I saw this quote this morning over at the Real Dads Network Facebook Page and said to myself, "That's my, Dad!" When I think back to my own childhood, I'm not sure that my father ever told me anything (other than what to do constantly). Other than helping me with homework he never lectured me on how to live. He didn't have to. I saw how he lived and was the recipient of the fruits of his labors and very isolated stumbles. And if I stepped out of line I knew what was coming next. And no matter how long I put off the inevitable, it inevitably came. Always.

I think in today's day and age the conversations need to be had because the very media that I'm using to communicate with you is having the ultimate impact of making our kids unimaginably tech savvy but becoming less and less intuitive when it comes to real world communication and sensory perception. (Especially when a kid is crossing the street against the light about to get run over by a semi-truck because his/her face is buried in a phone and they actually believe the truck needs to watch out for them). But c'est la vie. I can't and won't live in what once was. That's why I'm here now, and so are you. If you're DAD or MOM keep your game face on and keep those kids of yours from getting it twisted. As exhausting as it may be you gotta do it.

When you're done here pay a visit to the Real Dads Network's Facebook Page. This NYC based non-profit has as it's mission the positive promotion and support of fathers, married, unmarried and divorced. These guys have the premier Daddy-Daughter Dance popping off every Valentine's Day and they have a very impressive line-up of events the first week of June 2011 celebrating all things DAD. If you're looking for a great cause to support. This is it!


E.Payne is the author of the soon to be released DAD: As Easy As A, B, C! and I Didn't Invented Sex. For the past 3 years he has posted 600+ articles about fatherhood, marriage and everything in between here at Makes Me Wanna Holler.com. To learn more, click here.

Literally. Seriously. I'm not joking. Go fly a kite or do whatever it is that you and your kid(s) can enjoy together. It doesn't have to be expensive. It doesn't have to take long. But the payoff will be a first-time or extremely valued experience that will be remembered forever.

This, my friends, is priceless!

E.Payne is the author of the soon to be released DAD: As Easy As A, B, C! and I Didn't Invented Sex. For the past 3 years he has posted 600+ articles about fatherhood, marriage and everything in between here at Makes Me Wanna Holler.com. To learn more, click here.

When I take my daughter to the store women stop us to tell her:

"My goodness your mother buys you the prettiest outfits!"

When I used to take my daughter to the sitter, my prized babysitter would say:

"Mommy does your hair beautifully!"

When talking to some annoying woman about some of my daughter's ailments she asked:

"What is she taking for for that. I mean, you wouldn't know. Please, ask your wife and let me know."

When my daughter used to bring her lunch to preschool, the program director would say:

"Ummm, Mommy packed you a nice lunch, didn't she?"

When dropping off roses to my daughter's teachers this year on Valentine's Day, one said:

"Tell your wife we said, 'Thank you,' for the flowers!"

When talking to one of my daughter's best friend's mothers (whom I speak with often) at her school where I drop her off everyday, she says to me:

"Okay...[she struggles to remember my name then acts as if she never intended to say it]...tell [my wife's name that she knows from memory] I said hello."

After braving rain, snow, sleet and hail to attend nearly every single game my son has played across three sports for years, what is his question after nearly every game?

"Where's Mom?"

Really? [as in the Windows Phone commercial, "Really?" - complete with crescendo]

The list does grow longer, but not by much.

Dads you get my drift.

Don't you?


E.Payne is the author of Investing In An Emotional Letdown and I Didn't Invented Sex. For the past 3 years he has posted 600+ articles about fatherhood, marriage and everything in between here at Makes Me Wanna Holler.com. To learn more, click here.

What exactly is tough talk? Is it an activity that separates the men from the boys? Is it gender specific? Is it rough and strong? Or is it simply saying what you mean and meaning what you say?

As a father I've finessed my tough talk from wild, brazen and mostly empty statements to calm, sincere, although often stern, conversational expressions of cause and effect and the subsequent consequences that follow. I try to make my tough talk teachable. This way I will hopefully reduce the need to repeat myself. This works mostly on the kids. I'd wager it has no effect on my wife at all.

Growing up in a yelling household made me a hater of yelling and for that matter a hater of noise. If I had my way I'd be living in an all white beachfront mansion a la Miami Vice with two maybe three pieces of furniture. Whatever. My point is that when it comes to the kids the less often I talk tough, the more serious it is when I do. Kids have this amazing ability to tune out noise once they register what they're hearing as noise. Raising your voice is at times a necessity, but in general I don't want my message to be lost on the kids because they can't get past the yelling. That's just me.

How about you?

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This post was originally published on MakesMeWannaHoller.com on October 27, 2009.


In my growing quest to remain calm, no matter what, when dealing with my teenage son he seems to have ramped up his efforts to make me dropkick him in his chest...

Last Tuesday or Wednesday (I've done my best to block the day out of my mind) I pick this kid up from football practice. He moseys over to the car as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. After receiving my normal blah greeting from him I run down the handful of errands we have to do before we go home. He looks straight ahead through the windshield as I'm speaking when he suddenly seems to process what I said.

"Can we go home?" he asked with alarm.

Figuring he had a date with the toilet I told him he can use the bathroom at our next stop.

"No, I need shoes."

I asked why. We weren't going anywhere special.

"No...I need to put on shoes," was his reply.

My face twists up and I swerved a little on the road as I try to make sense of what he's saying to me. My logical mind fought against the insanity of what my son was suggesting until finally I gave in.

"You don't have shoes on?!"

"No, cuz you told me to leave my running shoes in my football locker. And I wore them today."

"Huh? (half-second pause) What?! Lemme see."

He lifted up his leg a bit and he truly wasn't wearing shoes.

"Yeah, and I thought I had my shower shoes but I didn't."

"So you left the school without shoes?! Yes, I told you to leave your running shoes at school, but not if you were wearing them! You actually left the damn school without shoes?! Are you out of your mind?! Un-(oh, how I wanted to curse, but didn't)-believable!"

At this point I have one hand on the wheel and I'm no longer looking at the road at all. I thin my gaze on him and said, "Not even your country cousins would do something this country."

He began to laugh, completely tickled by his buffoonery.

I took a deep breath, collected myself and returned my focus to driving. "I'm going to need you to not speak to me until we get home," I told him. He continued trying to explain but with every attempt I yelled gibberish over his words until he finally gave up.

When we arrived home I should've done the right thing by going upstairs to bring down a pair of shoes and continuing on with the errands we needed to run.

Nope. I told him his mother and I spend too much money on him for him to be walking around without common sense and looking homeless in our presence. But he was welcome to do so on his own. I sent him on his way and waited in the car until he returned with his shoes. And he was astonishingly okay with that. I called the wife and let her know how her son left school.

I do remember being a teen...but not like this.

When my wife arrived home, she kissed our daughter, gave me a kiss, calmly walked up to our son and smacked him in the back of the head.

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Originally posted on MakesMeWannaHoller.com on April 28, 2008.

There are only a few men who don't think ménage à trois when they hear the word "threesome." God forgive me for even desiring such a thing, but I never got the chance to indulge in this debauchery prior to being married and unless my wife completely loses her mind, I don't expect to have the opportunity now that I am. The literal meaning in French is "a household of three" --- a married couple and some other chick.

As it turns out, however, I've recently realized I've been involved in a ménage à trois for the past year or so, indulging at times at least three times a week. When my daughter decides she's done with the austere comforts of her crib, she makes her presence known in the middle of the night with a wail or a scream and joins our bed. Sometimes she never even makes it to her crib, as she begins her nightly slumber in our bed between us. Depending on how tired mom and dad are, we might not get up the energy to move her once she falls asleep. "We" means my wife because I am damn near dead when I'm asleep.

In any case, what I gleefully envisioned as a sinful, wonderfully lustful experience no less than two years ago has in actuality materialized into an experience where I am headbutted, poked in the eyes, slapped, kicked in the mouth and stomach, slept on, farted on, pushed off the bed, and deprived of sheets and covers. Sometimes only a few of these things happen (in varied combinations), and on other days, like last night, my daughter is capable of all of this. Once the sun rises, I greet the day beat up and ready to go back to bed. And who's out cold, sleeping like a lamb? My daughter of course. God has an awful sense of humor.

Photo Credit: Serch On Flickr

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For those of you who don't know, before the year’s long wave of somber-serious-inspiration, this blog had comic relief at its foundation. In the early days I used to crack wise about my experiences, mostly new – with the wife and kids. But as the experiences have become routine and I have matured, I’ve grown less interested in showcasing my family’s routine activities. And I’ve completely lost interest in poking fun at their expense or my own.

That doesn’t mean the craziness has ceased to exist. Take last week for example:

I wanted to take the family out to see a photo exhibit a friend had on display in downtown Atlanta. Maybe at some point when I get my act together I’ll be able to afford one of the pieces. I've eyeballed two that would roughly set me back about $5K. I’ve already seen it [the exhibit] two times before and figured it would be an opportunity for my wife and I to dream big, and a chance to show the kids something they don’t always get to see. The plan was simple: the wife was going to pick the kids up at school and I’d meet them there.

No problemo.

Muchas problemas, actually.

• Before my wife could even park she was calling me asking why the parking lot I told her to park in didn’t list the name of the gallery/store? I didn’t know or care and besides, what difference did it make? I was there waiting for them so there was no way she could get lost.
• After she parked, she absolutely refused to wave her hand to let me know where she was in the parking lot because she saw me walk past her car looking for her.
• My son stumbled out of the car, shoes untied and as disheveled as he wanted to be from a hard day spent breathing at school.
• My daughter, ever the chipper one was the only one who appeared to be ready an open for a Thursday night on the town.

Or so I thought.

Once we were inside we said hello to the photographer and his wife and because we know them the two wives scurried off together to talk about whatever it is women talk about when they haven’t seen each other in a month. My son literally sat down in front of the table with the hors d’oeuvres and began to eat as if he were at our dinner table and my daughter refused to say hello to anyone, but made herself at home right next to her brother, grabbing cheese cubes with her bare hands. I couldn't believe it. It's not like we've never been outside before. At this point I was thinking that maybe we should’ve eaten dinner before attending. I spent the rest of my time there extinguishing one major, four-year-old’s temper tantrum, threatening the life of her freshly carved pumpkin to keep her from jumping and running everywhere and begging my teenage son to cease and desist from cleaning out the table of hors d’oeuvres. All the while I watched my wife out the corner of my eye, mulling about the showcase as if she were attending by herself. As I swirled about in dysfunction I did what any grown man would do: I poured myself a glass of wine. And then another.

So much for dreaming big... My friend took time from greetings guests to tell me we were a walking sitcom. I agreed...reluctantly.

Sometimes as a parent, you forget the basics of parenting, such as food being the ultimate cure of the crazies. The next time, dinner first, outing second, even if the outing only lasts for thirty minutes as this one did.

How have you managed an unexpected/awkward situation involving family?


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This Sesame Street video has been making its rounds in the blogosphere since it debuted last Tuesday on October 12. But do you know the story behind it? There is always a story behind a story. This one, 'I Love My Hair': A Father's Tribute To His Daughter, posted on NPR.org and the subsequent impact it is having is a pretty good one. And of course I love it even more because it is yet another example of Father-Daughter love.

Please read the following excerpt below:

A little Muppet girl has started a sensation. The unnamed puppet with an afro sings a love song to her hair.

"I Love My Hair" debuted on the Oct. 4 episode of Sesame Street. It was posted on the show's YouTube page — and then women began posting the video on their Facebook pages.

African-American bloggers wrote that it brought them to tears because of the message it sends to young black girls.

Joey Mazzarino, the head writer of Sesame Street, is also a Muppeteer who wrote the song for his daughter. Mazzarino is Italian. He and his wife adopted their 5-year-old daughter, Segi, from Ethiopia when she was a year old.

Mazzarino says he wrote the song after noticing his daughter playing with dolls.

"She wanted to have long blond hair and straight hair, and she wanted to be able to bounce it around," he tells NPR's Melissa Block.

for the rest, please visit 'I Love My Hair': A Father's Tribute To His Daughter...

Do you have 2 minutes? Please take the MMWH Survey.

I had planned to post today, but I wasn't sure what I was going to write. I'm still not but here goes...

Last night I abandoned my exhaustion, left my lovely daughter and traveled an hour and a half north of my home to visit one of my best friends. I was in a race against distance and time to a place I've never been. I had to be there by 10 pm. Why? Because that's when my friend's brother was coming to pick him up so the two of them could make a long, lonely drive to Kentucky where at 2pm today my great friend is to surrender himself to a federal prison camp. I had to see him before he left. If I didn't I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

Like me, my friend is a man, dad and husband and my friend has always been one of those sources that I've relied on for wisdom, encouragement and strength. For nearly 17 years he played this role in my life. Then about 2 years ago, the roles reversed.

He had gotten himself into what I initially thought was financial trouble. I remember when he first confessed his errors I came down on him hard, but told him there was a way out of it. I gave him a nice piece of cash to the tune of a couple thousand dollars. It wouldn't solve. It would help. I thought all was fine and then I didn't hear from him for almost a year. What I knew was merely the tip of the iceberg.

My friend went down in a fireball of legal trouble, or rather, legal infractions. And because he was a lawyer and a federal prosecutor at that, the powers that be were compelled to make an example out of him. Reading about him in the paper and reading the FBI press release caught me off guard and left me scratching my head. How is all this even possible? I remember asking myself. In the end only one or two of the half dozen charges stuck. And even the man who had it in for him admitted he was a good guy who made bad mistakes. He's got to pay the piper and hopefully in no time he'll be back home with his wife and 3 daughters.

I cried as I sped through the night, thinking about all the times he cried on the phone to me, knowing he had made bad choices, but had only done so to support his family and the lifestyle they had become accustomed too (which includes an enormous house). I told him a little natural human greed and needless risk taking probably factored in as well. When I finally saw him for the first time in three years, he looked solid. He was a man who seemed to be at peace with his fate and was ready to go. We hugged and almost immediately began cracking jokes. I talked to his brother and nephew, who was tagging along for the ride. His eldest daughter met me, though I've known her since she was a little bit (now she's nearly my height). His littlest ones met me and waved excitedly. And I embraced his wife, telling her that if she needed anything I was a phone call away, and I would be calling because I was only a phone call away. I told my friend I would do my best even though right now I have nothing to give. He told me what I've given him has been priceless.

After talking for entirely too long considering the timetable he was on, we all left the house and then chatted for a little while longer out on the front lawn. Then it was time for him to go. He got into his brother's car with four dollars and a bible. I got into mine. His wife and their kids were all out on the porch watching and waving. The oldest daughter knows exactly what's happening. The two little ones believe he's going away on business. And technically he is going away to handle his business and close out what I pray has been the darkest and dankest chapter of his life.

Because we were out in the sticks I followed behind them for a while until the road became recognizable. We were both taking the same route but my way was East and theirs, West. We hit a red light before parting ways and we all yelled at each other through open windows until the light turned green. Then I wished them well on their drive. They went right, and I went left.

Traveling back home my problems, namely my very real family/life-threatening crisis with my wife that I've been keeping secret from this blog, just seemed silly. All I kept seeing in front of me was a woman and her three girls huddled around her, standing in her front doorway watching her Husband and their Dad drive off into the unknown.

I went to bed heartbroken, but I am hopeful for them all.


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I don't think I've ever been more transparent than I was at 12:30 this morning.

I'm not sure I've been more at peace in the presence of my wife right then and there.

The truth is, as I've been hinting for a while, my marriage has been slowly but surely going loopy. We've fought, we've kicked, we've screamed. I've prayed, sought help, pursued peace, stopped talking, anything and everything I could think of, all to no avail. She's threatened to leave on more than one occasion. I've posted opposition each time wondering in my head why I just don't let go. She's decried us roommates and strangers living under the same roof, except when it comes to the kids. And nearly every night before my eyes shut til morning and during nearly every moment of quiet that comes along during the day, I've prayed for peace and wisdom. I've prayed not to change her (which I'm told is witchcraft) but to help me be, do, fix whatever it is that needs whatever it is. Lately the question I've asked, especially in lieu of all that recently went down with my son is, "How much can one man take?" After all no matter what my daydreams might be, I'm very much flesh and blood.

Just yesterday the head of my daughter's school said something to me in the midst of a larger conversation we were having which stopped me cold in my tracks:

"It takes at least a year to get established once you've moved."

Each word, minus the prepositions, crystallized in my mind. Then it all clicked.

Life is lived on levels and at stages. But nothing happens overnight and very little happens in a year. Preschool (depending on when you enter your child) is at least 2 years. Grade school/grammar school is 6-8. Middle school is 3. High school is 4. College is typically 4 and graduate school can last a lifetime.

Before this economy, businesses had a 5-7 year window of time to make it or break it. A baby remains a baby for a couple of years before becoming a toddler, then is a youngster for a considerable number of years before becoming a teen and so on. I hope that you get the idea.

Since my daughter's arrival into our lives, before and after marriage I have moved a total of 5 times. Prior to then I lived a comfortable, confident, consistent and established existence in the same place for 10 years. Since I've been married and for a little while before then I've been trying to understand where the confidence and the surety has gone.

It didn't "go" anywhere. It's simply never been allowed to develop since taking on the mantle of Husband and Father. Back during the househunter days before this new economy, I was so hell bent on owning (because I was an owner who swore I'd never rent again), I absolutely refused to remain at an apartment that was absolutely perfect for my new unwed insta-family. I disrupted our new found comfort and am pretty certain I introduced us to a culture of looking for more, rather than making what we had work. That was 2006.

I got married in the fall of 2007 and never ONCE talked to my new bride about future goals and expectations. I knew I wanted to relax and enjoy life but that was about all I expressed.

Since then my wife and I have been living our lives in 12 month increments. And not even. We have begun each 12 month cycle barely focused on the 12 months we've been in. Instead we have proselytized to nearly anyone who'll listen what our intentions are "next year". Not only is this exhausting. It simply isn't healthy. How do you determine where or how you might fit into a community if you only give yourself 12 months to do it (especially when it takes nearly 3 months just to get in your new groove)? How do you assess the quality of your relationships in a community if you only give yourself 12 months? How do you hope for success without giving yourself enough time to succeed? How do you build a life with someone you've told, "I do" when you two only have fleeting moments together, few and far between, because between the two of you you are so focused on what you want to happen later that you overlook today? Notice I said, what you want to happen. Wanting doesn't necessarily dictate that it will, no matter how much effort you put out. Then what? You're stuck hating where you are and hating who you're with. (AHA!)

My daughter's school administrator wasn't the only factor in my revolutionized thinking. My kids themselves were the key players. My daughter has friends in the neighborhood. She goes to birthday parties. She goes to Sunday school with one of her classmates. We bump into parents at Dunkin' Donuts and sandwich shops, the library and at malls. During all of my son's various sporting events I began to make my rounds with the parents and the coaches. Chatting it up during games, socializing with no more intent than to socialize. Due to my son's academic needs I've been forced to reach out to professionals and have those professionals refer me to other professionals, each contact layering onto the last. I've established relationships with all of his teachers so that if I see them outside of school grounds they recognize me and strike up conversations where they express genuine interest for my family. And last but not least I began taking neighbors up on hanging out. Particularly, a city official who lives 3 floors above me. Through him I've met a slew of well meaning community members, some of whom, just this week, were able to get my son actively involved in this community --- actively and enthusiastically volunteering his time for the benefit of others. So even though I've had my head up my own ass, forever focused on a future that has yet to arrive, I've inadvertently put down roots in my community for the sake of my kids. And now at the age of 38 I get that despite all the outside factors that cause you to dislike a place (cost of living, nosy neighbors, "bad" commute, "bad" job, etc., etc.) it is your human obligation, your right to be happy as a living breathing thing to live in the moment and make it work. A simple 3-5 year plan between you (and yourself if you're single) and the one you love can make the bitter pill of life around you so much easier to take. The things of life stop being the focus. Living life takes over.

I confessed this all to my wife during a very long midnight drive. Instead of the usual --- a contradictory statement that more times than not would send us both spiraling out of control, she sat there soaking it all in. When I was done she told me I was absolutely right and before she went to sleep she told me she loved me and that I was one of the strongest men she knew. I laughed, of course. She went on to say that I took the time to figure out what was going on in my head and chose to share it and it made perfect sense.

I smiled.

A new "threat" is on the horizon that has the potential to uproot us yet again. And at the same time it also presents itself as an opportunity. As the co-captain of this ship, I'm not exactly sure what to do. But I am now confident that whatever the ultimate outcome may be I won't be making any decisions moving forward in some desperate and deranged fashion that has me hating where I am and making bad decisions for the future as a result. I have an opportunity to turn things around. To stop being so mean to myself. To have the love and happiness I've always wanted, fully aware that it takes time.

I woke up this morning happy. And it Makes Me Wanna Holler.

If any of this sounds familiar I hope you'll stop yourself dead in your self-destructive tracks and figure out a way to make your life work.

Last week Thursday I stepped on the scale after being worked over by a trainer who goes by the handle, Gato.

I was pleasantly satisfied. The number, "187" materialized on the digital screen between my big toes and I smiled.
187 pounds represents a 15 pound loss from 202.

The Good News: My backfat is gone. My six pack has begun to reemerge. My facial features appear to be sleeker. My arms are defined but the veins that used to plot routes up and down my biceps are conspicuously absent. My pectorals are no longer "mitties" (figure it out) and are cleanly separated along my sternum.

The Bad News: There are pockets of pudge that are trying to maintain strongholds on me and I have a nice solid layer of subcutaneous fat that needs to go. Unfortunately this layer of fat just beneath the skin, casually referred to as body fat or belly fat is usually the last, if not the hardest to get rid of --- at least for non-professional and semi-pro athletes and other individuals like myself who don't have the time to commit to two-a-days.

The Worst News: I want to reach my goal of 170 pounds yesterday/last week and the more gains I make, the more disappointed I become with the ones I achieve --- the maniac health nut has returned.

The reality is that from 2006 - 2010 I gained 29 pounds. I'm not so sure I should be killing myself to lose in 90 days what it took 5 years to gain.

But knowing this hasn't stopped me from trying. My goal for the beginning of July is to weigh in at 182. From there I will have to decide what steps I need to take to shave off the next 10 pounds.

But none of the above would've been possible without the good folks over at LA Boxing (Mamaroneck). I can't believe that a mere couple months back I was filled with fear as I crossed the threshold of the gym for the first time. Nowadays I come in and say hello to everyone on staff for the day. I have my own LA Boxing t-shirt and I jump rope in plain sight of all, not the dark corner of the gym I started in.

The philosophy there is simple: If you don't do the exercises the only one you're cheating is yourself. What LA Boxing has done for me in the short time that I've been a member is let me know I can withstand the test, take it and give it right back. When I'm getting ready to give up during a workout, the voice I hear before any trainer's is my own, demanding that I not fall down on myself, that I not cheat ... myself. The trainer's have an excellent eye for your strengths and weakness and they work very hard to turn your weaknesses into strengths.

I can't say where I'd be with this regimen. I know for a fact that I'd still be 202, my knees would still, it would be difficult for me to move up and down stairs and a lot of my pants would still look like pipe cleaners.

• I've learned a lot about the craft of boxing. It isn't something I intend to employ the next time someone makes me upset, but it is definitely an outlet for my daily frustrations and occasional woe.


• The mind numbing 800-1,000 cardio workout has tested me so much in these few short weeks that I'm not sure what I CAN'T do, anymore.


• I feel confident in myself and no longer ignore the man in the mirror.


• My LA Boxing experience has reinvigorated the warrior in me. The program has once again reminded me that nothing or no one but me is stopping me from achieving certain goals in this life. And I've been able to successfully and positively apply the same aggression, creativity and being light on my feet that is required of when I'm wearing the gloves to a variety of other areas in my life that needed "jumpstarting".

On the morning of Father's Day I went to the gym. Gato worked me over once again. When class was over he asked me if I was still dying.

"I'm never dying. The day I die is the day all this stops."

It hasn't stopped yet.

I don't intend for it to stop ever.

The official weigh-in was today and the scale registered the above number. I haven't seen 180-anything in at least two years on any scale I've stood on and today I am very satisfied. I set a goal for myself last week to lose 3-4 pounds a week. I lost 3 this week and I'm driven to lose 3 or more next week.

I am officially down 13 pounds from my original 202. My gut is gone, my backfat is still here, but in a greatly reduced amount. Other than my shoulders and knees feeling like they need a serious squirt of WD-40, I am limber and light on my feet.

I'm not sure why it's taken so long to get to this point after spending nearly two months at the same weight, but why ask, "Why?" I now have the momentum, better eating habits and LA Boxing - Mamaroneck behind me to forge ahead toward my goal of getting down to 170 pounds, which is 3 pounds less than the lightest I've ever been. I may get there, I may not. For now in the short term I've got 9 more pounds to go before I'm the hell up out of the 180s and I'm shooting for 179-180 for the July 4th Holiday. This is my new mini-milestone to chase down.

There was a little saying I coined when I was pledging my fraternity way back when in college. It kept me sane when I was certain (and not so certain) everything around me had gone nuts. It was my mantra that kept me going when tremors were ripping through my body while I held myself in push-up position (one of the more tame feats of strength I can mention here) at the kind and oh so pleasant behests of my big brothers for ungodly amounts of time above pools of my own sweat as they attempted to "distract" me. For whatever reason I remembered it last week and I've added it to my routine.

"I CANNOT submit. I WILL NOT submit. I REFUSE!"

Stay tuned...and stay motivated, whatever your goals may be!

THE MAN

It was just this past December when I wrote here on this blog that I couldn't stand the sight of me in the mirror. I believe my phraseology was something like when looking in the mirror I didn't know what (not who) I was looking at.

These days, I'm enjoying my reflection quite a bit, short of becoming narcissistic. The pudge that was in my cheeks is noticeably reduced, revealing sharper lines. The backfat from the small of my back is gone, although there's still more to be removed from the rest of my midsection. I'm standing erect, moving around easily. Intensity flares in my eyes. I go to bed dead tired and wake up not wanting to wake up, but I hit the ground running and don't stop until I'm dead tired again. I'm take charge and fight the doubt that swirls in my head every time I'm poised to do something that will benefit me. The soundtrack of my life right now is a mix of Rock, R&B, House Music with some touches of Hip Hop. It's my warrior's soundtrack. I've written extensively about "Getting Back To Me". And I feel me clawing my way out of the fat blob of discontent I've been for the past 3-4 years. If I were to be completely honest with myself it probably began before then all the way back to when I found out I was going to be a dad for real.

I feel in control, though I know I control nothing. I feel power, though as a man I only have direction over me. I feel I am standing at the threshold of something great. This can mean one of two things or be a combination of both: I am moments or mere steps away from peace of mind, or I'm about to hit paydirt. Either way I feel it and I'm encouraged by the substance of what I can't see (a.k.a. Faith).


THE DAD

Anyone who would ever question my dedication and actions as a father (not that it's ever happened) would seriously get their feelings hurt. By no means am I a perfect dad. Sometimes I'm quick to anger. Sometimes I growl, yell and bark. Sometimes I'm not interested in being patient. Sometimes I get fed up with these little people (even the one who is taller than me now) telling me what to do. I deal with their youthful rudeness as I would a man of my maturity and understanding. And then I realize what I've done when I see them cowering before the Man that I am. Sometimes I enjoy the reaction. It's wrong, but it happens sometimes. Otherwise, they are the number one priorities in my life. I am up before the sun making sure my son has a hot breakfast before he has to face his demons (and there are many) at the high school. I tell him to have a great day whether he responds to me or not. I let his occasional teenage ingratitude roll off me like the water does in the shower. I fight for him at the school. I fight to keep him busy. I fight to instill in him as many tenets of manhood as I can before he flies the coop. My daughter plain and simple is my power source. Like the Arc Reactor embedded in Tony Stark's a.k.a Iron Man's chest, she powers me, even as she drains me. I listen to her as if she were a Ph.D. I empower her not to become entitled and helpless because of her staggering beauty which is currently disguised as unbelievable cuteness. I pray with her. I read to her. I keep her centered. I do tea parties and playdough parties. I get dressed in suits and make my hats and caps look silly to fit the scenarios of whatever adventure she's cooked up in her head and chosen to include me in. I do what any parent should do. I love them --- in word, in emotion and in action. And I'm thankful to have been put in charge of them.


THE HUSBAND

The husband I am, I'm not so sure about as of late. Many who have been with me through these past couple of years know that my wife was a major subject matter in my blogging. Since the beginning of this year it'd be hard to not notice that I've barely mentioned her at all. Those commenters who always had something to say about my musing on married life have become mute, my traffic has dipped, but my subscribers keep increasing. I've given up trying to figure it out.

This morning I had an argument with my wife. In my outrage, the real me, that me that I mentioned at the beginning of this post, confessed that I'm not the loving husband I thought I'd be, need to be or even want to be. I am my mother's child: sensitive, thoughtful, fashion conscious, obedient to the law and very concerned about the well being of others. But as I chase down 40 I'm discovering that I am just as much my father's son: brooding, methodical, distant, cold, academic instead of emotional, as a matter of fact and sometime downright stoic. The distinction I can make is that I am my mother's child. I become my father's son when on the defense. I love my father with all my heart for everything that he is and is not, but in the bag of traits that was handed down to me I made a point not to pick the ones I listed here. I seem to have grabbed them anyway. Why this has happened, whose fault this is, is somewhat irrelevant for the purpose of this post. I guess I just am stating all this to state to the universe that by no means am I a perfect man. I don't profess to know it all and in most circles I'd prefer to keep my knowledge to myself lest it be challenged. I let my spirit guide me, but in a world ruled by the self I am constantly at odds because I am not in sync with most.

Marriage is something many enter into lightly, not understanding that it is a contract written in blood and DNA. Many men who find themselves overwhelmed or disillusioned have a simple solution: they cheat. But I believe (as a married man) I should have all my eggs in only one basket. And they are in plain sight for everyone to see under the roof of my home and nowhere else.

I'm a Man, I'm a Dad, And I'm a Husband. And I'm doing the best I can.

I just felt like sharing.

To be continued (or added to) at some point in the future...

How's that for transparent?

I am currently swirling around in the fiery muck known as traveling Hell:

1. Stayed up all night to get to the airport on time.


2. Found out 1 child's passport expired while checking bags.


3. Wife started crying at the counter.


4. Father-in-Law (who dropped us and walked us in) threw a fit.


5. My baby girl started crying when she realized we weren't coming (I was staying behind, she currently would feed her brother to crocodiles if she could).


6. The folks at JetBlue were completely professional and rebooked me for tomorrow.


7. Spent the next hour on the phone with the Gov't scheduling expedited passport appointment near my home thinking that was convenient.


8. Phone died.


9. Drove 2 hours in traffic from JFK (spent most of that time cursing myself out) and almost missed my appointment.


10. Went through metal detectors and stood on line behind a boy with blond highlights and long nails who kept rubbing his behind and bending over in pants so tight he could barely walk only to learn I didn't have enough documentation on my own as Dad for my son's passport.


11. The passport worker made me take an oath that the boy represented in the picture was a true and accurate photo of my son. I thought she was joking because he was standing right next to me (even he was perplexed by that one)...she wasn't joking.
    


12. Currently waiting for the wife to land for her to fax me maternal authorization.


13. Have to go back to passport office at 3 to hopefully get the passport by 4 if the wife does what she has to do - otherwise no trip for us.


14. Fighting to stay awake.


15. Ate some really bland soul food along the way.


16. Maybe tomorrow?


17. Son looking at me in new light (the only perk).

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Photo Credit: Self-Portrait by E.Payne

"Aren't you too old to be boxing? I mean c'mon?" is what my mother-in-law immediately asked me yesterday after I revealed to her my new fitness routine.

I can always count on her to not keep her thoughts to herself...

I laughed and quickly explained that I wasn't trying to be a prize fighter. I was simply getting in shape. 6 weeks ago I may have agreed with her. But that was then and this is now: 6 weeks into my experience at LA Boxing - Mammaroneck, approximately 10 pounds lighter (I can't seem to shake a nagging fluctuating 1 pound), a whole lot stronger, faster with my hands than I ever thought I could be and walking tall --- shoulders back, back straight --- not so much from pride but because of all the ab work I'm doing.

It has been a serious uphill battle chasing down the former me: 173 pounds, 6% body fat, insane, disciplined and maybe carrying 25% of the responsibilities I do now and having roughly 50% more time than I do now. When I was in this place it was the winter of 2005. Barely 30 days later my daughter was born. Then began my slow, unnoticeable descent into personal inactivity. By the time I got married in 2007, I had gone from being up at 5:45am to do more in an hour than most people did in a week to doing a handful of pushups when the mood hit me. After I got married I stopped doing even that.

In July 2009, I weighed in at 205. My body felt heavy and slow, I couldn't move the way I wanted to and my right heel was bruised making it nearly unbearable to walk. None of my clothes were fitting. Even though it took me 3 years (starting from my daughter's birth) to gain only 28 pounds, this was no consolation for me. That summer I managed to run off about 12 pounds of that, much of which I now suspect was water weight because by year's end and a heavy round of holiday eating I was 205 once more. At 5'10" 205 is easy to disguise clothed, but not in the mirror after you come out of the shower. Not when glory that was once your pectorals (established during my senior year of high school) had become flabby pieces of meat covering your breastplate.

Making matters worse is that I'm no longer a gym rat after having put myself through a year of a Brooklyn based bootcamp in 2005. It was in Prospect Park that I learned to do bear crawls and mountain climbers until exhaustion. I sprinted the entire length of the Brooklyn Bridge in both directions. I did jumping jacks at red lights ignoring the heckles from everyone that felt the need to roll down their windows and yell at me and my fellow boot campers. I removed the bread from my diet, lived off lean meats, fish and vegetables, ate before seven and was in bed by eleven. My boot camp instructor loved me and made me an example for the rest of the group. I was a non-complainer who did what I was told. I did have my binge days on Sundays where I ate everything that wasn't nailed down from French fries to frosted flakes. The bottom line was that although I had a girlfriend and a son to be (my wife and son now) but I was single and my time was mine.

Not so anymore. Other than promising myself to get in shape someday my options were bleak. My body --- something I've been in tune with and kept tuned for a very long time was out of whack and no longer listening to me. I was contending with dim prospect of having to live with something that is me but resembles nothing I've ever known to be me (if that makes sense). My self-esteem was on the line, because a major tenet to me being who I am is being in shape and feeling like I'm in shape. Working out aided in my development of the self-love required to be able to love others and not rely on others for love and approval. It rounded out who I was as a person. That part of me has been missing for these past few years.

Then along came LA Boxing (Mamaroneck). They saw in me an opportunity (I guess): an out of shape family man who was very vocal about wanting to be in shape once again. For me it was simple. I'd get to learn how to box (or something close to it) --- something I've always wanted to do. It took me nearly a week to get up the nerve to actually go to the gym after I had secured my membership. I wore a lot of clothes that first day to cover my protruding gut and my less than defined arms and sharp shoulders. By the time I was done with their signature, hour-long, 1,000 calorie burning cardio boxing routine (complete with gloves and heavy bags) I was a hot, sweaty mess. I wear a lot less now, but the burn and the sweat has only gotten worse. I can't speak for any of the other LA Boxing sites across the country, but the gang over at the Mamaroneck is the nicest and most supportive bunch of merciless trainers I've ever met.

It's definitely been a blast. There I have a discipline to embrace versus just going to the gym to lift weights or run on a tread mill. I'm not in it to learn how to knock someone out. I just want the all over conditioning that comes with being a boxer. I'm not interested in turning back the clock. I want to age with strength and grace. At one point during my workout yesterday I was doubled over tasting my breakfast in my mouth and feeling my stomach churn. The owner, Dean, ran up on me and screamed, "What are you doin'? I didn't tell you to stop!" And I went right back into it because I have nothing to do but gain by boxing away my backfat. I get to be more alive for my kids and I get to fine tune this machine that I use to move through my days.

What my experience so far at LA Boxing has done is expose the following:

Bad Habits: 1) I can't stay up all night long (a current problem I'm battling) and think I'm going to waltz up in the gym first thing in the morning and pump out a mean performance. It's just not gonna happen; 2) Based on the sheets of sweat that come off of me, drinking fluids all day long (water and electrolytes) is a must; 3) Garbage in - garbage out: I've actually known this for the past 15 years but undoing my snacking of the past four years is not the easiest thing in the world to do. I've opted to correct this by snacking mostly on fruits.

My Age: I'm not who I was four years ago, so staying up all night long and waking up at the crack of dawn to work out just doesn't work. I accepted this about 3 weeks ago.

Other than that I've always been of the inclination that there is nothing I can't do, short of flying without being inside an airplane. As of this weekend I will be 7 weeks in and in a better place than I've been for a very long time. And as of yesterday I began my eventual mastery of skipping rope like a boxer --- something I've ALWAYS wanted to be able to do. So no, I'm not too old to be boxing. I'm not too old to do anything that I want and/or need to do. I've even got more motivation thanks to a family trip to the Caribbean scheduled for the end of this month. I'm trying to be as shirtless as possible while I'm away.

When relaying all this to a friend last night she remarked, "We all have that thing that works for us. I'm glad you found yours." If you have something that you want to do, or always have wanted to do I encourage you to pursue with all your heart, strength and spirit as much as time will allow. As far as I know we only get one go-round in these bodies of ours. Why pass on living life to the fullest? Do what you need to do to make your life richer. Everyone around you will benefit from it, just as I hope you will benefit from my journey as I check with you to update you on my backfat annihilation.

Peace....

Disclosure: I was not compensated in any way for this post. I have been provided with a complimentary membership to LA Boxing for a limited time period.

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Photo Credit: Pricer45

Sometimes a boy needs to be made to understand that his father is a Man.

I didn't need much reminding growing up. My father had and still has huge hands, was always throwing concrete over his back, going upside my head or doing something ridiculously inhuman that had me half in awe of him and half resenting him.

Apartment living has limited my ability to work around the house the way I know how to. I inherited my father's strength but not his mitts. And I don't go upside anyone's head. I've talked about this often in the past on this blog. Maybe I'm scared of my own strength exacted against a child. Maybe I don't trust that my son is built like me, rock headed and willful enough to constantly bring on the wrath of a man the way I would incur the wrath of a country and civil rights bred man who's seen more than I'll ever see.

I also didn't have 300+ friends on Facebook cajoling me into thinking I was something special.

About a month ago (a few days before my son was diagnosed as being potentially learning disabled) I received a call from my son's high school. I sighed and debating answering but relented. I sighed again and took a deep breath:

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Payne...?" asked the school disciplinarian. The entire conversation went downhill from there. The news was that he had been fighting in the hallway and cutting classes. After I got off the phone I sank into my couch, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was so tired of getting calls from the school. I was so tired of not knowing what to do. I was so tired of being tired of this boy. I wasn't that upset about the fight. The disciplinarian couldn't even tell me who was involved or what caused it. She hadn't completed her "investigation" yet. I almost laughed when she told me this. For all I knew my son could've been defending himself. But the class cutting is what got me. It meant he had been lying to me about where he had been during the day. He hadn't been doing the only thing he was supposed to do: be a student.

Suddenly I felt all of my father's ways downloading into me from some unknown server somewhere. My body quaked with energy and anger. I began to pace. I started rubbing my hands, swollen from 2 weeks of boxing. I was breathing heavily as if I had run a race. I marched into his room and stripped it of all his electronic toys, but I left all the wires on the floor. I had the door half unhinged from it's frame when I realized I was bending the frame (as a renter this really isn't my place). After a few minutes of brainstorming I took out the doorknob and bolted the door to the wall behind it so it couldn't move. I turned his cellphone off and returned to the couch.

I sat there fuming feeling that I hadn't done enough. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel how angry I was and not just be a witness to it.

"I'm gonna kill him," I said out loud. "I'm gonna whoop his..."

Feeling completely out of control I put word out on the street via my wife. "He can't come here. Not while I'm here. If he doesn't I'm gonna break every piece of furniture in the living room because he's not making it through the front door on his feet...he's not even making it out of the hallway. Babygirl isn't going to understand what I'm doing to her brother. And I'm not tryin' to get thrown out of this building."

To this my wife, normally very protective of her son, not from her fury, but mine, simply said, "Okay."

A few minutes after that the plan was set. My father and law would pick him up and hold onto him while my wife came home from work. I'd get the girl and go somewhere for a while. She assured me she'd take care of it and asked me to leave a belt out on the bed.

That night I took my daughter to McD's where she bumped into a friend and they both had their faces painted. But not before I saw the boy. I was on my way out the door when I heard a timid knock. I flung open the door and looked him square in the eyes the way one does a nosy neighbor. He took a step back.

"What are you doing here?" I growled.

"Mom is downstairs with grandpa," he answered looking at the floor. My fists were balled but his sister was right behind me trying to say hello to him. I let him pass, picked her up and left my home immediately. I had almost gotten out without incident. But more importantly, he saw me... saw what was in my eyes and carnally understood his place at Casa del E.Payne.

After the smoke cleared it turned out that my son's cuts weren't cuts but a glitch in the school's attendance system. The fight was him horsing around in the hallway with a buddy from the football team, something just as inexcusable (but I understood how it happened). And the disciplinarian's investigation uncovered nothing but her bias toward my son as he was the only one who got punished. I held onto his stuff for a week, kept his phone off for a few days and kept his door open for a month. Just because I could. Just because he needed to know what will be waiting for him when he comes home should he choose to act silly out in public. Just like I did so many years ago.


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I'm not the guy with my arms out...

I've been blessed to not suffer from writer's block. But I can be distracted from writing like nobody's business. April was a month that knocked me on my you know what. It was a time of change, some good, some bad. Either way, all of it came together to prevent my brain from focusing that much on Makes Me Wanna Holler.

And here they are in no particular order:

Boxing: Not so much boxing but remolding my schedule to fit that of someone who works out --- intensely. This covers everything from what I've been eating, when I've been eating, what I've taken out of my diet, and when I sleep. I've actually had to start sleeping to get a decent night's rest in order to function. You'd think this would be obvious, but bad habits learned over the last four years of my daughter's life has made the obvious not so clear.

My Wife: As the woman I've pledged my love to immerses herself more and more into her MBA program and starts telling more econ and statistics jokes, more and more of the responsibilities here at home are piling up on me. I've gone from being Dad, to House Administrator. All I do these days is tell little people what to do, drive them around and feel like I'm going in circles in the process. I've even begun to start cooking again --- something I did daily and effortlessly as a bachelor. Now, I've either knock a meal out of the park or I sit at the head of the table with my kids looking at me like, "Why are you feeding me this?" Then once I get everyone to bed I have all the time I need to dig into the pressing matters of my own life. I take a deep breath, crack my knuckles and pass out for the night.

Photography: I booked 3 gigs between the end of March and the month of April. Easy enough on the shooting end, not so easy on the editing end. The beautiful thing about my relationship with photography is that each photo session is leaps and bounds better than the last one, but then I have to still deal with the one before it, trying to exact perfection and spending a lot of time doing it. I'm also building another blog and doing it very very slowly.

The Future: This one comes up daily. I spend a lot of time thinking of my family and what we're going to be doing in the next six to eight months.

My New Smartphone: I am not a proponent of smartphones. Being connected at all times is something I've always dreaded. My wife decided to switch my plan to hers and get me the same new shiny smartphone she has. She told me I didn't have to use all the features if I didn't want to...Like that was going to happen...after a week of staring at the box and holding on to my old phone which was duct taped together, it took all of a day for me to connect my new phone to everything I do online. Now it rings and sends me notifications constantly. And I'm too weak to ignore it.

AAU Basketball: It was my idea to have my son try out for AAU basketball in his age group. I wanted him to play on a competitive level. I wanted him to actually try out for a team. Something he has yet to do at his high school (they just sign up). He made the team, he's practicing two nights a week and playing four games each weekend. Sometimes the games are back to back. Sometimes, there are huge lags of time in between. Sometimes they are all under one roof. Sometimes they are located no less than 20 miles from home. My goal was to wear him out. It didn't dawn on me that the same would happen to me.

My Son: If I ever thought I was running out of material for this blog, all I had to do is sit still for a couple days and let my son simply exist. Over the course of this past month, even with the revelation that he may be learning disabled, this boy has given me enough material to blog about until Father's Day. Just to catch you up: I currently own all his time. His cell phone hours are restricted. And the door to his room is missing (I took it down). Why? Because my son has decided in his infinite teenage wisdom that since he doesn't like school, he's simply going to stop participating in it. He had it all figured out. He'd be social instead. He blamed everyone for his shortcomings --- from teachers to fellow students to that creature named I Don't Know. And then his grades came in. A horrific piece of paper I affectionately call his Concerto in F Flat. Not for lack of understanding, but rather lack of effort as in not turning in homework or showing up to class. And he's become a victim of the very technology (emails and IMs) that led him to believe he could pull a fast one and not get caught. This past Monday I sent out 10 emails to his teachers and received about 20 in return. He's not a bad boy, he's actually pretty well behaved. He's just misdirected. Stay tuned for the redirection.

Stay tuned for the blogging...


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An apple a day...

All my life I've been under the impression that I'm allergic to nearly everything under the sun. But after a recent visit to the allergist I learned that I'm only allergic to nuts, which truly is my personal Kryptonite. Of course there's seasonal allergies which currently has my keyboard littered with balled up tissues, but otherwise I'm good.

Now I have to figure out how to resolve myself to the fact that I'm not allergic to chocolate and shellfish, foods I always reacted to as a child, but apparently outgrew. I'm still in a state of shock. How long have I not been allergic to these foods? Who knows? Maybe I just reacted to them because my parents told me I was allergic. Maybe when I ate these foods they had been contaminated with some proportion of nuts or coconut which sent me running like a wild man to the bathroom without fail. Honestly, the smell of chocolate makes me a little nauseous, but I must admit I've enjoyed sips from my wife's occasional white chocolate caramel latte from Starbucks (she told me I could drink it because white chocolate wasn't really chocolate).

Men and doctors don't particularly mix. Especially when on the surface nothing appears to be wrong. There are more doctor's out there than just the physician your wife forces you go to for your physical. Five years ago, I made a pledge to myself that I was going to find out everything about me before I hit middle age. I've had surgery to correct blocked sinuses, a deviated septum and sleep apnea; my opthamologist informed me that I have a scarred cornea (probably thanks to improper care of my old school hard contact lenses of my teenage years); I sometimes suffer from exercise induced asthma; I learned from a dermatologist that when severely stressed or weakened due to sickness, certain areas of my skin experience low grade eczema; I spent 2008 and half of 2009 wearing Invisalign to straighten my teeth to correct what was becoming a severe crossbite and underbite (until then I can't say I ever smiled for pictures); and thanks to years of living with a feline my lung capacity is just average, lower than it should be given my level of activity. And now this, which isn't bad news at all, it's just another surprise that has taken that much more guesswork out of my understanding of me. Other than an occasional prescription here and there I live with these things quite easily, rather than having to live a certain way because of them. Why? Because I took the time now, while I'm still young(ish) to find out and do something about it.

Men, dads (moms too), go to the doctor and get more than just a physical. Your life, your wife and your kids will be better off because of it.

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Instead of National Poetry Month or National Autism Awareness Month, April in my house may as well been dubbed, "The Rise of The Children." During the siege that has taken place here, I've been able to put my finger on one thing per child that I can't stand:

1. The Son: The entire time I've known him he has almost never greeted me with a "hello" when I pick him up. When he was little it was, "What's for dinner?" and "Where's Mom?" Now it's, "I'm hungry..." "Where's the car?" or "He (he points at some random kid that lives nowhere near us) needs a ride." And then he walks past me to my car, which is locked, and just stands there. After his basketball games I watch the other kids walk downtrodden (they're on a serious losing streak) to their fathers for a high five, or a chewing out (by the super sports fanatic dads) or just to be beside the man they call Dad. I have no idea what that is like (shaking my head). And I may have to have another son to find out (shaking my head even more).


2. The Daughter: My diabolical princess sabotages every single attempt I make to leave my house (or anywhere) to be on time anywhere. No matter how early I wake her, no matter how dressed she is, no matter if she's sitting by the door with her coat on, no matter what, she either runs around the house, throws a tantrum because she's not wearing pink socks, falls down and says her legs are broken...you name she's concocted it. And this only happens when I'm alone with her (reminiscent of that singing frog from the Warner Bros. cartoons). Because it only happens when we are alone, no one, wife included, believes me when I show up 5 - 30 minutes late --- everywhere, exhausted.

In truth I don't hate a single hair on my kids head, and I clearly know the difference between hating an action and not the person committing it (hate the sin, not the sinner). It's just one of those things that goes on under the roof of E.Payne.

Sound familiar? Or can you put your own twist on the above?

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