Adventures in Fatherhood

Be the dad your child deserves on Father’s Day

Posted on June 12, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

I want to write about all the great Father’s Days of my youth.

I want you to laugh with me as I retell the story of the time I spilled a bowl full of ice-cream sprinkles all over the floor while making a banana split for my father in 1977 and raced to clean up the mess before anyone noticed.

I want you to cry with me as you read about the disappointment I felt a year later when I left the clay bowl I made for him at day camp, and had no present to give him that Sunday.

And I want you to smile with me as I tell you about all the old photographs of family barbecues with Dad shamelessly wearing his “Kiss the Cook” apron, and demanding everyone (including the hairy next-door neighbor) obey the order if they wanted a burger.

Believe me, I want to tell those stories.

But I can’t.

None of it happened. My father left my family when I was 7 years old, and I have no memory of any Father’s Day growing up. While many people see the third Sunday in June as a day to honor their father, I saw it as just another Sunday, one on which I would send a card and make a phone call.

That was it. No barbecues. No fancy luncheons. No anything.

To be fair, I have no memory of Mother’s Day celebrations growing up either, but I don’t blame my mom. She was too busy raising four children on her own to arrange an outing in her honor. Besides, that would be weird. Helping young children honor their mother is a father’s job, and mine wasn’t there.

So I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel on Father’s Day, in part because I have no experience on which to base any expectations.

Many people pay tribute to their dads on Father’s Day by either changing their Facebook profile picture to him or simply saying what he meant in their lives.

I can’t do the same. How could I honor a man who wasn’t around?

June 17, 2012, will mark the 11th time I am to be honored, but I never expect my wife and two children to go out of their way for me.

I don’t look for adulation or affirmation. My children give me everything I need when they run full throttle into me when I arrive home from work or they proudly show me a picture they drew at school.

The former means they miss me when I work late, want me home, and like playing with me. I play with them whenever I can.

The latter means my opinion matters to them, and they want me to be proud of what they create. I always am.

So I see Father’s Day not as a time for children to celebrate the men who fathered them, but for the men who are fathers to be the dad their children deserve to have.

Now go play a silly game with your children, take them for a ride through the park, toss around the football, and give them a kiss. Tell them I said hi.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Father's Day, Fatherlessness | Leave a comment

Scary is in the eye of the fearful

Posted on June 8, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

I clearly remember waiting in long lines to see “Star Wars” in the summer of ’77.

Only 8 at the time, I watched the silver screen in awe as the androids, aliens and humans told a story that ignited my imagination. But it is also the first movie that ever scared me, so much so that the scene remains seared in my memory 33 years later.

Not far into the movie, R2-D2 runs away from Luke Skywalker to find Obi-Wan Kenobi and give him a message from Princess Leia. Luke takes C-3PO to look for him, but it’s late in the afternoon and he’s worried about the Sand People, a race of brutal scavengers.

“They’re the worst,” Luke tells Threepio.

I had no idea who the Sand People were, but if the hero of the movie says they’re the worst in the galaxy, my 8-year-old self tended to believe him, and wanted Luke to avoid them at all costs.

As Luke looks through binoculars, he tells Threepio that he can see signs of the Sand People down in a valley, but doesn’t seem overly worried. His reaction eased the fear I felt for him.

Then one of the Sand People jumps up unexpectedly in Luke’s field of vision, bellows out an ear-splitting scream as though he were an angry mama mammoth looking for her babies and knocks Luke to the ground.

The face of that angry Sand Person (People? Dude? Whatever.) raising a stick in triumph over Luke’s body and bellowing out loud repeatedly terrified me like no other image before.

I can see the movie now and smile at the benign nature of that scene, but my 8-year-old self did not have the luxury of an adulthood lens through which to watch the movie.

The Sand People did not injure Luke, and he went on to destroy the Death Star and save the galaxy from the evil clutches of the Galactic Empire! (Until the sequels, of course, but those were unheard of in the 1970s, so it seemed at the time like Luke was the greatest hero of all time, bar none.)

I have to remind myself of that scene periodically to remember that adults and children see movies through different eyes. What seems benign to an adult can terrify a child.

Gavin, my 5-year-old, could not make it 10 minutes into “Wall-E” before he ran screaming from the living room. A rocket ship was landing and it scared Wall-E terribly, which in turn scared Gavin. It wasn’t a bad scene, but Gavin felt unique empathy for that rusted robot and experienced the same fear as Wall-E. He did not want to watch the rest of the movie, which was fine with me.

He could not wait for “Toy Story 3” to open this summer, and neither could I. The first two movies are good, not just for children but adults as well because the stories have a great deal of depth to them.

We heard some warnings about scary parts in it, but I shrugged them off, even though I know how sensitive Gavin can be. He did not like the barking dogs in “Up,” but this was “Toy Story 3.” Neither of the first two movies scared Gavin, so I did not believe the third would.

Plus, we had already read the picture book, so we were familiar with the story. It seemed harmless enough. How scary could the movie be?

Turns out a couple of scenes and characters scared Gavin terribly: the watch-guard monkey, Lotso, and the extended incinerator scene that almost destroyed all his favorite characters.

If you’ve seen the movie, I’m sure you know which scenes I’m talking about, but please forgive me if you haven’t. The details of each would take too long to explain, but take me at my word when I say that each genuinely scared Gavin.

He’s had trouble sleeping several nights since because of bad dreams, though he can’t articulate what is so scary. He’s even collected some toys he no longer wants to play with because they are too scary, though I see them as tame.

He wants me to throw them away, but I’ll just hide them for the time being because he will grow out of these fears and will one day want these toys again. When he was collecting the toys, he kept apologizing and saying how he just didn’t want to play with scary toys.

I told him he had done nothing for which he should apologize. “Life’s too short to play with scary toys,” I told him.

“I just want to be big and brave, like you Daddy,” he responded, to which I only smiled.

Part of me wanted to tell him that I only seem brave to his 5-year-old intellect, and that my worst fears would only play out in real life and involve harm to him or other members of my family. But I would never want to burden him with the possibility of real-life tragedies.

For now I’ll let my boy believe I have no fear. After all, it won’t be long before he believes I have no sense, and for the time being, he needs a brave dad to call for when his dreams scare him.

This is a re-post of a column that appeared in The Gazette on July 22, 2010.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Gavin, Gazette, Movies | Leave a comment

Healthy fear of guns leads to a wrongful fear of police

Posted on May 30, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

I don’t understand the attraction some young boys have to playing, or pretending to play, with toy guns.

I never played with them as a child, and Karen and I do not allow our children to play with them. In fact, we don’t even let them play with toys that have toy guns.

One of Gavin’s Christmas presents this past year was a pack of action figures, one of which was holding a gun as though he was shooting it. I quickly cut it off, but when he sees that toy today, he remembers that it came with a gun and asks about it.

I’ve even hidden from him a Boba Fett action figure — despite my affinity for “Star Wars” — that is posed with a gun in hand as though he is shooting it, and yet Gavin asks about it periodically.

Our efforts still don’t stop him from pretending other items are a gun, but we stand our ground against him playing with toy guns. The reason is simple. At only 5 years old, we don’t want him to think that it’s OK to play with a toy that depicts something so dangerous.

I respect the role guns played in the founding of this nation, but also understand the role they play in today’s society. I won’t judge another parent who has no problem with their children playing with toy guns, just as I don’t want those parents judging me for my decisions.

Since neither Karen nor I played with toy guns growing up, we never felt the need to introduce them to our children. We have taught them that guns are dangerous, not toys, just like we never tell them that medicine is candy, even if it tastes like cherry or grape.

We don’t want them to think lightly of such serious items. As a result, they have a healthy fear of guns.

But Gavin also fears anyone who has a gun, even a police officer. He will cower behind Karen or me when he sees an officer with a gun, even though it’s holstered, because he equates guns with bad guys.

I regret that unintended side effect, mostly because he should not fear police. But I would rather have Gavin know guns are dangerous and fear them than to have him think they are harmless and something to play with. Many accidental tragedies could have been avoided had the people involved showed a greater respect for a gun. If you are a gunowner in the state of Texas, you should educate yourself on Texas open carry holster requirements. And in terms of legal representation, navigating the complexities of the law becomes more manageable when you have access to reliable resources like https://www.newjerseycriminallawattorney.com/. This allows you to focus on making informed decisions regarding your legal situation, ensuring a smoother process throughout.

I always look for the opportunity to introduce Gavin to a police officer so he realizes he need not fear them. We recently had a chance in my neighborhood’s “spring fling,” a small outdoor party the Villages of Urbana organizes every year.

A deputy from the Frederick County Sheriff’s Office was walking around talking to folks, and sure enough Gavin hid behind Karen when he walked by us.

“Mommy, he’s got a gun,” he whispered.

The deputy noticed, and gave me a puzzled look. He stood too far away to hear Gavin, so I explained that he feared his gun.

“Bad experience?” the deputy asked.

“No,” I said. “He’s never been around guns.”

“TV?” he asked.

“Maybe, but we don’t let him play with toy guns, either.”

The deputy nodded, and asked me his name. He knelt down, so he could talk to Gavin at his level.

“Gavin,” he said. “The only reason I have a gun is because the bad guys have guns. I need it to be able to stop them to protect you. Understand?”

Gavin nodded.

“You don’t need to be afraid of the police,” he said. “Understand?”

Gavin nodded again.

“OK, give me five,” the deputy said, holding his hand high.

Gavin came out from behind Karen and gave him five.

The next morning, he walked around the house with a sheriff’s hat, a badge, and a toy telescope holstered like a gun, telling us that he was a police officer and was going to get the bad guys.

We still won’t let him play with toy guns, but at least he seems to have aside his fear of police officers, if only temporarily. He still knows guns are inherently dangerous, and is quick to point out when he sees a bad guy on television wielding one. Search for a gun rights attorney near me if you’re having difficulty obtaining a permit for a firearm.

I can’t wait to see how he will react to a police officer next time he sees one at a carnival or festival. And if he still cowers behind Karen or me, I’ll go out of my way to introduce him to that officer. I’d much rather have to explain to Gavin a thousand times that some good guys carry guns than hear one of those good guys explain to me once how something tragic just happened because my boy thought a gun is not dangerous.

This is a repost of a column that first appeared in The Gazette on June 24, 2010. Gavin no longer fears the police.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Gavin, Gazette, Guns | Leave a comment

When Mother’s Day is not all candy and flowers

Posted on May 15, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

If you asked me last week what Mother’s Day is about, I would have been quick with an answer: It’s the day we set aside to honor the woman who gave birth to us.

If you asked me today, my answer would largely be the same with one caveat: We also have to set aside a few moments in the day to remember how lucky we are to have children, and that motherhood does not come easily to all women. In fact, for some women becoming a mother is nothing short of the fight of their lives.

Since Karen and I became parents 10 years ago, I’ve approached Mother’s Day much the same way every year: Pick up a greeting card. Wrestle with what funny gifts to buy Karen. Be sure the kids have something to give. Call my mom.

I’m embarrassed to say I’ve thought little, if any, about the hardships some women go through to become mothers, I suppose in part because that wasn’t our experience.

I sneezed and Karen became pregnant.

But it’s not so easy for some women.

Some can’t conceive on their own, and need help from modern medicine and surrogates to have a child.

Others are bedridden for weeks and need powerful drugs to stop contractions so they can carry their baby to term, or at least a few more weeks to allow their baby to grow in the womb as God intended.

And still others spend Mother’s Day mourning the loss of a newly conceived child, a pain I have never known and an emptiness I can only imagine as I look in the eyes of my own children.

So while Mother’s Day will always be a day for me to appreciate my own mother and wife, I will forever take a few moments on the second Sunday in May to remember how lucky I am to have children and say a little prayer for every woman struggling to become a mother.

After all, a woman willing to go to such lengths to become a mother is the kind of mother every child deserves. I pray they will one day know the joy Karen and I feel when we hear our children laugh.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Mother's Day | Leave a comment

My backup plan: Theoretical Daddying

Posted on May 8, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

My recent bout with unemployment has caused me to think about a developing a more secure backup plan should my career choice not pan out as I hope.

But figuring out what to do is turning into quite a challenge.

I’m at my best when I write, but if I can’t make a living doing that, I’m stuck at what else to do.

I wanted to be a rock star when I was 15 (what boy didn’t?), and even tried my hand at playing guitar, but it didn’t stick and I gave up after a year or two. Part of me would like to pick it up again, but the demand is low for a 43-year-old rock god. Besides, I’m closer to a down-and-wenter than an up-and-comer.

I like woodworking, and have even made a bookshelf or two in my time, but I doubt anyone would pay for what I’ve built because it all has a peculiar wobble to it. I think my floors aren’t level.

I could paint houses if I didn’t feel dizzy standing on a ladder 15 feet off the ground. I’m fairly certain people want their entire foyer painted, not just the bottom part of the wall. Speaking of home maintenance, it’s not just the painting that requires attention; dealing with a sewage line clogged can be a real headache. Hiring a plumbing services Seattle WA can provide proper upkeep and ensure that everything, from the walls to the plumbing, is in top condition.

That pretty much leaves fatherhood, which I think I’m pretty good at. My kids tell me so, anyway. I’m not sure how good I would be at daddying other people’s children. Perhaps I could just advise them, or sit around and think up ways for guys to be a better daddy.

Yeah, like a theoretical astrophysicist thinks up theories about the way the universe works, I could think up ways for men to be better dads.

Call me a theoretical dad.

Don’t scoff. It’s a thing. Or, it’s gonna be a thing.

Someone has to be first. Why not me?

I even have a head start given that I thought of my first theory the other day when I took my 10-year-old daughter Celeste on a four-mile round-trip bike ride to the ice cream store.

I call it the General Theory of Distance Relative to Ice Cream. Hey, everyone laughed at Einstein’s first theory, right? OK, I don’t know if they did or not, but let’s just say they did, if only to make me feel better.

My theory goes like this: In the eyes of a 10-year-old child, the distance to the ice cream store is half as far as the distance home from the ice cream store.

For those graphically minded, the ride to the store would look like this:

And the ride home from the store would look like this:

Hey, did E=mc² look any less silly 100 years ago?

The gist of my theory is that a 10-year-old will race to the ice cream store with the gusto of a racecar driver because she is anticipating ice cream. But once she has eaten the ice cream, she will ride her bike home at half speed, walk up the slightest hill, and in general be half as enthusiastic on the way home as she was on the first half of the ride.

In other words, the ride home is twice as long as the ride to the store because she already ate her ice cream. With no prize waiting at home, what’s the rush?

I know it sounds obvious, but that didn’t stop Einstein from his work. Who doesn’t know that time slows as you near light speed?

Duh!

But I know what you’re thinking. What good does my theory do? How will it benefit me?

I’ll tell you in a second, but I don’t really think I should have to. After all, if Einstein can get famous without building a car that goes light speed, I don’t think I should have to give the world a practical application for my theories.

But I also know the world isn’t fair, so here goes. To put my theory into practical use, all you have to do is be aware that the bike ride home will take longer. If you’re aware, then you’ll be prepared and you can react calmly to a child dragging her feet.

Yep. You’re welcome.

Now, I know what else you’re thinking: How could I ever make money thinking up such theories?

I have that one covered, too. When people put my theories into use and are happy with the outcome, they’ll show their appreciation by mailing me $5. If they’re unhappy with the outcome, they can show their dissatisfaction by mailing me only $3.

Believe me, I will feel the sting everytime I lose out on $2 from everyone not happy with my theories. After all, that’s $2 less for ice cream.

Posted in Blog | 1 Comment

An ordinary cat who became so much more

Posted on May 1, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

Obi does what cats do so well. Sleep.

Goalie was an ordinary cat.

Nothing made him stand out in the crowd of countless other animals that find their way to a shelter every year. He had outgrown that cute kitten stage that so many of us find irresistible. He was plain grey, and had no special markings. And he wasn’t particularly playful.

No one would blame anyone for overlooking him. In a bakery of specialty breads, wedding cakes and gourmet cookies, Goalie was a loaf of plain-white bread available at every convenience store across the nation.

Yawn.

Shelter workers knew someone owned him at some point because someone declawed him, but no one came looking for him. He was abandoned, tossed aside to the corner like a worn-out couch that wasn’t good enough to donate to Goodwill, a similar narrative told by many animals that find their way to shelters every day.

But something about Goalie spoke to us that day 12 years ago as he rested in the cold steel of his cage amid a sea of other animals. We picked him up, and could feel his soft purr rumbling just below his fur.

He found his way into our heart in the few moments we held him. We had to have him, and were not deterred by the fact that someone already expressed an interest in adopting him.
We put our name on a waiting list, and went away for a long weekend to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. We cut the weekend a little short, though, when the shelter called to tell us the first person backed out.

Goalie was to become ours. We raced back, brought him home, and promptly renamed him Obi (short, of course, for Obi-Wan Kenobi). He stood in stark contrast to our other cat, Princess (as in Leia), who was your stereotypically aloof cat.

Celeste loved playing with Obi from her earliest days.

Whereas Obi would sit on any lap in the house, Princess would only let us love her at arm’s length. Their introduction to each other went smoothly, and before long he became the yin to her yang. They fit each other perfectly.

Celeste was born a year or so later, and Obi looked out for her like an older brother. She had colic for the first three months of her life, and we tried many times to leave her in her room to cry it out. He would meow loudly at the bottom of the stairs as though to say, “Hey guys! Don’t you hear that? Celeste needs you! Get up there NOW!”

And so it went for the next 10 or so years, even with the addition of Gavin to our family, two household moves, and the death of Princess. Obi was a constant companion, always in need of lap on which to sit.

Then one day about a year ago, we noticed a small bump on Obi’s chin. He continued to eat and groom himself normally, so we thought little of it but decided to ask the vet during his annual checkup several months away.

Obi always looked for a lap, even if it was smaller than he was.

By the time of his appointment, the small bump was large enough for the vet to notice without me pointing it out. He ruled out an abscess, drew some blood for testing, and prescribed antibiotics to see how it responded.

Two weeks passed with no change. We tried a different antibiotic, but still nothing changed. The vet could only offer one other option: surgery. But the costs were increasing quickly on top what I already agreed to pay.

As much as it pained me, I couldn’t go any further. I had to let the tumor, or whatever was growing on Obi’s chin, run its course. It could only end in his death.

The vet understood, and gave me the name of a 24-hour animal hospital in case Obi took a sharp turn outside of his office hours. The bump grew in the succeeding months, and yet Obi’s demeanor changed little. He still wanted to sit on a lap wherever he could find one, only now he would leave a drop or two of drool behind.

I knew the end was near, but I didn’t know when. He sat on my belly the night of April 14, and I wiped away his drool throughout the evening, a normal Saturday night in the Allanach household.

He woke up the next morning in great pain. He hid in unusual places, and hissed anytime anyone came near him. The end had come. Obi’s lap-sitting days were over. He would not die quietly and painlessly in his sleep, as I prayed he would throughout the preceding months.

I brought him to the emergency vet that morning. The doctor quickly assessed him, and agreed he was beyond help. I said a final farewell to the cat who became so much more than the animal we first saw in the shelter.

While Goalie may have been an ordinary cat, Obi became part of our family the moment we felt his soft purr that April day 12 years ago, and we loved him throughout his life.

So long, Obster. Say hi to Princess for me.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Cats | 1 Comment

It’s just a cup. No big deal, right?

Posted on April 24, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

A father looks forward to teaching his son many things, whether it’s the proper way to grill a burger, the best way to a girl’s heart, or how to eat an Oreo without crumbs falling all over the place.

But one thing dads do not look forward to, or at least one thing this dad didn’t think he would have to do when he raised his hand to coach his 7-year-old son’s baseball team a month ago, is show his son how to wear a cup.

And I’m not talking about the kind that holds water. This cup holds, well, you know, the body parts that make boys boys.

The ark of the family jewels. A jockstrap. An athletic cup. Or better yet, a Speedo with a retractable roof.

The thought never occurred to me, probably because I’m not athletic. I played just one season of baseball as a kid, and several seasons of soccer, but I never wore a cup. I guess I was lucky a ball didn’t hit me in the most sensitive of areas all those years ago, so I didn’t think a cup would be a good idea until a parent mentioned it during a practice. For those looking to enhance sports facilities, considering features like muga line markings is essential for a well-organized and enjoyable playing environment.

None of the other dads mentioned it to me when I volunteered to coach, which I find puzzling given that they suggested I tell parents to buy a batting helmet in case someone has lice. Isn’t protecting the nether regions of young ball players just as important as preventing a lice outbreak?

But I understand, and don’t blame anyone for the omission. After all, shouldn’t all guys understand the value of a jockstrap? I would think so.

But who wants to talk about them? No one.

And who wants to buy one? Not me.

At least, that thought raced through my mind the other day as I walked into the sporting-goods store to buy one. I didn’t even know where to look, but immediately found myself amid a swarm of golf clubs.

I stopped and looked around. Golfers don’t need cups, do they? I don’t know much about the game, just that players use clubs to hit a small dimpled ball into a cup, but would they need a cup to protect their, well, I won’t finish that thought.

Should I ask someone?

Yeah, that’s a good idea. I don’t want to buy one, so why would I call attention to myself by asking someone where they are? For all I know, maybe the employee is new and didn’t know himself.

The last thing I would want is for him to announce over the store intercom that a customer needs help picking out a jockstrap. I won’t let that happen.

Let me think. It’s for baseball, so it only makes sense that the cups would be near that equipment. Probably near shin guards and catcher’s pads. I find my way over there, and quickly see a wall covered with athletic cups. Hundreds of them.

I had been near that section of the store many times in the previous two weeks, but somehow I missed the near shrine to male athletic protection. Can you say denial?

This should be easy. No one is around. I’ll just pick up one quickly, and be done with it.

Wait. They’re colored coded. Why?

Oh, they’re different sizes! So I need to know how big his …??? No, that’s not it. It’s waist size! For the supporter that holds the cup. It’s like underwear.

Phew!

Red for adults, blue for teens, green for older kids, and yellow for the youngest of athletes. I see. Wait, how big is his waist? I don’t know! Karen buys his clothes.

Oh, this is taking too long. What’s that? Someone is standing next to me. Who is it? Should I look over?

No, just mind your own business. It’s a woman, probably a mother buying a cup for her son like me, and she’s just as embarrassed as I am.

Should I ask her what to buy? No, what if she thinks it’s for me? Great. Where’s the extra large? No, that’s silly. It doesn’t matter who I’m buying it for. It’s no secret that all guys have, well, you know, and that those who play sports should protect them.

Wait, is she going to ask me what to buy? Yeah, that’s what I need right now. Why is buying a cup so embarrassing?

Good, she’s gone.

Now, which one should I buy? I still don’t know how big Gavin’s waist is.

Oh, the size chart also has ages. That’s what I’ll go by. Let’s see. Youth. Green. Ages 7-9. Bingo!

Off to the register. Hold the cup discreetly by your side with the back of the package facing out, and maybe no one will see me walking through the store holding an athletic cup.

Wait, maybe I should walk around the store and pick up a few other items. That way, the jockstrap won’t stick out as much. It will just be one of many items in my cart.

Oh, I don’t have a cart, and it’s silly to buy other things I don’t need just to hide something that I can’t hide when I check out.

Why is this so embarrassing? I turn the corner, and see two registers open with just short lines.

Phew!

Sigh. Oh no!

Women. Young women working both registers.

Buying a cup is embarrassing enough, but having a woman ring up the sale is the worst. I have no choice. Why is this so embarrassing?

I place the cup on the counter, and pull out my wallet. She won’t even look me in the eye. Why not? Am I some sort of freak for buying a cup?

“Hey!” I want to scream. “I’m not some weirdo. I’m a youth baseball coach buying this cup for his son. There’s nothing wrong with it.” But I say nothing as I swipe my debit card.

“Would you like a bag for this?” she asks.

What a strange question. “No, I’ll just wear it,” I want to say. Instead, I simply shrug and answer, “Sure.”

Good answer, I tell myself, be cool. Act like you don’t care because buying a jockstrap is not a big deal.

Ugh.

Not only do I not want to buy an athletic cup, I don’t want to stand next to a mother while choosing which size was best; I don’t want a woman to ring it up; and I don’t want someone to ask me if I want a bag for it.

Of course, I want a bag! You think I want everyone in the parking lot to see me carrying a jockstrap?

Sigh.

Hours later, after the redness faded from my face, I showed Gavin his new personal shield. His jaw dropped and eyes gaped at the odd-shaped piece of plastic.

“If a ball hits you below the waist, it won’t hurt,” I said. “It might feel a little weird wearing it, but it’s to keep you safe.”

Yeah, like I know how it feels. His eyes gaped wider. “That’s so inappropriate,” he said.

I chuckled, mostly because we have taught our children about privacy. “It’s not, Gavin. It’s for your protection.”

He shrugged, walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief, secure in the knowledge that I lived through an embarrassing moment for the benefit of my child.

Ah, the joys of fatherhood.

Oh, and that trick about the Oreos? Just stuff the whole cookie in your mouth, and you won’t lose a single crumb. But don’t tell your mother I told you.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Baseball, Youth Sports | 2 Comments

The luck of the Dutch is on my side

Posted on April 17, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

I know how lucky I am.

I may not have won the $656 million lottery last month, but I’m not surprised given that I didn’t buy a ticket. Those lottery folks tend to only give the winnings to people who hold a winning ticket. (Yeah, read the fine print. It surprised me, too.)

It doesn’t matter, though, because I wouldn’t have won anyway. By the time they chose the winning numbers, I had used up all my luck.

I drew down the first bit of it 14 years ago on a clear April Saturday when Karen vowed to spend the rest of her life with me. I made another withdrawal a few years later when Celeste came screaming into our lives, followed by her younger brother Gavin a few years after that.

I can’t imagine being much luckier, but I recently found a sliver of luck, perhaps from the shadow of a four-leaf clover, the smell of a wishbone, or an echo of the luck of the Irish.

Nah, it’s not the Irish. It’s the Dutch, for without those folks from the Netherlands I would still be unemployed. But yesterday I started work as the senior editor for the Dutch embassy in Washington, D.C. to help share its core messages to an American audience.

Who knew such a job even existed? I didn’t, at least not until I saw an ad for it on LinkedIn. I carefully read over the skills they were looking for, and could honestly say I was well qualified for nine of the 10, so I took a shot.

They contacted me for an interview, and I must have done well because a day or two later they gave me a writing test and scheduled a second interview.

Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited, or so it seemed. In reality, I didn’t wait long to hear if they wanted to offer me a job, but one day to the unemployed seems like a month.

I told myself during that time that I should continue applying for other jobs in case this one didn’t work out, but I couldn’t find the enthusiasm amid the forest of anxiousness in which I found myself.

I tried writing blog posts and working on my book about fatherlessness, but my mind wandered back to the interviews and the writing assignment to pick every nit I could find.

I had to do something mindless, so I played with Gavin’s Lego sets. No lie, I took his Lego Star Wars sets that were broken apart and strewn about in various places, and I rebuilt them. I even separated the blocks by color to make the smaller pieces easier to find.

The hours melted away like a snowman in June, but I found it relaxing to focus on something that did not require much mental energy instead of the consequences of long-term unemployment.

Then my phone rang one evening as I was preparing for baseball practice as the coach of Gavin’s team. Through the airwaves and cell towers I heard the good news: a job offer.

I hung up and thanked God for the good fortune. I may not have won the lottery, but I felt lucky nonetheless to have found a job in today’s tough market.

I’m lucky to have family that supported me during this time, people who never questioned my decision to voluntarily leave the company I worked for, for nearly 20 years.

I’m lucky to have friends and colleagues who reached out to me for lunch, forwarded job openings, said a kind word to a hiring manager, or offered a full reference for me.
I’m lucky my job search did not take long.

During my 10 or so weeks of unemployment, I met many people who measured their joblessness in months or years, not weeks. They all maintained a brave front, but I understood the fear and uncertainty they felt below their calm veneer.

While I tasted that fear, many of them have been forced to feast on it as though it were some sadistic scene out of a Tim Burton movie.

I heard stories of hiring managers receiving hundreds of resumes for one opening. No doubt some of the people applying for work were not qualified, and were merely throwing a plate of spaghetti at the wall to see if a noodle would stick.

But many of them were qualified and some hold degrees I did not know existed, let alone could ever understand, so I know how lucky I am.

The luck was not in my ability to write or the experience I earned during my 19 years in the news business—I thank God for the former and take responsibility for the latter—but in beating the odds of attracting the attention of the hiring managers at the Dutch embassy. As I navigated this process, I realized that understanding the intricacies of alabama hiring employees llc can be crucial for any business owner looking to expand their team and comply with state regulations effectively.

I was merely one in a crowd to receive an invitation for an interview, and figure I proved myself once I had an audience. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have a job today.

Still, I acknowledge feeling a little survivor’s guilt for having won the job, but I’ll say a prayer for those folks who did not land my job and wish them only the best.

I hope and pray they all find fulfilling work, and can one day say they are as lucky as I am.

Posted in Blog | 4 Comments

A 14-cent lesson in honesty

Posted on April 10, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

Fourteen pennies, that’s all it was.

Stack them together, and the tower of coins wouldn’t rise an inch off the kitchen table. It’s hardly worth the time thinking about, let alone scrounging around the house with a measuring tape to find 14 cents to be certain.

But sometimes making a point is worth more that the effort. After all, a penny isn’t just a penny. You’ll never have a million dollars if you don’t have a penny, so a seemingly worthless coin has value, especially when teaching a child an important lesson.

I found out as much one recent night during dinner when my 7-year-old son Gavin jumped up without warning, raced over to his jacket, scoured the pockets, and skipped back to the table.

“I almost forgot these pennies,” he said proudly.

Initially, I paid little attention given that I was carrying on different conversations with my 10-year-old daughter Celeste and wife Karen, but as those topics wound down I turned my eye to Gavin.

“Where did you get that money?” I asked.

“I found it,” Gavin answered.

“Obviously. Where did you find it?”

“In a garage.”

“Whose garage?”

“My friend’s.”

I didn’t like where the conversation was going, but I plowed on. “Was your friend with you in his garage?”

“No, I was going to knock on his door in the garage to see if he could come out and play.”

“And did you knock?”

“No, I saw the pennies in a pile of dirt on the ground, and it was too distracting,” he said.

“So, you didn’t knock on the door? What did you do?”

“I picked up the pennies and put them in my pocket.”

I slid the pennies over to me and counted 14 of them.

Sigh.

Gavin took 14 cents from a neighbor’s garage. I’m sure he didn’t mean to steal and didn’t realize he did anything wrong because he didn’t try to hide anything. In fact he was proud to have found them, and he answered my questions without hesitation.

The honesty in his answers and actions was pure, but taking the pennies was without question wrong. I raced through the reactions I could have, as though I were running through a Nickelodeon obstacle course filled with buckets and pits of slime.

Gavin found the pennies in a pile of dirt on the floor, so I figured someone probably swept the garage and hadn’t finished the job. The sweeper must have seen the pennies, but chose to leave them in a pile of dirt, meaning the coins were nothing but trash.

Surely no one would miss trash. I could ignore the pennies, no problem. I wouldn’t miss them if they were in my garage. After all, their combined buying power wouldn’t cover a phone call to my next-door neighbor.

But I brushed away that irresponsible thought the moment it violated my better sense. If I looked the other way now, he would think it was OK to take something out of someone’s garage.

Next time it might be a toy, a scooter or a bike. My active imagination had me visiting him in jail 30 years from now, so the amount of money was irrelevant. However I tried to trivialize the matter, the fact remained that Gavin took something out of a neighbor’s garage without permission.

Sure, he didn’t stuff a toy in his pocket while we were shopping, but he took something that didn’t belong to him. I could see it no other way, but didn’t want to make a big deal out it because he didn’t realize he did anything wrong.

I took a deep breath. “Let me see if I understand this, Gavin. You found these pennies in our neighbor’s garage, and you took them without asking. That’s stealing.”

He slowly turned his head to me and widened his eyes. “But they didn’t want them,” he protested. “They were in a pile of dirt!”

“It doesn’t matter, Gavin. You took something that didn’t belong to you.”

He shook his legs and wrung his hands, the agitation clearly growing like weeds in the garden of his innocence. His eyes danced on the edge of a teardrop.

“Am I in trouble? Are the police going to get me?”

“Calm down, Gavin,” I said. “No, the police are not going to get you, but we have to return those pennies.”

“But I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That they’ll be mad at me.”

“I don’t think he will be, Gavin. I think he’ll appreciate you returning what doesn’t belong to you. Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you.”

He stopped fidgeting, put on his shoes, and walked me to the neighbor’s house while I told him what to say. We arrived at the house moments later, and I rang the bell. The father answered the door, and I motioned to Gavin.

“I found these in your garage, and I took them,” he said while handing back the pennies.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

The father reached out his hand, took the pennies, and brushed it off. “Oh, it’s OK,” he said through a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

I shrugged. “It’s just 14 cents, but it’s the point,” I said.

“I understand,” the father said, still smiling.

I carried Gavin home, and told him how proud I was that he admitted his wrongdoing and set it right. I also replaced the image I had of him wearing pinstripes behind bars with one of him wearing pinstripes on the pitcher’s mound.

Hey, I may not be a Yankees fan but if I’m dreaming, I might as well dream big.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Gavin, Honesty, Money | 1 Comment

Coaches should see children first, players second

Posted on April 2, 2012 by Jeff Allanach

No sound can compare to the crack of a bat as a boy swings for the fences on a warm summer afternoon.

The “crack” itself is like an exclamation point to the prayer every boy says as he stands at the plate and looks for the gap in the field among the eight players who are themselves praying the ball won’t come to them.

Yes, the holiest place outside of a church on Sunday morning is a little league baseball field on Saturday afternoon.

At least, that was my experience during the one season I played baseball 30 years ago.

Of course, I never did figure out how to make that “crack” sound at the plate. The only sound I ever made was the “oomph” that one time the pitcher hit me with the ball, which also is the only time I ever remember reaching first base.

To say I was bad is an understatement. If I was only bad at playing baseball, then the Titanic suffered only a minor crack in its hull. I sucked so much, the folks at Hoover wanted to study my innards so they could figure out how to make a better vacuum cleaner.

Kids like me are the reason misguided adults created the rule that forces coaches to field every player for at least one inning each game. The rule — and any other like it — makes sense on the surface. It ensures a coach fields every child who signed up to play, even those who can’t hit or throw. If the rule didn’t exist, coaches who are only interested in winning would never field kids who can’t play.

The problem, however, is that once a kid is 11 or 12, he is old enough to understand the reason behind the rule. No one has to tell the kid he sucks. The coach says it all by only playing him one inning per game, and his teammates echo the statement in the way they treat him when adults aren’t around.

I probably didn’t play an entire game all season, and the team’s championship win meant nothing to me. I had as much to do with that trophy as the bugs that lived in the grass in the outfield.

I don’t think about that season often, but it obviously had a profound effect on me if I remember it vividly 30 years later.

I have been thinking about it more these days as my 5-year-old son Gavin is old enough to play T-ball or baseball this spring. He’s about seven years younger than I was when I played baseball, so I’m sure his experience won’t be the same as mine.

Still, part of me fears that he will be the kid for whom the one-inning rule was made, even though he is more athletic than I was as a kid. He showed me as much this winter when he played indoor soccer on a team I coached in the county recreation league.

I had never coached anything before, but the league would have been canceled if parents didn’t step up, and Gavin was eager to play. I didn’t want him to be disappointed, so I volunteered for the six-week league and enjoyed it.

I found myself thinking back to my season playing baseball, and tried to play all the kids for an equal period of time in various positions. It was difficult because some kids were obviously better than others, and I felt the temptation to give more time to those who played best (including Gavin).

But I did not want to be the coach who favors his son on the field and tells another kid he sucks by not playing him. I wanted to be the coach who gives all his kids a chance to play, and tells them all that having fun in youth sports is more important than winning, especially in a league that has no tryouts, doesn’t keep score, and in which everyone can play.

If other coaches felt the same way, I might look back on my season of baseball with fondness more so than as a cautionary tale about how not to treat kids who only want to learn to play a game. I might also have been able to play more than one inning a game, and might have even enjoyed it.

This is a re-post of a column that first appeared in The Gazette on March 10, 2011. Gavin is a year older, but did not play T-ball last spring. We signed him up for baseball this year, and I am his team’s coach.

Posted in Blog | Tagged Youth Sports | Leave a comment