The Good Men Project

"Good Men is a revelation, a frank, exhilarating glimpse into the lives of men who are on the quest toward self-awareness."

Neil Chethik

author of FatherLoss and VoiceMale

May 11, 2010

Guest Blog: “Just a Movie” by Geordie Mitchell

Filed under: Fatherhood, Guest Blogger — tmatlack @ 6:00 pm

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I had had a long week and wanted to spend some alone-time with my seven year old.   He chose to see a movie.  I tried to steer him towards “Spy Kids”, but he was bound and determined to see the new Crocodile Dundee movie – he was enamored of the trailers he had seen on TV.  I relented and off we went.

As we left the house, I took notice of the appearance of my movie partner.  He had recently discovered his older brother’s styling gel and had spiked his hair.  You see, he is secretly a super hero, and his super-name du jour is “Spike.”  He was wearing shorts and his way-cool soccer tank top.  I briefly worried that he wouldn’t be warm enough in the air conditioned movie theater, but reminded myself that this was the same boy who had tried to sneak out of the house shirtless the previous evening to run through the sprinkler.  The temperature at the time had been about 55 degrees.

We arrived at the movie and my morale was boosted by his excitement to see the movie of his choice.  I hoped it was the right one – that any adult themes would be over his head and that he wouldn’t be so bored that he would want to leave early.  We walked in and he was immediately lured to the snack counter by the lighted display of overpriced products that provide a year’s worth of sugar or salt in one serving.  We danced through our typical negotiations as to what he would purchase, my goal being to satisfy his sweet-tooth without sacrificing a week’s wages.

Goodies in hand, we settled into our seats with the half-dozen others who had chosen to forego a beautiful Sunday afternoon for a cold, dark movie theater.  We waited out the numerous commercials, took note of the coming attractions that we would have to see, and, finally, our patience was rewarded with the main feature.  To my surprise and relief, my son both understood and was entertained by the movie.  But also to my sadness.  I would miss the excuse to visit animated classics under the guise of parenthood.  I realized that the days were numbered when I would enjoy the look of wonder and awe on his face more than the movie itself.

You have to understand that I am a little sensitive and emotional right now, because child number two is about to graduate from high school and head off to college. We are good buddies, and it has been a shock to me how emotional I get at the thought of his going away.  My wife and I have been through this before with our older daughter, but this seems different somehow.  Maybe it’s that I didn’t mountain bike with my daughter or play on the same rec soccer team with her.  Maybe it’s just that I knew we had two other children to occupy my time, tax my patience, and test my wisdom.

About half way through the movie, my son leaned over and whispered to me, “Dad, I’m cold.”  At first I was shocked and annoyed.  Not only was this member of the polar bear club affected by the elements, but also I had ignored my parental instincts and had nothing on my person or in my car that would provide comfort.  I was just about to tell him to “suck it up”, in seven-year-old speak of course, when I realized that he had presented me with an opportunity.  Maybe the days of his settling into my lap were not over as I had feared.  I told him that I did not have a sweatshirt for him, but that maybe he would be warmer in my lap.  He fell for it.  As I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed the chilly skin on his exposed arms and legs, I smiled.  I hugged him a little more tightly than necessary, but he didn’t seem to mind.  I will miss my older son’s company, and I will miss my younger son’s innocence.  But in the meantime, I am going to hold on to both as tightly as I can.

George L. Mitchell, Jr
Director of Enrollment Management
Buckingham Browne & Nichols School

 

April 25, 2010

Spray and Wash

Filed under: Fatherhood, Guest Blogger — Tags: , , , — tmatlack @ 7:00 am

By DAVID PETRIE

One night not long ago I escorted my son upstairs to the shower and realized that the fine line between being a boy and becoming a young man isn’t marked by courage, strength, or even wisdom so much as a distinct and rather unpleasant smell.

When I first learned to run a commercial dishwasher I never knew how helpful the experience would turn out to be. I was only fifteen at the time. That machine was impressive. It took up almost an entire room. I spent hours standing in the mist hitting the dishes with a jet of water from a hose to wash off the big chunks. Then I pushed the racks through the rinse and dryer before stacking them away hot and clean.

I think of this machine every time I force the boy to become reunited with his long lost friend named Soap. We’ve been told that boys can be much easier to raise than girls, and we’ve found this to be true in many ways. However, when it comes time for the kids to come clean, the girls race into the tub or stand in the shower until all the hot water is drained from the house. My son fights us tooth and nail.

The battles start in the living room, close to bedtime. We look at his clotted hair and dirty feet and tell him he needs to get clean. He then screams, “Nooooo!” and dives headfirst into an upholstered piece of furniture, which is the last place we want him to land.

He then sulks all the way to the bathroom, dejectedly kicking himself out of his clothes while I turn on the water. He gingerly reaches in and feels the temperature, telling me, “Too hot!” until I turn it down to where it would chill me to the bone.

When we added a bathroom upstairs we installed two showerheads. One is a standard fixed unit, and the other is one of those massaging sprayers on a hose. When we put them in I pictured myself using the jets on shoulders tightened from chopping wood or building something. Instead I most often point the hose at the boy—to spray off the big chunks first.

“Spin!” I order, and he faces away from me so I can hose down his back. The moment plays out like a scene from a bad prison movie. I hope my son never goes to prison, but I find small comfort knowing if he ever does, his first shower will make him think of home.

Teaching a child to wash is not as simple as it seems. As with any new skill, the first few attempts are often awkward, and it takes a while for a child to be aware of how important some steps are. When first left on his own the boy wouldn’t even look for the bar of soap, never mind apply it to the easy-to-reach places. His cracks and crevices? We won’t go there, but let me just tell you, neither would he.

I pay the mortgage by writing advertising, and I often explain to people that the most successful sales copy ever written wasn’t splayed on a billboard over Times Square. You’ll find it on the back of every shampoo bottle. The four words “Lather, rinse, and repeat” have sold twice as much shampoo as any commercial.

These words mean nothing to my son. If I squeeze shampoo onto his hand, he just plops it onto the top of his head and leaves it there. He doesn’t spread it around or scrub it in. It’s as if he expects it to drool down his hair and work its magic, just like hot fudge dripping down a cool sundae. So I need to reach in (trying not to get soaked) and scrub, taking the opportunity to feel for bugs, rocks, twigs, or other debris that shouldn’t be mixed in up there.

Then comes the hose and the final rinse. I sometimes leave him alone at this point, but not often. One time, after I left the bathroom, his little sister came in to play a prank on him. He ran downstairs to tell on her. Naked. Soaking wet.

But we might be turning a corner. I went to give him a shower last week and he surprised me by washing himself. He even lathered and rinsed. I didn’t need to do a thing except sit on the toilet in the mist and monitor his progress. I didn’t need to use the hose once. When it came time for him to step out, he said, “Dad, towel.”

*****
Read more of David Petrie’s writing at his blog, Daddy’s Home, where this essay originally appeared.

 

April 5, 2010

Is Batman Good or Evil?

Filed under: Daily Man, Fatherhood — Tags: , , , , , , , — tmatlack @ 5:00 am

The Dark Night, my son

We arrived in Gotham via the Marine Air Terminal.  The crowd parted as we set a brisk pace down the concourse, a flash of blue in the lead.  A few people smiled reassuringly, but it wasn’t until we passed the security gate that things got really serious.  An African-American officer, complete with gun and shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie, alerted the entire police force as we approached.  “Batman is in the house,” she whispered, without even cracking a smile.

A few hours later we had made our way to Central Park, the Apple Store, and the FAO Swartz in midtown.  Everywhere it was the same thing.  Crowds on the sidewalk parted.  Garbage men hanging off the back of their trucks shouted at the top of their lungs, “BATMAN!”  But the Dark Knight barely acknowledged the adoring public.  He had important business to attend to.  Somewhere in Gotham, Two-Face and Mr. Freeze lurked, just waiting to cause trouble.

In most other ways, Cole, my son, is a normal blond-haired, blue-eyed boy.  He is extremely physical.  He loves to run, pumping his arms like an Olympic sprinter, and to jump from one bed to another in his 13-year-old brother’s room.  He has an impressive little six-pack belly for a 5 year old, which I love to tickle before bed at night.   Most importantly, Cole has a gentle spirit about him, befriending anyone and never getting into fights.

But he has three black Batman capes and masks, one a towel with “Cole” emblazoned across the back in the middle of the trademark golden bat.  For the trip to Gotham, though, he had selected his special blue cape and matching blue plastic mask.  He refuses to wear anything but one particular dark black Batman t-shirt to school (an issue that has cause more tears than any other in our household, since that shirt does need to be washed on occasion).  He plays batman on the computer and deputizes members of the Justice League during pre-k recess at school.  You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he even wears Batman underwear.

I have no idea where his obsession with Batman came from, but I often have wondered if it is healthy.  Cole basks in an extraordinary amount of attention, which he shrugs off as any superhero would, but I am sure that all the commotion reinforces his belief that he is really onto something with this gig.  Nevertheless, I am still left wondering if we, as parents, should stop it, despite the tantrum this doubtlessly would cause.

Recently, though, I got a bit of insight into what this all might be about.  It was just after the Easter bunny had delivered baskets to our house.  We had gone to the little Episcopal Church in our neighborhood and had an Easter egg hunt.  My mother-in-law had cooked a roast. And we were all just basking in the idea that maybe spring had arrived even in Boston.

Five-year-old boys wake up asking questions.  Cole often opens his eyes mid-sentence, as if he is completing the thought he had when went to sleep.  All day long, the questions don’t stop.

On Easter afternoon, though, Cole was grappling with what he had picked up between donuts at church and all the candy he had gotten at home.  He really wanted to know what Easter is really all about.

I found myself talking about a real man who had something horrible happen to him, a man who looked like anyone else but who some believed had special powers, a man who suffered at the hands of bad guys.

“You see, in the case of Jesus, everyone thought he had died,” I explained.  “They buried him in a cave and covered it with a huge stone.”

“Easter is a celebration of the day when people found the rock moved and learned that Jesus had come back from being dead, which proved his superpowers.”

I could see his wheels turning.  “Yeah, like when Batman gets caught in one of the Joker’s tricks but finds a way out anyways,” he said slowly.

Soon, Cole had moved on to his next game, playing with his “guys”—miniature plastic versions of Batman and his enemies.  But the momentary conversation had left an impression on me.

Faith is most often a matter best handled at a church, synagogue, or mosque.  But kids’ ideas of God are closely intertwined with the stories that somehow hook into their growing brains.  In light of a popular culture filled with many unhealthy messages that Cole could have latched onto, I found myself reflecting on the idea of Batman as a metaphor for goodness, and even a savior (in a biblical sense), not as a heresy or a result of bad parenting but actually as a comforting support to his growth as a boy and mine as a father.

Tom Matlack

 

February 16, 2010

Margin Call

Filed under: Fatherhood, Guest Blogger, Work — tmatlack @ 7:00 am

By DAVID PETRIE

One Friday night, as I stood in the kitchen cleaning up after a late dinner, my oldest walked in from the playroom, visibly displeased. She said, “Well, I’m glad to see you can make the time to do dishes instead of watching a movie with your kids.”

My daughter marched off and left me to chew over what I might have told her if I had thought of it faster. I wanted to explain to her that I was cleaning up so she didn’t have to. My wife and I often speak about giving our children more chores. That night, when my daughter chastised me while I was up to my elbows in dirty pots, she almost ruined a sweet deal for all of them.

As I loaded the dishwasher I thought of the long list of other things I “make the time to do” instead of spending the time with my children. There are the walks I take by myself weekday mornings—from my car to my desk on the third floor. On warm spring mornings I cut through the back parking lot and often catch a whiff of diesel exhaust coming from a tractor-trailer at the loading docks. The smell makes me think of school busses and the field trips my wife chaperones while I edit catalogs and respond to e-mails.

Or there was that afternoon that I spent writing a quarterly report while my wife took the children to get their teeth cleaned. I was likely squinting at a spreadsheet when the dentist appeared in the waiting room and announced that my kids were all cavity-free again. I found this out at dinner that night, but by then the victory in the war against plaque had faded.

Or there was that time I returned to my desk tired from a too-long meeting to find four messages from my children’s school. The boy was sick. In the first message the nurse asked if I knew where my wife was. In the second message the nurse asked if I could come and fetch the boy. In the third message the nurse told me that she still hadn’t found my wife but she had found the friend who we had listed for emergencies and he was on his way. The fourth call was from our friend. He was at my house where the boy had settled in with some ginger ale.

I haven’t told my daughter about how every sunny afternoon around three o’clock I look out my office window and picture my children racing out the front door of their school into an afternoon that holds the promise of freedom and fun and games and laughter. I allow myself a few minutes to think about them before forcing myself to focus on the work on the gray desk in front of me.

I think of how many hours I spend away from my children working with other people and some days I wonder if it is worth it. Yes, someone needs to pay the bills. Yes, we want our children to grow up in a warm and comfortable environment with a little more than the basic necessities. Yes, we want one of us home after school and during vacations and on snow days, and by the luck of the draw and a graduate degree I happened to be the one who could make more money by working full time.

It still hurt on that summer Saturday when I climbed behind the wheel to drive the family to the lake. The boy, experiencing the summer-vacation bliss that allows young children to completely lose track of the days of the week, opened his eyes wide and exclaimed with excitement, “You mean Daddy’s going too?”

Like others who try to balance full-time jobs with family, like my father before me, I push my life to the margins of the day and offer my most talented hours to the highest bidder. I do this for my children. I’ve read about “brave” men who have given it all up to focus on raising their children. Three pages in I usually find where the wife works full time. In those houses the angst and frustration simply shifted.

If my oldest had waited on that Friday night I would have told her that in some ways she was right. Dishes can soak until children go to sleep. Cleaning up after dinner can be another task to push to the margin of the day. But parents need sleep too, so I scrubbed away.

*****

Read more of David Petrie’s writing at his blog, Daddy’s Home, where this essay originally appeared, and follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/davidpetrie.

 

February 14, 2010

To the Moon and Back

Filed under: Daily Man, Fatherhood, Relationships — tmatlack @ 7:00 am

 

By TOM MATLACK

I met Elena on June 3, 2002, on a blind date. I suggested lunch in a safe location, one where either of us could bolt. I looked up and saw a few white wispy clouds and a finger-nail moon hanging in the blue sky. 

She arrived well-dressed, tall and blond. The thought occurred to me as we sat down that in build and coloring, and even facial features, we could actually be brother and sister. I had a lot of questions for her. 

“Where did you go to school?”

“What was your first job?”

 “Why did you quit?”

 “What do your parents do for work?”

 “What’s the closest living relative who’s been locked up in an insane asylum?”

 “Have you or any of your family members committed murder?

I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t dealing with a crazy woman. I had had plenty of that in the past. But she responded to each one of my questions with warmth and the slightest hint of a smile. She cleaned her plate, which struck me as a sure sign of confidence.  And by the end of the forty-five minute encounter Elena had at least partially broken down my serious demeanor.

We stood outside the restaurant navigating that awkward moment at the end of a first date when both parties are looking for a sign. I thanked her for coming and started to shake her hand. She ignored my outstretched palm and grabbed a corner of the fleece vest I had on. That was all the sign I needed. 

I was careful not to call right away, but I did call eventually, and she agreed to meet me for dinner. Elena came to the door wearing black leather pants. She had curves in all the right places, so it was hard for me to concentrate. It was like a test. “Eye-contact!” I told myself over and over again. “Don’t look down! No woman, and this is some woman, wants to be ogled by a guy she barely knows!”

She asked me to wait in the front hall of her home on Boston’s Beacon Hill.  I was very impressed by the massive glass chandelier, the high ceilings, exposed brick, and detailed woodwork on the wide maple staircase leading to the second floor. “This was the original Beacon Hill Firehouse,” she explained after getting her purse. “They used to back the horses in those huge front doors. My late husband bought it out of bankruptcy and gutted it. I finished it just before he passed away.” 

My first impression was far less sincere. At that point I was driving a blue Porsche 911 convertible with plush leather seats and chrome instruments. I had bought it on a whim after making a killing during the Internet bubble and had almost sold it a few weeks later when I saw another guy driving around town in the exact same car and thought to myself, “What a total prick that guy is!” But then a buddy and I went to driving school and learned how to drive my car close to 200 miles per hour. After seeing what an amazing machine it really was, I decided to keep it, even if I looked like an idiot driving around town in a racecar.

I opened the car door for Elena, put the top down, and whisked her out of town.  I had decided to try someplace intimate and out of the way: an Italian spot in a nearby suburb where I knew the cook.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked with a tone that seemed to imply that maybe I was hiding something.

“Not to worry. I am very single. I just wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never been.”

At dinner the conversation flowed naturally and Vittorio Ettore, my friend the chef, made us his famous tomato sauce. I told Elena about my work and my crazy family and even my kids. She told me about working her way through Northeastern University, going to law school, and trying cases every day before getting sick of the adversity of the whole thing. She explained that her family had always fixed up houses. And she had caught the bug, decorating apartments for her friends through college and law school.  When she got sick of the law she decided to become an interior decorator full-time.  In the law, she explained, she was often dealing with life-and-death issues, defending workers who had been maimed and whose livelihoods were at stake. But in decorating, when a client got upset, she liked being able to think, and occasionally remind her clients, “It’s only fabric!”

The conversation continued on the ride home. I was so focused on what Elena was saying that I drove right by her exit. When she realized my mistake she looked me in the eye and asked playfully, “What are we doing now?” I suggested a walk. So we parked my car at my condo on Commonwealth Avenue, in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, and stopped inside to drop her bag off before heading toward the Charles River. On a whim I grabbed my push scooter, an eighteen-inch graphite board with a handle.

She laughed when she saw it. “What’s that?”

“My vehicle of choice,” I told her.

On the river the moon glimmered off the surface of the water. We kept talking about our families and our lives. Finally, I got sick of the serious chatter and started riding circles around Elena on my scooter.

“Jump on!” I yelled. I loved to ride around with my toddler son, Seamus, tucked in front of me, holding on to the handlebar. He’d smile and then laugh every time we rode down the street together, feeling the freedom of our collective movement and the security of the scooter. After all, I’d spent countless hours perfecting my ride.

With Elena my motivation was not as pure as with my son. She protested that it wasn’t safe and she had on the wrong shoes. But finally she agreed. I told her to position her feet at the very front of the board and asked her not to move—to let me do the work.  I stood behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and held on to the handlebars.  She placed her hands between mine. I put my right foot at the back of the board and pushed off with my left. We glided along the river in the moonlight. Elena giggled.

***

A week later, I found myself buckled into something called the Tower of Terror, suspended a hundred feet in the air. I tried not to look down, only at the tobacco barns and rolling Western Massachusetts hills on the horizon. Then the massive spring, which was holding us in place, let go. We went into freefall. Terrified of heights, I screamed bloody murder. At the bottom, we bounced and headed back up, almost to the top of the ride again. My eyes stayed firmly shut the whole time. Only one thing could have gotten me onto that ride: a beautiful woman.

Elena had suggested going to an amusement park after our dinner date and scooter ride. I had gone to the old Riverside Park while growing up in Amherst, just south of the city of Springfield. Six Flags had long ago bought the place. The oldest roller-coaster, a rickety old timber job painted white, reminded me of childhood trips to the park. Elena and I rode a bunch of coasters, including the new Super Man, and ate some cotton candy before calling it a day. We climbed back into the Porsche and headed home. By the time we arrived back in Boston, Elena was asleep on my shoulder.

A few days later I was walking down Newbury Street in Back Bay, which was packed with tourists, and stopped at Ben & Jerry’s with a friend for ice cream. As I came out with my cone, Elena passed by me within a yard, a very handsome gentleman on her arm.  I could have sworn she looked right through me, as if she had seen and completely ignored me. My heart sank.

Out on the sidewalk, my mind was racing. I was fuming. “This couldn’t be. I really thought she liked me. Things had been going so well. How could she be out with some other guy?” But then the demons were talking to me, “You idiot. She is way too good for you. You have to be kidding yourself that she actually liked you. You are one pathetic motherfucker!” 

I ignored the voices in my head and backtracked down the sidewalk and ran into the ice cream store, looping around the front of the line to try to hide the fact that I had been stalking her. I brushed up against Elena. She looked up innocently, recognizing me with a big “Hello, Tom!” Before she could introduce me to her friend, I leaned in and planted a wet kiss on her lips. Mission accomplished, I briefly shook her date’s hand and left.  

The next time we get together, Elena and I agreed on a trip to see Monsoon Wedding. I had already seen the movie with my sister, but I kept that fact to myself, hoping that the romance of the film would rub off on the woman I wanted to be my girlfriend. After the pageantry of the wedding scene, Elena and I emerged from the theater to face a real live monsoon, Boston-style. We ran for it, arriving back at my condo soaked. I offered her a dry T-shirt and set about seasoning chicken and slicing red peppers and eggplant while she changed. With dinner on the grill, Elena sat on my kitchen counter wearing an old rowing shirt of mine, a grin on her face.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, standing close with my hands on her waist.  

She finally admitted to me that the friend I met at Ben & Jerry’s, who I assumed was some other guy she was dating, was really a gay interior designer from her office.

“But I appreciated the concern,” she said with a giggle before kissing me affectionately. 

After a few weeks together, I began to see that, like me, Elena came to our relationship after some real-life challenges. She had been married before. Her husband, a vigorous young man, learned he had cancer on their honeymoon. Eighteen months later he passed away, leaving Elena a too-young widow. I could tell that along with her outer beauty this woman had inner strength that I could trust, even with my most precious possessions: my daughter, Kerry, and son, Seamus. For years I had kept any woman I’d been involved with completely separate from my kids. I had bled and sweated to make myself into a good father and wasn’t willing to risk that for anything. I yearned to be able to share my whole life with someone, not just the bachelor part, but so far I just hadn’t met the right woman.

That July I invited Elena to meet us in the city of Providence, in Rhode Island, near where Kerry, Seamus and I were staying at a beach house. The kids and I baked cookies and brownies and drove to meet Elena. When she pulled up, the kids greeted her with sweets. We got an early dinner of pizza on Federal Hill and then drove up to the East Side of Providence to play Frisbee and run on the soft grass of the Brown University quadrangle in the early evening light. At one point, while we were playing hide-and-seek, Kerry caught Elena and I kissing.  She laughed and made funny noises of protest, “Ewww, gross!” But she was smiling and seemed pleased to see her dad happy. Kerry was eight and Seamus was six. Before saying goodnight we all got ice cream and sat outside licking our cones and laughing. 

***

Just three months after our first date, I invited Elena to our family house on an island on Maine’s Lake Megunticook. We arrived with Kerry and Seamus, joining my parents, brother and sister.  The second night we were on the island, I arranged to have my sister and parents watch the kids. I put on too much cologne, which my sister in-law ribbed me about as Elena and I left the house. We walked along the waterfront in the town of Rockland. The demons were talking to me: “You don’t deserve this woman…You can’t leave the safety of your apartment…How will the kids take the news?…Are you really capable of being a good husband?” 

We sat on a bench, looking quietly at the boats in the late afternoon sun. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ring, holding it tightly in my hand so Elena couldn’t see it. I used my diaphragm to squeeze the base of my lungs, forcing air up to whisper, “Elena, will you marry me?”

She wept and grabbed me, gently whispering the word “yes” in my ear.  

Back on the island, I ducked my head into my parents’ room to tell Mom I needed to talk to her right away. She came wandering out in her pajamas, toothbrush in hand, looking concerned. Dad was in his usual nighttime spot, reading a pile of newspapers in a corner rocking chair.

“Jim come sit with me,” Mom said motioning to him. Dad sat next to her on the couch.  They both turned expectantly to me, now holding Elena’s hand. 

“We have some important news,” I started. But before I could continue, there was a bright flash of color up the lake. We turned to look at orange and then blue streaks in the sky. Dad was out the back door and on the porch, trying to see what was going on.

“Those are some serious fireworks!” he reported back. We all watched until they were done. Then Dad sat back down beside Mom.

“Where were we?” she prompted.

I cleared my throat, trying to pick up where I had left off. “Elena and I have decided to get married!”

“Oh, Tom!” Mom cried as she jumped up and down with joy. I could see the relief on her face. This had been a long road for her, worrying about her boy. Elena’s eyes were full of excitement too. She and Mom whirled around the room together.

“That’s great!” Dad said rising out of his chair, looking more than ever like a giant teddy bear. He gave me an engulfing hug and then grabbed Elena and gave her one too.

 ***

On December 28, 2002, Elena and I were married in Tuxedo, New York. We exchanged vows by candlelight, as snow fell gently in the dark. A tenor belted out Ave Maria.  Kerry was so excited she kept standing on Elena’s dress. Seamus rang the church bell at the end of the service. On the way out of the church I noticed Elena’s late husband’s father. A gentle man who had always greeted me with a hug, he had tears in his eyes. His wife was comforting him. They both looked happy and broken-hearted at the same time.

At the reception, each table acted out a verse of the twelve days of Christmas, family members standing on chairs, waving napkins wildly in the air and singing with all their might. Dad gave a heartfelt toast, acknowledging the distance Elena and I had traveled to get to that day.

Inside my wedding band Elena has inscribed “TO THE MOON AND BACK.”

***

Valentine’s Day, 2005. The television was showing the finals of the Bean Pot, the annual hockey tournament between Boston’s four major college teams. Northeastern had sent the game into overtime with a late goal. The nurse asked Elena to look up at the screen to get her back in the right position as she pushed and screamed in pain. I snuck a peak at the game as I held Elena’s hand.

“It’s time,” the nurse said. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

Elena and I had been at home on a Sunday night, watching the Grammys. Melissa Ethridge came on stage, head shaved as a result of radiation treatment. It was her first public appearance since recovering from breast cancer.  She belted out Janis Joplin’s Piece of My Heart with so much courage and strength it brought tears to both our eyes. At that very moment, Elena turned to me with concern to report, “Tom, I am leaking!”

We checked in at Boston’s Mass. General Hospital. Progress was slow at first, but there was no turning back. Realizing the baby would likely be born the next morning, Valentine’s Day, I had plenty of time to think of related names. Cupid and Valentino were my favorites. The nurses found me amusing; Elena not so much.

When things eventually became serious Valentine’s Day evening, the doctor on duty was nowhere to be found. We had been told that this particular ob-gyn, whom we had never met, was an expert in “high-risk” deliveries. A midwife came into the room and asked to observe the birth. She discretely stood in the back of the room as Elena labored on. Finally, the nurse went to find the doctor, only to come back empty-handed. He was delivering another baby. The nurse told the midwife, “Scrub in, you’re delivering this baby!”

Moments later Cole Timothy was born. Elena was crying, this time tears of joy. And so was I.

In the years that have followed, Cole has sealed our family together as one unit. Kerry and Seamus adore him almost as much as he worships them.  And every day, I look forward to crawling into bed with Elena and holding her tight.

*****

Tom Matlack is the cofounder of The Good Men Project.

 

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