The smoke has cleared from my son's meltdown on Monday night. I've caught up on the rest I lost by staying out until nearly 2 am and then not being able to sleep once I returned home. All the punitive measures were put in place before I wrote that post: his phone only works when he calls his parents or grandparents, all the Wi-Fi in the house is disabled, all the keys (including the one at the front desk) were in my care and he was yanked off his basketball team (they only had two games left anyway). When my wife came home that evening she said, "What'd you do put him under house arrest?"

I chuckled the way you do when something isn't funny and poured myself a glass of Mount Gay on the rocks and took a huge swig. Her eyes widened with concern.

"I'm good," I assured her. "I'm not going to get drunk at 7 in the evening." Truth is, I drink so infrequently now, I can barely hold my liquor. I'm too old to be getting plastered anyhow.

"You should talk to him," she said, pleadingly looking towards the back of our home. "He needs to hear from you."

A few hours later I did talk to him, but not as his mother did, stern but nurturing. I simply spoke my mind as a man should when the air needs to be cleared.

I told him that I was sorry the man who should be his father isn't around and I can only imagine his pain (he was gone before he was born). And that he was correct in labeling me a step-dad, as I am the dad who stepped up. As one commenter put it, most folk don't get to chose their family. I chose him. I also told him if he should ever want to pursue that man I'd support him.

I told him that the day I "put my hands on him" (something he accused me of doing) is the day he wakes up in the hospital and I get carted off to jail. There was some grappling that night, all from me, but never once did I raise a hand.

I told him he was wanted (something he screamed to the contrary that night). What I told him was that it wasn't that we thought he didn't do anything right, but rather we don't understand why he opts not to do anything right.

Speaking of rights I told him he had too much going on for him, too many people in his corner, too many people loving him to piss away his own opportunities and be ambivalent about it.

I told him he was first, the first one I knew, the first one I loved. I've never once made a distinction between he and his sister.

And then I went in...

1. I told him the show he put on made him look like a fool and all that drama is best saved for the soap operas. And the next time he gets angry he needs to figure out a better way to express himself. As his parents we have to see through all that. I doubt a stranger will show him the same discretion.


2. I told him what makes a man a real man is his standing by his responsibilities, such as getting a woman pregnant and being responsible for the child he makes, or taking on a child as his own and never once balking at it.


3. I told him a real man makes mistakes, owns up to them and does his best to correct them.


4. I told him, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that a real man NEVER EVER EVER NEVER EVER curses at, or in the presence of his mother --- no matter the circumstances. A real man does not disrespect his mother, EVER! And that he HAD TO apologize to the one who gave him life --- the one who has him at the forefront of all her thoughts and actions.


5. I advised him that his punishment had yet to be handed down but it was going to big and it was coming swiftly.

And he said, "Okay."

'Twas a few days before Father's Day and all through the house,

Everyone was a sleep except this lively mouse.

I stared at the ceiling, wide awake as could be,

Getting up several times with the urgent need to pee.

But that's not what had me wide-eyed in the night,

It was what transpired a few hours earlier, a very caustic fight

Between a teen at the end of his rope, the victim of course...

Enough with the rhyming. Before the clock struck midnight my son very clearly informed me (who at the time was boiling over with frustration) that I wasn't his dad. I was just his step dad.

Here's a little secret: I've been dreading those words for years.

But I laughed. Can you believe it? Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe it was because I had many more words to say than him. Maybe my bottle was corked just a bit tighter than his in my effort to always embrace reason and seek the positive.

But that doesn't mean I didn't react.

The Man caught an adrenaline rush, pushed the Dad and Husband out of the room and stared down flesh not even half my age. The flimsy knife the boy had brought to the Man's gunfight broke against the man's older, wrought-iron skin.

The boy...ahh, the boy...a boy I've known for a very, very long time....the boy in the big body...he's still just a boy...he proved that more than ever before...

Then it was the Man's turn...

But the Wife was there to keep the The Man from pulling his trigger, neutralizing and reminding him where he was and who he also is. She went to find the Dad even though it took her nearly four hours to do so. I assume she probably suffered the most in the midst of the chaos. I apologized, but she insisted I did nothing wrong.

The Wife convinced the Husband to come to bed. But the Man couldn't sleep and the Dad all but disappeared until the sun rose. He washed his face, shaved and emerged to face the day at peace and filled with the awareness of the teachable moment he now stands in and the structure that must now and forevermore be employed. Eerily, I'm at peace. I kinda figured the day would come. You just know as an outsider trying to become an insider (even once you're inside) that the day will come --- whether it's sooner or later. God bless those who've remained unscathed.

I am the stepdad: The dad who STEPPED-UP to do what another man never had the courage to pursue. Although meant as a slight. I actually take it as a compliment. Go figure?

Stepdads STAND UP! Happy Father's Day to you! You have to contend with so much more than those who come by it naturally.

My hat is off to you.

Be blessed.

Barack Obama has been President-Elect for the past few days now and I still can't get anywhere on time. I was mostly late to work last week. For unGodly reasons that were out of my control I had to work late on Friday night, I got home incredibly late that evening because the trains hate me, and I overslept this morning and missed out on getting myself and my family off to church.

Over these same few days my thinking has and continues to undergo a transformation of sorts, of which the results are something which I'm not sure of yet.

Bits and pieces are coming to me in the middle of the day, first thing in the morning, while listening to a song, sitting on the toilet...you get the idea.

One thing my mind has visited in these days is the skirmish I had with my wife over the summer. Those of you who were on the blog at the time know it was about my wife's decision to ship my daughter off to my parents for the summer without even trying to discuss it with me. For all the gory/pointless details, click here.

What I can say right here and now is that I wish I hadn't resorted to anger. I was disappointed to the point of devastated that my wife didn't feel she could talk to me about this, but that's where it should have stayed. It was on me to flesh it out, seek out the problems and get to the answers and fix it so it wouldn't return. Instead, I chose to go ballastic --- educated, articulate and grown --- I allowed myself to be consumed with my anger and purposely stretched what should've been a long and insightful dialogue into a month-long conflict.

I could've used that energy in so many different ways. As I just said, I could've gotten to the root of the problem or found other ways if I couldn't do it myself, I could've prayed on it, I could've done some pushups, but I splashed it out here and walked a very thin line stopping just short of making a mockery out of my wife and my nascent marriage.

If I've learned anything over the past few days I've learned that I'm better than what I've been. Raised to know better and experienced enough to do better. I can't speak on "If I had it to do all over again I would've..." I'm no witch so I can't repredict the past.

I just wish I had done better because I am better.

For those of you who are friends of Makes Me Wanna Holler and were visiting at the end of June/beginning of July, you'll remember I was a complete mess as my father's generation put it, "I was fit to be tied." I let it all hang out: the bad, the ugly and the worse. I chronicled all of this in the series When A Father Attacks (If you click on this, make sure you read the entries in reverse order...this way you won't start at the end.).

Fast forward to the present, and it's been almost five weeks since that turbulent time. I'm somewhat of a changed man and have come to several revelations about my wife and children, who I am and how I am in relationship to them.

Tomorrow morning I'll be on a plane to my beloved Chi-Town to visit my folks, lounge around the house I grew up in, cool out in the evenings in the backyard and see my baby --- hold her, squeeze her, kiss her a thousand times --- and then some more.

The way life is she probably won't be happy to see me.

We'll see...I'll keep you posted.

The finale of When A Father Attacks.

Several years ago, I learned in church that when there is no communication abnormality and death sets in. This is true of all relationships --- friendships, business partnerships, and so on.

And especially relationships between men and women --- casual, serious or otherwise.

Friends of mine have commended me on my bravery for sharing this madness on the blog; a couple of dedicated readers have become genuinely concerned for the well-being of my marriage; while others are simply waiting to read this final post. My decision to share (or overshare) was to show that there are various sides and factors operating in all situations between people. As the owner and writer of Makes Me Wanna Holler I am in the position to say/rant whatever I want and slant every issue to make me look golden. But I'm not a perfect man by any stretch of the imagination --- I have a side as does my wife, but honestly my side or her side really doesn't matter in the face of raising a family and progressing as a couple. I've known so many people who've become so engrossed in their "side", that they can't move beyond it to a resolution. This is where they drown, to this day arguing their place over the place where both parties need to be.

At my "side" is where I'll pick up When A Father Attacks.

A week ago, I went from being fed by my anger to being completely wearied by it. Like the Hatfields & the McCoys, I was quickly beginning to lose sight of what upset me in the first place. All reports from my parents suggested my baby was having a blast in Chicago and my son was ecstactic to get away from his boring parents for a month with his cousins down South.

So why was I still so angry? My answer was to be found in a pizzeria/gelato store on 7th Avenue.

I went to lunch with one of my buddies after finding my own brown bag lunch completely unsatisfying. She's a part-time counselor at my organization and an avid reader of this blog. While munching on a hefty chicken slice she decided to put on her counselor's hat and dig in. It's something she does often --- maybe for practice, maybe for kicks, maybe simply to help.

The pizza was good (I got my own slice), but the talk was better and I discovered that I really needed to talk with my wife.

My daughter being shipped away, although extremely troubling, released an avalanche of resentment that has built up over time. What I processed over lunch was that in my wife's desire to do things for the sake of "us", I've typically been the last to know --- rarely, if ever, consulted during the planning. What she's been doing in the name of surprise, I've been absorbing as, What the hell is this?

Then there's all that in-fighting...

Even when friends aren't getting along, they don't stomp all over each other if they expect to remain friends. Married couples, with all the things we juggle, often grow oblivious to the reality that friendship (hopefully) was the foundation on which their union was based. In my campaign to crush my wife's always-on, type-A personality, I had completely lost sight of who she or I was and the roles we were supposed to be playing in each other's lives.

When my son was a lot younger and smaller than he is now, he frequently referred to me as "The Fixer" due to my ability to repair or build just about anything around the house.

It was time for me to resume this role.

I reopened the lines of communications between my wife and I. The talk wasn't easy (nothing worth achieving ever is), but it didn't end with me wanting to drive over her with my SUV.

Baby steps, one at a time are leading us back to where we need to be --- friends, partners, lovers, parents, and blah, blah, blah. I'm no longer on the attack. Although now I am quick to share my opinion on things, as this is my right as an equal partner in our marriage. In the days that followed this first talk, my wife and I have since barbecued, cleaned and spit-shined our son's room (in his absence of course) and vacationed in her favorite city in the United States: New Orleans.

The End. Better put: The Beginning.

Part 4 of When A Father Attacks.

I went home...but I took my time getting there.

After working off site until eight-thirty that evening and being nowhere near any of the public transportation I normally take to go home, I hopped on the subway and took it to the end of the line. Before the call from my wife, the plan had been for her to pick me up from the last stop in our car. After her call I wasn't calling her or anyone else.

Far from home, but not far from a home where I had family, I dropped in on my mother-in-law who welcomed me in, fully aware of the strife between my wife and I. I snacked, drank a needed glass of Bacardi Dark on the rocks and watched Ocean's Thirteen (I've never seen this movie all the way from start to finish. As with every other time I've tried to watch it, I came in at the exact same point and as with all my previous attempts, I fell asleep before the end.).

Before dozing off I contemplated where my life is versus where it was before my wife and I met. I wondered if this quiet place of reflection was where so many men have been before considering divorce. Then I began to wonder why I had taken my wife's actions so hard and so personally. We were getting nowhere. I wondered if I was mad for the sake of being mad. Outside of her presence, I could clearly see her point of view, but in her presence she outraged me. And that's the best way for me to put it.

As the evening chugged on into night, I became more aware of the fact that although my daughter was gone, my son was finishing off his last week of school before his trip down South to visit family.

He didn't deserve our BS. I owed it to him to be home, or at the very least least to be there when he woke up the next day.

I began to look at the Metro North train schedules and considered calling a cab when my stand-in mom offered to take me home.

The lights were still on as I expected them to be when I got there.

"I called you," said my wife, in a low and reserved tone.

I ignored her comment and told her I worked later than expected (which I did).

"I thought the plan was for me to pick you up."

I handed her the mail I had picked up on my way in. "It was..." I offered with no further explanation.

I went to check on my son in his room. I found him fast asleep under a pile of sheets, a blanket and his clothes. The sight made me laugh and I went to the back to get out of my work clothes. I did my part to clean the house and went straight to bed, passing on my usual routine of checking emails and tinkering with this blog.

The next morning my wife and I agreed to ride in to work together without actually acknowledging one another. On the train she asked me where I had really been the night before and when I told her she got loud. She told me in several words that I was mean, unforgiving and discourteous for not calling to let her know where I was.

She also added that she didn't care if I stayed out all night. But I knew she did.

I continued on my ride with her, listening to her words --- all of them were angry, defensive, fierce and unconstructive. There was no life in any of them as there was none in any of mine.

I had to ask myself...was this the way friends speak to or deal with each other?

The answer was easy: no.

Now what?

The end of When A Father Attacks is coming soon.

Part 3 of When A Father Attacks.

Anger can be a positive thing when it is used for good. It can motivate one to pursue excellence. It can also take a person to a place where they decide enough is enough.

It can also consume you.

As the date of my parents arrival continued to approach, the more agitated I became. My wife's attempts to appease me were in vain. My mother did her best to assure me my daughter would be fine. But this fell on deaf ears. Besides, she didn't need to convince me of what I already knew. My issue wasn't with her or my father. In the midst of it all I managed to maintain enough clarity to determine that I felt betrayed and alone. My mood worsened. Making matters worse, after about a week of me, my wife decided she was done catering to my bad attitude.

"If you don't want to spend time with me and we don't get to do anything together then fine! You stay here and be miserable on your own. I'll go where I'm going with or without you!"

My response can't be repeated here.

These exchanges went on for days --- through Father's Day and practically through my son's birthday. My parents' arrival brought about a temporary and brief ceasefire that lasted until they departed with my daughter.

Needless to say it wasn't an easy day for any of us, except for my father, who was filled with glee to have his grandbaby come home with him. My daughter, who my wife was certain would be oblivious to leaving us, was exactly the opposite. I was sad in a way I never thought possible. My wife was overcome with emotion and fled the scene.

I was alone. Again.

I walked away from the scene white hot with anger that formed a cuff around my neck and practically took my breath away. In a move completely contrary to how I felt I hugged my wife when I found her. She cried into my chest and told her all would be fine. I did this with the hope that tending to her would help me feel better.

It didn't.

Two days before all this transpired, I posted an entry on this blog about sending children away for the summer. It was my therapy and I was looking forward to sorting it all out online. A discussion began, but went awry when people who know me personally began to address me directly and not the question I was asking. I felt exposed in a way I never expected in the arena of anonymity that is the web. News of my post spread quickly and reached the ears of my wife (a subscriber to the blog). But because we weren't speaking, she saw my therapy online a smack in the face to her --- complete and total disrespect.

The day after my daughter went to Chicago, my wife called me on my job and demanded that I take the post and the poll that went along with it. Never one to not share her thoughts, she told me she wanted nothing to do with me and she didn't even want to look at me.

I was completely numb. So much so, I was slightly surprised she would believe I actually cared what she thought. I hung up without saying goodbye.

If I took down my post, the creative outlet that has become a very personally positive force in my life would be under her control. But in the name of diplomacy and doing unto others as I would have them do to me, I took down my post and my poll.

I stared at the white space on this blog that had once been filled with the poll: "How Young Is Too Young To Ship Your Kids Off For the Summer?"

Right then and there I had a moment of clarity. One that brought me peace.

...I decided I wasn't going home that night.

Part 4 of When A Father Attacks will post after the July 4th weekend. Have a safe and happy one!

Part 2 of When A Father Attacks

My wife is a beautiful, gregarious, headstrong, outspoken woman. When I first met her, her energy was electrifying. She was a nice balance to my mellow and sometimes passive ways. My wife is goal-oriented. The workplace is her domain where she thrives, fearlessly speaking her mind, pushing forward to get results, even as recently as yesterday when her comments to a vice-president contributed to the yanking of a potentially offensive ad campaign. My wife is a planner, at work and with our kids she plans things out from top to bottom, making sure no stone is left unturned.

My wife is a control freak. Her picture is next to the definition of Type-A personality. Family has told me she’s been this way for a long time.

In seeking out goals and outcomes before process and expense, my wife, on several occasions has broken the bank and physically exhausted me in her efforts to “get the job done.” My son has gotten nearly everything he’s ever asked for. And now that we’ve been married for a little more than six months I’ve watched her focus heavily on the premise that “we” aren’t having fun because “we” are bogged down with being parents, and being New Yorkers. But this sentiment is based on her assumptions, not ascertained by actually asking me.

So my wife makes plans, whether feasible or not, in the name of doing what she things we should be or are not doing. I don’t subscribe to playing dead, but I do know that the first three years of marriage are the hardest and this writer would argue the first might possibly be the worst of the three. We paid for our wedding, out of pocket. So things are skimpy, but never sparse.

In the name of having a month to ourselves and in the name of rekindling love anew, my wife began to plan. She got my parents on-board with the idea of taking my daughter for July. She told her friends and her parents. I was the last to know. I can hear the thought process in my head:

Tada!!! Baby, are you surprised?

In actuality, I was pissed. My parents don’t see my daughter often and they’re aged, so why wouldn’t I want them to spend time with her? My wife and I don’t spend much time alone, so why wouldn’t I want to dedicate quality time to my new bride? We live in an apartment and my parents own a home with a large front and backyard with a beautiful lawn and tall maple trees. Why wouldn’t I want my daughter to experience that versus running around the sitter’s house?

Why would I want to stand in the way of all of the above?

Because I’m her father. When I met my son he was five so I missed out on his early development. Last month when I began to have a meltdown, my wife, my parents, my in-laws and our collective friends had no idea the position they put me in (the idea of missing a day of my daughter’s life, the way it was handled, the thought that I would stand in the way of her having a nice time with my parents).

All this in the name of enjoying a month off, even though I never asked for month off and never thought I couldn’t enjoy my new bride with my baby being a part of the picture. After all, we’re the ones who brought her into our picture.

I was stuck…between a rock and a hard place.

For what happens next, check in tomorrow for When A Father Attacks: Man At War...part three of this four-part series running through July 3.

I am a Libra. I am an only child. I am a father.

My Libra friends tell me us Libras are slow to be impressed, don’t excited by much and lose interest quickly. We also are sensitive, giving souls to a fault. We give people around us enough rope to hang themselves and we preside over these hangings gleefully, without regret, without remorse.

As an only child who was ruled with an iron fist I enjoy the luxury of being able to bask in solitude, draw strength from it and recharge in it. As a married man, solitude is a commodity I value as much as gold, wheat and corn in today's economy. I can appreciate an empty house, I enjoy moments without music or the white noise of always-on television --- mindlessly watched, and always on. Being an only child has its downsides, as do most things. I am prone to moodiness, insistent on space that many times doesn’t exist when living together (and not living in a mansion) and when angered, become uber-independent and ice-cold to those closest to me or those whom I view as hurtful or a threat.

I enjoy being a father. Learning to become the father of my wife’s son was a rocky and challenging experience for a variety of reasons, some of which had to do with not only the changing of my thinking from only child’s, but a single man’s to that of one who is a lot more selfless. My wife didn’t make things easy either. She saw something in me that I didn’t know was there and her impatience, in my humble opinion, overpowered her opportunity to teach me the ways and means and ins and outs of parenting.

Additionally, as many men will attest to, the paternalistic nature that most women seem to be born with doesn’t kick in for men until they bear a child of their own.

When my daughter was born, fatherhood just “clicked”. Like my first kiss, it all came very easily. The fear that, in the beginning, kept me up most nights wondering if I could pull it off, became the motivation I needed to pull it off. And now 8 years since I met my wife, with a 13 year-old and a 2.5 year-old, being dad is something I draw strength from and something that is invaluable to me in a world where not too much truly matters (to me). I enjoy being a father. Sometimes, it’s the one thing I look forward to at the end of long days and weeks.

By Wednesday of this week I will be without children for a month. Free to do whatever I want. Wanton in purpose and weakened with no source of strength.

For Father’s Day I was given a trip to New Orleans taking place this Fourth of July. Unknown to me, my wife was planning the trip for weeks and I love her for it. Unknown to me, my wife was planning to have my parents take my 2.5 year old daughter off our hands for the month of July.

My parents live in Chicago.

When she finally shared the full scope of her plans with me, I was less than happy. When I asked my wife why she would do this without consulting me she quickly announced, “Because I knew you would say no.” She argued that our son goes away every year. He's thirteen. He began going to sleep-away camp when he was roughly six years old. She was a basket case when it first happened. I was there to console and reassure her that he would be fine.

My daughter is two. Her argument fell flat.

Immediately, I knew she meant well, wanting to spend quality time together, in an effort to experience that newlywed love anew that being parents doesn't allow time for. But meaning well and doing well are two completely different things. My wife didn’t know it at the time, but she had a serious problem on her hands that was getting ready to balloon out of control. It takes two words to name it and one word to describe it and two more words to explain its cause:

The name: Eric Payne.

The description: Father.

The cause: Her actions.

For what happens next, check in tomorrow for When A Father Attacks: The Catch-22...part two of this four-part series running through July 3.