Editor’s note: THE FATHER LIFE is pleased to welcome David Paull to our pages.  You’ll find his column, Fresh Brood, appearing regularly right here at thefatherlife.com.  Leave David a comment and make him feel welcome!

I’m one of those people for whom things are rarely simple. Don’t get me wrong, I like simple. I strive for simple. But the more I seek simple, the more things get complicated. My latest installment of “nothing’s easy” started with what should have been a simple-enough trip to the “big-box” store for my son’s first bicycle. I first considered trying to find one from a private seller online. Then I decided I didn’t really want to risk ending-up dismembered in some guy’s basement and decided to go the safer, albeit ultimately more complicated, retail route.

Things got complicated early on. My son is big for his age, and as a result, he doesn’t fit on the small “first” bikes that readily come with training wheels. Instead, he needs a larger bike, of which there are very few with training wheels. So we find a pretty cool one (sans training wheels) and I proceed down the stuff-to-keep-your kid-from-killing-himself aisle for a helmet and, of course, a pack of after-market training wheels. The bike, by the way, ran me only 80 bucks. My extreme satisfaction over that, however, lasted a very short time.

Everything went rather smoothly down the keep-your-kid-alive aisle. My son picked a pretty sweet-looking orange helmet that fit him quite well and I grabbed a pack of $7.99 training wheels that were supposedly so simple to install, even a one-eyed possum could do it. Now, I should have seen the red-flag waving, because $7.99 seemed awfully inexpensive for training wheels, but I figured, “what the hell.” Well, I got them home, tried to put them on the bike and quickly learned “what the hell?!” It turns out my “so simple even a one-eyed possum could do it” training wheels can still stump a relatively intelligent (term used loosely) guy. Actually, three relatively intelligent guys because I wasn’t exactly silent in my rage and my neighbor buddies came around to see what all the fuss was about. So there we were, three dudes, all of whom have built various things to varying degrees of success in the past, and none of us could figure out how to get those damn training wheels on that damn bike. I later figured out that it was the training wheels, not me,  that were defective, but in that moment I finally said f*** it and decided to bail on the whole big-box-bike experiment. But that’s not the end of the story… oh no.

Before I proceed, let me tell you that before going to “big-box” I went to my local bike shop to see what one of their bad-ass bikes would run me. Turns out, a bad-ass bike for a mucho grandé six-year-old will set you back $200 and that was the end of that… or so I thought.

So this is where my “nothing’s simple” life got complicated yet again. After deciding to bag the big-box-bike and training wheels-from-hell I did what I always do – I went for the overly fancy and ridiculously expensive Plan B (which, if I would just accept how I know the story is going to end anyway, could have been an equally expensive, but far less hassle, Plan A). While my wonderful wife agreed to return the bike and accoutrements to “big-box,” I took my son back to the bad-ass bike shop. We selected the wicked-cool, lime green, overly expensive, bad-ass bike and in about two-seconds the nice bike shop pro guy had a spanky set of training wheels installed.

OK, so we finally got home with a bike that: a) fit my son, b) had training wheels that were actually attached properly, and c) looked bad-ass cool. Check, check, and check. Now it was time to ride off into the sunset, right? Wrong.

Tune in next week for PART 2…

Image credit: Joachim Bär

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First, a disclaimer.  It seems the reactions to my family’s nicknames have been mixed from readers.  I respect my readers, and I also got the same feedback from a new friend, via this column, in Australia.  Isn’t the Internet amazing?  So, hereafter, I will dispense with the nicknames.  My wife is Loren, my older son is Will, and my younger one is David.  And I love them dearly.

I’m sure you catch just a little sarcasm in the title of today’s column.  Patience has been and is my biggest personal struggle — with me, with others, with the world at large.  You’d think that having kids would moderate that poor characteristic.  And, I suppose, to some degree it has.  But, in general, this is my Achilles’ heel.

As a child, I can remember looking forward to special events like going to Disneyland for my birthday.  Disneyland, in those days, was actually fun and much less crowded.  Then, we had individual tickets for the rides, “A – E” tickets, with “E” being for the big ones like the Matterhorn; hence the by now forgotten “like an E-ticket ride” expression.  I couldn’t sleep the night before, and once we finally got there, I’d be the first kid to run in and get in line for whichever ride that we were heading towards first.

When I was a kid, many things that we take for granted now required patience.  All of television was only available when it was broadcast, and if you missed it, you were out of luck until and if it was shown again.  No DVR, VCR, or any sort of video recording device.  Listening to music required a radio or going to the music store and buying a record.  No instant downloads.  And long-distance phone calls were saved only for emergencies.  We wrote to long distance friends and relatives and waited for answers, in many cases, for days and weeks.  Imagine that!

So, now with the world moving almost literally at the speed of light, and after raising two boys from infancy, you’d think that I’d mellow a little.  Nah, I still want it now!  Whatever “it” is.

But, as a parent, I wonder how our children are learning patience?  David, my younger son, bought some manga magazines on eBay the other day and was informed that they’d be sent by U.S. postal mail and to expect them to arrive within 3-9 business days.  When they hadn’t arrived on the third day, he began pouting.  By the ninth day he was practically apoplectic.  They did arrive.  On the eleventh day.

He also is a big movie fan and needs (I use that word facetiously) to see the big, important movies, without fail, the first day or weekend that they open.  Do you remember when movies actually played for months on end?  I remember buying tickets, at the box office, to The Sound of Music as a Mother’s Day present, weeks in advance, for my mother.  How quaint.

I asked Will (my teenager) where he thought I was impatient with him, and he said that I was impatient about anything and everything I ask him to do (e.g. chores).  I have to own that as completely true, because I’ve grown to expect him not to do them in a timely manner.  So, like the boy who cried wolf, I’m extra-sensitized to when he does or doesn’t do a chore, and I’m looking for him to fail.  That, naturally, doesn’t help matters.  He’s got a teen brain; it won’t mature until he’s 35 or so.

David said that I’m always rushing everyone when we go skiing: to get up there early, to get going, to move faster in the line, etc.  Again, I have to own that as I sometimes still feel like that kid rushing to get in line at the Matterhorn at Disneyland.  I learned, with David that going at his pace actually allows me to have some influence on him, while pushing him to keep up with me only creates distance.

The same sorts of things happen between Loren (my wife) and me. Wow, the more I write this, the more I sound like a creep.  Maybe I’d better distort the truth a little and tell you all how wonderfully calm and zen-like I really am.  Nah, no one who knows me would believe that.  I suppose the simplest example with my wife is when we walk.  I walk faster by nature and by having a 10-inch advantage on her. I need to consciously slow down or she practically has to jog to keep up.  At restaurants, I’m the first one done and the first one asking, “Okay, ready to go?”

So on this subject, I guess I’m the culprit in my family, for the most part, and like so many of the stubborn things we do, it does me no good nor does it promote harmony among us.  I guess I should utilize more competently my often-said mantra about getting older, that the only good thing about getting older is the possibility of getting better.  And, by getting better, I mean getting better in our relationships, knowing how to moderate our behavior and comments, and just maybe having a little patience.

Image credit: Richard Dudley

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Boy, when you need laughter, go call up
your grandfather.  He may be as rusty as
a 1948 Buick Eight convertible, but his
jokes will be as fresh and new to you as
each pair of sneakers your mother got
you for the advent of every school year.

Boy, when you need guidance, go knock
on your grandfather’s door.  He may be
as traditional as a Swiss Army knife, but
his words will resonate within you, like
the very first time your father read you a
bedtime story in his favorite rocking chair.

Boy, when you need company, go walk
right through your grandfather’s door.  He
may be as outdated as a Johnny Mathis
record, but his presence will inspire you.
Was it not he who informed you that even
in times of solitude, you are never alone?

“A Grandfather’s Contributions” is one of several poems written by Jared Scott Tesler, who, having been blessed with three grandfathers of his own, knows just how special the relationship between a boy and his grandfather can truly be.

Title image credit: Sean Dreilinger – Article image credit: Sean Dreilinger

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Recently, I saw a really funny commercial showing a man leaping with joy as he pulled something down an aisle. It was revealed to be a couch, with his two sullen kids sitting on it, and the background music was the famous Christmas song which extols, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” It was a back-to-school ad and that dad was jumping for joy. It was very clever, so kudos to Staples. Yes, the kids are going back to school. We parents get our lives back–especially our evenings.

The job of parent revolves around the school calendar. Our chauffeuring responsibilities are different during the school year than during vacation times. One of the big differences, from my perspective, is the bedtimes for the boys. On “school nights” they have a curfew that gives us some quiet at night. However, during summer, the boys are allowed more freedom and Will, my almost-16-year-old, loves to stay up late and sleep in late. At least I get quiet time in the summer mornings. It’s said that the more they sleep, in the summer, the more they’re growing. Will is 6 feet, 2 inches already!

Television watching of any kind is also limited during the school year. In fact, none is allowed on school days. This policy has been in place ever since the boys began school, as I believe television is the biggest waste of time for everyone, let alone a total distortion of reality and an assault on many of our values. (This is, of course, ironic, given my former career was in television.) But during summer, vacations, and weekends, they’re allowed to watch. That means a lot of television in the summer. This, too, will end when school begins.

Summer also usually means a family vacation. Family vacations mean vacation for the kids and torture for the parents. It means fun, fun, fun for the kids and exhaustion for the parents. It means eating, running around, amusement parks, cruises for the kids, all of which they love–but an empty bank account for the parents.

Summer days means the boys are often hanging around the house, with or without friends, and always underfoot asking, “What’s for lunch?” or, “What are we doing today?” It’s like we’re the entertainment directors on this particular cruise of life, in our own home. But with school, they have to be somewhere every week day. They have homework. They have to go to bed before we do. And, as a result, we get some of our lives back. So, like the dad in that commercial, I’m doing cartwheels with anticipation and joy at the forthcoming end of summer.

School, of course, has its own challenges. How much should we push our kids for grades? How much independence do we allow them (with their schoolwork, choice of classes, etc.)? When do our expectations exceed their capabilities or desires? How important is college for every kid? Clearly, these are questions which I’ll address another time. In my case I have two different kids with two totally disparate approaches to school. So, consequently, I have to approach each of them distinctly and respect their individual strengths and weaknesses. And, of course, I have to remember that they’re not me. They don’t have my specific interests, nor my work habits (good and bad).

I remember with such fondness and irony how I viewed summer when I was a kid. The moment summer began, I not only rejoiced, but I saw this gigantic ocean of freedom and fun ahead of me. However, when school began again, I felt as if my life was over as the interminable school year began, my prison sentence resumed, and it felt like forever till the next summer would come around.

My attitude towards time has changed as I’ve grown older, and I now see summer as a blip of time. Our perspective on time is subjective, in my opinion. That is also why, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more patient waiting for those things I’m looking forward to doing. A vacation in six months doesn’t seem that far away while, when I was a kid, the weekend felt distant every Monday. And, like me before them, my boys do a countdown to summer and a sadder countdown to when school begins again.

So, it’s back to school and back to a regular routine, and that is the comfort of the school year for me. For me, it’s like having that assigned seat in “homeroom,” where at least I could count on one thing being within my control during my own tumultuous school years. I know what’s expected of me, as dad, and the boys largely have a schedule to follow. My wife and I can watch a movie at night without interruption and life feels normal. Until next summer.

Image credit: Emre Danisman

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As a driver, one of my main rules of the road is to avoid traffic jams. As a father, this is especially true during toilet training. Tempers can get frayed — especially mine — so this rule is right up there alongside buckling my son into his car seat.

My wife and I broke the rule while on a trip to visit family. Beth and I are usually on the road by 10 a.m. for our traditional drive home from Virginia to New Jersey. We’ve managed to avoid major traffic jams that way for years. But this time, we decided to stay a few hours more on the last day of our long-weekend visit. We wanted to take our three-year-old son, Nicholas, to an aviation museum.

The Udvar-Hazy Center, the annex to the National Air and Space Museum, is a quick drive from my in-laws’ home in a Virginia suburb of Washington. Nicholas had ample time to stare wide-eyed at the planes, too enthralled to think about visiting the men’s room.

After the museum, we ate generous helpings of beef stroganoff back at my in-laws’ house and said our goodbyes. I slid behind the wheel. The drive got off to a good, uneventful start on Interstate 395 in Virginia, with Beth next to me and Nicholas in his car seat behind us. We listened serenely to “Peter and the Wolf” on CD because my son is addicted to it. We turned northbound on Interstate 95 and more or less coasted through Maryland and Delaware. We listened as Peter caught the wolf — again and again.

We crossed the New Jersey state line and soon reached the New Jersey Turnpike. That’s when it hit us: the Great Wall of China, the tsunami wave, the traffic jam.

At first, we saw the typical few hundred yards of bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead of us in the three northbound lanes. To our left, the southbound traffic whizzed by as if on a conveyor belt.

Being strapped down by rows of brake lights is strangely stressful. The pace is languid, but the ordeal demands constant attention, with no indication of when it might end. Patience is tested.

Toilet-training has been a similar experience for us: halting progress, uncertainty, and pleas for it to finally, finally end. On this trip, the training added a level of suspense. Would he stay dry or would he go? I didn’t want any suspense. I just wanted to get home.

The traffic didn’t let up. A road sign urged us to listen to the highway advisory radio station for the local traffic report. We tuned in. Traffic was backed up for 30 miles, it said through the static.

Thirty miles. At first, we refused to believe our ears. It’ll be over in just a few miles, we agreed; we don’t need to pull over by the side of the road for Nicholas.

But 10 miles crawled by, then 15 miles. A half hour, then an hour. All those planes back at the museum had harnessed all that speed and power through the years, and here we were averaging 5 miles an hour. Usually, on this drive we might see one road sign telling us: “Reduce speed, congestion ahead” in garish red neon. But on this day we saw at least a half-dozen of them. We started to believe our ears.

It got dark. I could barely see Nicholas when I checked on him in the rear-view mirror. He sat calmly behind us, like a rudder, and sought comfort in his thumb. Suppertime came and went. We had moved on to other CDs, but played them at very low volume. I sought comfort in The Band’s “The Weight.” My wife and I muttered our disbelief under our breath.

“Would it make sense to get off the Turnpike and cut over to the Garden State Parkway?” I asked Beth.

She looked at our map in the muted glow of the overhead car light. “No, it’s too far to the east. It would take us too far out of our way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Really sure?”

“Yes,” she said, but her firm tone translated that into, “Yes, I’m sure. I can read a map.” We weren’t familiar with the local roads, and decided it was better to be stuck than to be lost.

There was tension in our car, but no angry outbursts — despite the cliff-hanger in the back seat. “Do you have to pee?” we asked Nicholas repeatedly. “How about now?… What about now?”

“No,” he murmured each time, before slipping his thumb back in.

We crawled past the Trenton exit. Our exit was another 50 miles away. We decided we had held out long enough. I pulled over at the next rest stop, named after Woodrow Wilson (what better way to honor a former president and New Jersey governor than with a Roy Rogers and a Blimpie?).

Beth went inside to brave the restroom lines. I stayed with Nicholas. I placed his portable toilet next to his car seat. He shifted over – not easy in a compact Hyundai Elantra. We’ve gone through three different potty styles to find the right mix of performance and comfort. On this drive, we used the Fisher-Price “Royal” model, which plays jingles each time something hits the bowl. Much to my joy, he went. He had lasted five hours.

Beth returned to the car and smiled as she handed me a turkey sandwich: supper.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Not a chance,” she said. “The line was too long.” She would have to wait till we got home, whenever that was. I took advantage of a nearby stand of trees.

We hit the road again, although cars were still slogging through the swamp of traffic. We had started our trip basking in the glamour of the Concorde and space shuttle Enterprise. Now, I longed for the gray, industrial, grimy Turnpike sights seen in the opening credits of “The Sopranos”: the refineries, Newark Airport, seven traffic lanes. More down to earth, perhaps, but they meant we were close to home.

I was frustrated by now, and said so: we had started our journey too late, we probably could have taken an alternate route, and we should have had more food in the car. But Beth reined me in.

So did Nicholas. He stayed grounded throughout the drive, not once throwing a tantrum. And he had lasted five hours. My little boy, half as tall as me, taught me again about grace under pressure.

Gradually, traffic speeded up, spaces between cars grew and more lanes appeared. We swerved off the Turnpike near Newark Airport, and pulled into our driveway 20 minutes later. The drive took three hours longer than usual. Instead of being home for dinner, we were home for Nicholas’s bedtime. We skipped his bath.

Image credit: T. Rolf

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My little girl loves me. In fact, the other day she told me, “I love you too much!”

And I just looked at her.

“Do you mean you love me so much?” I asked her.

“Oh yeah. I love you SO much!”

But it made me wonder if my little girl’s love for me feels like too much for her. Or maybe it is too much for me?

Her love is strong, so intense that sometimes I get scared about how much she loves me. Is her adoration, bordering on idolization, just setting us up for future problems? Sometimes as she caresses my face, seemingly memorizing every feature, I find myself wondering, will she end up with a completely unrealistic view of love based on her feelings for me? Am I destined to fail her, to never live up to the intensity and purity of her feelings for me? What would that mean for our relationship? Will she end up with unrealistic expectations of her partner because of how special our connection is? Am I making it impossible for her to have future relationships?

I don’t know. I just don’t know.

So that self-doubt sits on my shoulder, like a little devil, telling me something is wrong here, that this isn’t love, but something evil, dangerous, and I should begin to break away from her, to save her from myself. That somehow rejecting her now is better than whatever future series of failures and rejections she will experience if things don’t change between us now.

But on my right shoulder sits my little angel, represented by all of the research I have done on the subject of involved fathers and by the belief that loving her can’t be wrong. The research into girls and women with involved fathers has shown that their self-esteem, their self-satisfaction, the length of time they wait to engage in sexual activity is in direct proportion to their feeling loved by their father and the health (from their perspective) of that relationship.

Isn’t that what I want for my little girl? For her to grow up and be intelligent, strong, independent, and healthy, to make smart decisions about her sexuality rather than act out because of something she is missing? Has there ever been any doubt about that?

No way.

This battle continued in my mind, back and forth, particularly fierce this weekend when my wife relayed a story to me.

She was driving our children to school and listening to Marc Cohn’s first album, the same album she and I listened to seven times in-a-row the night we decided we wanted to give our relationship a chance, to see if maybe there really was something special between us.  She told them the story and afterwards my little girl said to her, “I’m so glad you picked Daddy. I just love him so much!”

As tears leaked from my eyes after hearing that story, I thought to myself, “Can love that pure be bad? Especially when that love is returned ten-fold in my love for her?”

Maybe our love will have side-effects I can’t imagine right now, but my little girl will always be certain of one thing: she is loved. Hopefully, this will mean she will never have to worry about whether she is loveable or not, about how she deserves to be treated by her partner, about whether she is entitled to a healthy, loving relationship.

So while I still struggle with the intensity of her love for me, I plan to keep giving her everything I have right back in return.

Image credit: Carin Araujo

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Yes, it is time to get our kids back on a school schedule. This article is a reminder for some and a very important checklist for the new single parent. I have gathered a lot of suggestions from our SingleDad.com members who wanted to share their tips for getting prepared for the school year.

Clothes Inventory

Keeping an inventory of clothes between divorced parents’ households has its own unique challenges. Depending on the relationship status, it is perfectly normal to label your child’s clothes for the sake of inventory exchange. I would strongly recommend disclosing your reason for marking the clothes. Your goal is to make every effort to keep an open dialog. Offering a bi-weekly clothes exchange will help keep both household’s clothes inventory balanced and communication between all parties peaceful. Make sure your markings are distinct to you, but not embarrassing to your child.

Clothes Shopping

Depending on where you live and the late summer/early fall weather, it is smart to wait to buy school clothes until after the school year starts. Most department stores and clothes retailers will offer additional discounts on school clothes after the school year has started. If you don’t mind a smaller selection of styles and sizes, waiting can pay off big with your wallet. In addition, keeping an eye on some of the discount stores such as Ross, Marshalls, and TJ Maxx can also save you money. If you don’t mind sorting through the selection, I have found these stores can offer some huge savings on quality clothes at less than half the department store price. Another concept that has been gaining popularity is called a clothes exchange. These are organized events that your local church or a community group will sponsor. It is like a clothes-only garage sale. Most of the time no money is required, you just bring your kid’s clothes to offer in exchange. Finally, the thrift store has become the new “cool” place to exchange clothes. Check your local thrift stores to see if they will offer you exchange credits for clothes that you bring in that you can use to pay for new clothes from the shop.

Your Child’s  Sleep Schedule

The best advice our members can offer on this subject is to start early. You do not want to attempt to get your kids started on a proper sleep schedule the night before school starts. There is nothing worse than hearing about the whining, complaining, and lack of attention that will happen at school from the lack of sleep. Furthermore, it is embarrassing to attend your first parent/teacher meeting and have the entire discussion be about your child’s well being. Sleep is as important as food and water. If you are newly divorced, make sure you and your ex set a time for your child’s bedtime. It is recommended that your child gets 8 to 10 hours of sleep a night.

Emergency Contact and Health Insurance Information

For a variety of reasons, some single parents do not have the participation of the other parent in child’s daily school life. This is where it is especially important to have your emergency contact available and shared with another family member, friend, or relative. I have a “Gal Pals / Guy Pals” in place which are other friends of mine that I can rely on as back up for any emergency related to my children and school activities. Make sure your emergency contact has a copy of your health insurance information and your family doctor’s name and phone number. Another important tip is to save this information on your cell phone, but I would suggest you type it in backwards so the information will be harder to understand by anyone else but you if you ever lose the phone.

At the beginning of every school year, your child’s school will ask for all of your personal information, and it is perfectly normal and important to disclose on the information packet that you are a single parent and whether you are sharing custody or have sole custody. Make sure your school knows your status and how they can contact you. Don’t make assumptions; make sure your child’s teacher has your contact information as well. It is also perfectly normal to request a teacher’s contact information, like an email address. This information gives you the opportunity to send an e-mail with all of your contact information directly to your teacher and gives both parties a direct method of communication. This is especially important if you are co-parenting. Staying up-to-date on homework and school activities through e-mail avoids any miscommunication between parties.

I hope these suggestions were helpful and that your back to school routines will go as smoothly as possible. For more information on Single Parent advice and resources, go to www.singledad.com.

Image credit: Sophie

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Great!  So glad you are back and hopefully you have reached your senses and understand that “monkey see, monkey do” is more than just a quaint phrase.  We have all watched our kids emulate grown-up behavior and it’s no accident that children of all ages, socio-economic backgrounds, ethnicities, religions, and on – all do it!  It’s UNIVERSAL!  They will emulate the good AND the bad no matter how much we try to tell them what to do and how to do it – they are WATCHING!

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The word “furlough” snuck into our vernacular recently.

It’s commonly used to describe an unpaid day off of work. These pro bono vacations have become mandates in both the public and private sectors as a way to balance budgets during a recession. The Wife took one of her “furlough days” last week.

It could be worse. She could be out of a job entirely. But that argument doesn’t cover the shortfall. I offered to pick up the slack by working a few days at my old summer job. I worked as a landscaper throughout high school and college.

It’s a family business, which means my boss is also my dad. He agreed to hire me (a stay-at-home dad) on days when The Wife was on leave. I’m truly blessed to have an opportunity to walk into a good-paying job on such flexible terms. That’s not to say I’m much of a landscaper.

Some jobs you feel good about. I feel good when I write an interesting newspaper column. I’m confident about the process, my ability, and the end product. But something always seems to go wrong when I put on landscaping boots and that pale blue shirt with my name stitched above the breast pocket.

Some of you may be familiar with the story of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. It’s a classic children’s book by Judith Viorst. Alexander’s day was indeed terrible, but I think my day may have been worse.

I arrived at work at 7 a.m. I checked the oil level on the truck I was going to be driving that day and found the dipstick tube had rotted out after years of snowplowing. The dipstick itself shot out of a hole in the corroded tube and was scraping against the outside of the rusty oil pan. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I was sent to pick up a new dipstick tube at a Chevrolet dealership. Along the way, another truck broke down with a faulty alternator. I called the dealership to get a new one. They didn’t have an alternator. I think I’ll move to Australia.

I managed to fix the dipstick. Then, I connected the truck and trailer, loaded a damaged tractor onto the back and headed to a mechanic’s shop located just shy of the Wisconsin border. I was about an hour into my commute when I heard a loud boom. I pulled to the side of the interstate and saw one of the rear tires had blown out. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

The flattened tire was a rear dual, meaning I still had one good tire to drive on. This allowed me to slowly pull into the Sears at the nearby mall. Of course, Sears didn’t stock the oversized tire I needed. Neither did the adjacent Firestone. Tire shops in Australia must be more accommodating.

The Firestone dealer gave me the phone number of a tire shop that provides emergency roadside service for over-the-road truckers. They had the tire I needed and promised to send help. The dispatcher said a repairman would arrive in two hours. As I hung up, my cell phone started to beep. The battery was dying. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

While waiting for the repairman, I wandered into the mall. I was dirty, angry and hot. I found an Apple Store and asked the clerk if I could charge my iPhone while I waited. He agreed. I sat with my arms crossed, looking like a seething hobo as bubbly tweens wondered out loud, “Like, why is my computer so slow?”

The tire repairman showed up looking even more ragged than me. He spoke very little English. What he did speak was mostly curse words. He swore at me for about a half hour while changing the tire. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I got back on the road, which was now a parking lot. The repair shop had closed but promised to keep the gate unlocked so I could drop off the damaged tractor. I arrived in the pouring rain to find a 30-foot gate blocking the driveway. I struggled with every bit of my puny frame to open the heavy gate. It finally gave way, allowing me to pull into the yard.

I skipped dinner thinking I might make it home before my two sons went to bed. I was making good time until the truck started to sputter. Again, I pulled over to the side of the road. I had run out of gas. According to the gas gauge, I had half a tank left. The gauge just happened to be broken. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I made my way down a steep embankment off the interstate. I walked about the length of a football field and found a Speedway. I bought a gallon of gas and made my way back up the Walter Payton hill. Hurried cars and huge trucks whizzed by as I bent over to fill the tank.

I eventually exited well-lit interstate and merged onto the dark, local road. That’s when I realized my headlights weren’t working. I finally returned to the landscape yard about 9 p.m. It had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I’m told some days are like that. Even in Australia.

Image provided by the author.

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As a single parent of three children, I am bound to have communication challenges and disagreements with family members. I have two teenagers and a soon to be 10-year old, and when arguments have ensued, I have made my share of mistakes. As a father, I never want my children to be angry with me; however, I also want my children to know the difference between good and bad behavior. There is a fine line between having a mutually-respectful relationship and letting your children run out of control. Apologizing after a disagreement is an important parenting tool that requires a few important steps.

In this article, I want to share four easy steps that I learned on how to navigate family arguments and how to create an apology that is effective, sincere, and lasting with your child. Take a look at my steps and see how many of these items can help you understand the power of an apology.

1. Respect.
   I live by a rule of respect in my household. You can never give your child enough respect. What I mean by this statement is communicating to your child that you respect them and their feelings. Yes, as a father, I literally take a moment to say those very words and state my feelings of respect and make sure that they feel that the conversation is going to be safe and respectful. People can disagree, and that is being human. Making a statement of respect will ensure that the ensuing conversation is lasting and heartfelt.
2. Timing.
   Sometimes waiting after an argument is important for all parties to reflect on what has happened. I feel that rushing into an apology gives the wrong impression to the child, and it can often create more animosity. This is especially true when dealing with a teenager. My post-argument apology has worked better when I have explained to my teenager that both of us need to discuss our argument after a specific period of time to “cool down.” It is important to note that you do not want the cooling-off period to go overnight or for an unspecified period of time. This can represent disrespect or a lack of a priority with your teenager.  Make it known that you want to talk to your child and create a resolution with him or her. Request a time and stick with it. If your child refuses to speak with you after an argument, remember to give a little time to cool-off and then write a hand-written note to your child and slip it under his or her door. Tell them that you want to discuss the argument and that you want to understand their position and to apologize for any misunderstandings.
3. Be Present.
   Allow yourself to be dedicated to listening to what your child has to say. Listening is the new way of “speaking” to your child during an apology. Do not interrupt or defend yourself during the apology conversation. Interrupting will only invalidate your attempts to seek a resolution and your future dialog with your child. Show patience by listening to what is being said. If you don’t understanding something, literally use this phrase, “ So what you just said was…” and repeat exactly what you just heard from your child.  This gives your child an opportunity to repeat or correct what they are trying to communicate to you with the validation that you are listening. As a father of three, I have discovered this stage to be the most effective in creating an apology after the argument. After feelings are expressed and you are listening and being present, now is the time for the apology.
4. Sincerity.
   I used to think that mothers and girlfriends were the only people that could sense insincerity, but I was wrong. My children can sense how sincere my apology is, and I have realized that if I am going to complete my post argument apology, I am going to have to be authentic and meaningful. To make sure I am in the right mindset, I remind myself what I want most: a connection with my children. In order to have a connection, you must reach out to your child, especially in an apology. Something like this, “I am sorry for arguing with you, and I want to apologize for my actions. I want to have a meaningful and loving relationship with you that is built on trust, respect, and love. As your father, I am human and far from perfect. I am sorry that we had an argument and that I hurt your feelings. I have also learned that I will do a better job as your father by listening to your feelings about…”

In summary, I hope that these life lessons I have shared will help open new possibilities in the relationship with your children. For more advice and resources from a single parent perspective, go to www.SingleDad.com.

Image credit: Jesse Therrien

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