety that I write of, as I get mouthfuls of slobbery kisses on both my scruffy cheeks I realize I must be doing something, even to the smallest extent, right.

On this demanding, miraculous and supremely rewarding journey that we experience as parents, we will all have feelings of inadequacy. We will all have those moments where we feel like we failed. We will all have those moments where we wonder if we should have done something different. We will all wonder if we could have done better. The difficult process of having those thoughts, those feelings, and those questions is what makes you a good parent. Good parents wonder if they have done, are doing, and will do enough in the future. Good parents stress about their children. And, good parents do whatever it takes to see their kids happy. So, if you feel inadequate and scared, question your abilities as a parent, and ponder the tough decisions you made as right or wrong then you ARE a good parent.

As a son of an incredibly strong and unconditionally loving mother and as a husband to the most amazing, patient and loving mother of twin boys, I am in awe of mothers. Their patience, good judgment and never ending love far exceeds that of the majority of their male counterparts (including myself). But, as fathers, our role is so very important. Whether you are raising a beautiful little chick or a handsome little dude, it is so important that as men, we teach them, through our actions how to show respect and love. Little girls marry men like their fathers. Little boys treat women like their fathers.

As parents (first time or not), we are learning the ropes together. You can read all the books and Internet blogs. You can listen to advice from your own parents, friends and doctors. You can watch movies, TV specials, and Oprah. But, in the end, parenting is a process of trial and error. With it comes the glory of success and the heartbreak of failure. With it comes joy and pain, pride and disappoint. It is not always pretty, but it is always amazing.

The idea behind Bad Idea Dad is that we are all learning. We all have those moments where we question our decisions. And, at times, it is healthy, necessary, and ultimately therapeutic to discuss those shortcomings. Bad Idea Dad does that. I will be sharing some of my comedic, questionable, and just flat out "What in the Hell was I thinking" moments. I will also be reaching out to other parents, mainly dads, for their bad decisions, comedic moments and those illogical thoughts that we all have as parents. It should be an incredible but bumpy ride. Let the laughs, the tears and the chaos begin.

- Justin Barrow aka The Bad Idea Dad