Every so often I'll catch glimpse of it. In my iPhone, in a window and often times at night. I look at it and don't understand it, where it came from, why it exists, who it is and why is it attached to me. It's my face staring back at me asking the same question, maybe for the same reasons. How did I get here? Yesterday I was graduating high school and as lost about life as I wanted to be. Now I'm providing guidance to...children of all people. And I'm viewed a positive and strong. Which, for me on some days, is just outrageously laughable. But maybe this is what the parenting game is all about, often wondering if you're good enough and chasing this pursuit perpetually.

I sit here typing these words understanding that I have no choice in this "growing up" and all the attachments of responsibility that came with it. I guess some people choose not to even when they bring kids into the world, but that was never going to happen with me. I've embraced it all even when I haven't understood them.

There has been an incredible amount of anticipation and tension for one of the culminating moments in our lives as a family --- my son's graduation from high school. I'd been repairing the house and painting it for weeks for the twelve family members who were coming to stay with us. I've been so busy that I haven't blogged in weeks. What's worse, I didn't even have any ideas of what to blog about and worse than that, I didn't care. The twelve arrived and then some more. Then my kitchen sink sprang a leak once everyone was here. I called the plumber but he never showed (I guess he doesn't like money). I finally discovered the leak on my own but not before water began pooling in my garage from two days worth of repeatedly flooding the cabinet beneath the sink. With a wife who is a serious cook and so many people around, there was no way we were not going to be able to use it. In the end I wound up replacing the whole faucet with my father after almost everyone left.

There was a shooting at my son's high school yesterday. The student who brought the gun to school accidentally shot themselves and it ended right there (a la Plaxico Burress). The rumor is the person had it on their person to protect themselves from some beef brewing in their life and not to attack someone else. It happened first thing in the morning and my son asked to come home. We obliged, and another parent who is a friend of the family signed him out and brought him home.

It was a stupid incident, as stupid and senseless as all of these school incidents are. Luckily, this time only the "shooter" was injured and thankfully, their injuries aren't life threatening. It touched me today. It was too close to home. Just as close if not closer than when Trayvon Martin was killed last year. If I could pull him out of there I would, but where would I send him?

Rounding out the year always causes us in the digital space to reflect on "The Best Ofs"...our best posts, our top trends, etc.

I'm a dad who's got a son who will soon be off to college. As he enters his last lap in high school I'm finding myself talking to him more and more in an attempt to prep him for what lies ahead. So much so I had to stop one day and say,

"Wait a minute! My dad never did this with me."

I talked it over with a friend, a fellow dad and fraternity brother, and his comment was brutal and simple:

"Your dad is old school. They just didn't do that."

Ain't that the truth! The expectation that I would just "get it" because he did, because he was a product of the Great Depression and the Civil Rights. Succeeding wasn't an option for his generation. If you didn't succeed, you perished. I'm a 2012 Dad. I can't and won't assume that my son knows some of life's greater and/or more subtle lessons without my at least asking if he knows.

I found this infographic published by 7 Epic Days that speaks to how similar and dissimilar dads of today are from our dads and their fathers as well. After you look at it, let me know your thoughts in the comments below.

Modern Day Dads vs. Their 1965 Counterparts

Lat week my teen got into trouble - that kinda trouble that you hear other people's children's parents talking about when they are talking other people's children. We didn't wait for him to come home, we called him out at his school. We, admittedly more his mother than I, let him have it in spectacular, old school fashion. Should he ever have kids he now has a story to officially tell them.

Although I spent the rest of the day fantasizing about putting him out I was surprised when I got in late with my daughter and saw no signs of him having come home to go to practice (his usual routine). I began to wonder, but not fear.

My son is entering hide senior year of high school. This is it! He is in his final stretch. With that said, I am doing my best to empower him financially before he begins to make his journey into adulthood. As you may know, I set up his checking account and experienced a few hiccups shortly thereafter, but eventually I got him (and everyone else) thinking straight. And then the summer came. And then his birthday came.

And then he went crazy.

I was a teen once so I can't say I don't understand, but I didn't have the access to adult playthings that he or any kid does theses days so I don't understand. After his birthday he did an amazing thing: he poured all his gift money and then some money that was meant for him to actually use and went on a five day spending spree that reached nearly $1,000. He was away at the time, of course, safely out of the naysaying reach of mom and dad. The kicker though? When the smoke cleared he didn't have a bag full of goodies. He had only three things, still had $200 in the bank and had the nerve to send me a text asking for $20 via bank transfer so he could buy some food. I laughed, called him to tell him he had some nerve and said no.

It could've been worse I suppose. He could've been using a credit card. That's what I did back in my day.

This is my daughter attending an awards ceremony for a piece of art she created. Bright. Focused. Driven. Poised.



and........this is my son.

When it cones to surprises My father is just as much a Chatty Cathy as my daughter. The difference is my daughter is almost six. My father is pushing eighty.

For Christmas this year he went above and beyond just adding to the check my mother puts in the customary cards she puts in the mail to me. He potentially got me something BIG, not in size but value. And it's value to me could prove to be priceless.

I yelled for him to stop talking and begged him not to send it --- whatever it is. In my head I heard myself saying I don't deserve anything except for that which I earn on my own. My parents have been there for us during the rough patches of our transition out of NYC to ATL so how could I accept anything from them? I simply don't deserve it.

Or do I?

Earlier this week I had an amazing day that included my daughter's first school program. I eventually came home dead tired after leaving straight from the evening program to attend my son's night basketball game at his high school. I was excited about the prospect of putting on the pjs and going to bed at a decent time. But I sat on the couch to talk with my son while he ate a late dinner after his basketball game. I began to daydream of going to bed like a normal human until it became a dream that I woke up from at 1:30am --- fully dressed, with all the lights on and the TV blaring at me...

He could've at least turned the TV off...

Next time I'll put my pjs on first.

---

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A few weeks ago I got a call in the afternoon from my wife. She was enraged. The fact that she was upset wasn't too much of a surprise. As I scrambled to figure out what I did she told me it was our son. Again, I wasn't too surprised. It was the why that made all the difference in the world.

He got picked up for truancy...

Father & Son, Homer & Bart Simpson

This morning during a lighthearted conversation with my teen about kitchen cleanliness my teen told me he didn't have to heed what I had to say.

"I'm not going to be a waiter," he told me.

I urged him to be careful of his words, telling him that once you begin to speak on what you won't do, life will sometimes humble you (slap you) to a place where you wind up doing exactly what you proclaimed you wouldn't.

The boy shot me a casual glance and told me I was old.


I'm the author of DAD: As Easy As A, B, C! - 26 Dos & Don'ts for Fathers. Click here for my story and the origin of Makes Me Wanna Holler. Do you Tweet? Follow EPayneTheDad on Twitter. Live on Facebook? Like Makes Me Wanna Holler on Facebook.

Oh, please!
I can't believe that a year later I'm writing about the same man for the same reasons despite a completely different set of circumstances that produced the same if not worse results. Almost a year and one month to the date, I'm writing once again about LeBron's Teachable Moment.

2010: In plain and full view of anyone who is a fan of the NBA and the owner of a television LeBron James shrank into insignificance during the conference finals with Boston. To my own personal disbelief it seemed as if he decided he couldn't win easily, so he just stopped trying. Right then he stopped being The Man. He stopped being this massive basketball phenom that I admired and had no problem touting to anyone.

Then came The Decision. I was seated at a Mexican restaurant during a visit to Chicago eating dinner with some of my parents' neighbors. I was baffled. Why was the Boys & Girls Club there? Why was it so long? Forget the city of Cleveland, why did he dis' his team and the people he had been working with for 7 years? He didn't dis anyone by leaving, but he dissed everyone based on the way he OPTED to leave. There was so much bad karma kicked up into the air you I swear you could see it.

I remember putting down my chicken quesadilla, sitting back in my chair and thinking to myself, This isn't going to go the way he thinks it will.

Then a week later or whenever it was, I saw him clad in Heat gear, thankfully absent from his jersey was the significant Number 23 replaced with . He was rising up out of the floor on a stage in a space filled with smoke and lights standing alongside D. Wade and Chris Bosh. Then he began to dance... Who dances in a a team uniform...on a stage? Then came the predictions. Each one wild, brazen, uninformed, unproven, angering to everyone who was right there with them (as in the players of the NBA) and angering to all us "average folk" who know you that you have to get somewhere first before you start sharing the rarefied air of the Hall of Famers who were so good they almost don't even seem real anymore (and I'm talking about more than just Jordan).

I remember thinking, What in the hamfat is this?! And several other thoughts crossed my mind that don't need to be shared here. What I will state is that I was upset. Why? Because my son and so many other kids in this world live and breathe their lives through the words, actions and commercials of these so-called, larger than life, clearly overpaid athletes. With the air time these dudes were getting there wasn't anything anyone could say to the contrary to their child that wouldn't prompt that child spitting back that you were a hater. But there was one simple trump card that life had in the deck. One shuffled in amongst the deck of cards stacked full of money, fame, and a PR blitz that has been downright nauseating. I played it last summer:

"Let's see what happens."

Then the season began and I admit to being among the many who reveled in every defeat the Heat suffered, especially at the hands of my Bulls. But I concede, their in-air magnificence was something to behold. I found the post game interviews to be particularly bizarre. No one ever talked about being beat but instead talked about whose fault it was for why they lost and how the losses never mattered. What loss doesn't matter if you can learn from it?! The only one who seemed to speak with any level of transparency was Chris Bosh and for this, I appreciate him. Now back to the other two. D. Wade even went so far as to call attention to how much the world reveled in their defeats. If I made millions I would honestly not give one hot damn what anyone thought of me, just as I do right now making 2 cents on the dollar. The only thing I'd be worried about is winning games. I mean honestly, who cares?

But the regular season is the regular season and they ultimately muscled and defended their way into the Playoffs and started knocking teams out, my poor Bulls included. The Finals were set. They were slated to meet a team I didn't think anyone in the Eastern Conference could beat in the Dallas Mavericks. They had this whole old man work ethic going on, the tortoise and the hare thing happening right there in HD, coming from behind EVERY TIME they played. They seemed to be live by the adage, "the race doesn't go to the strongest or the fastest, but to the one who endures." I began to grin, not as a bandwagoneer, but because what we had on our hands here folks was an epic battle in the making: old world basketball teamwork versus the flash and panache of social media savvy athletic specimens who seriously, seriously, seriously rule the air.

A Tiger Can't Change His Stripes
Jason Terry talks a lot of trash, but he backs it up. Jason Terry also seems to understand some basic truths that gave much fuel to his fire. Namely, a tiger can't change his stripes. The photo included in this post is the same one I put up last year when LBJ was with the Cavs. Why should I put a current photo up? He's the same man, the same player, the same poor loser. Narcissistic, mentally delicate despite how athletically blessed he is, shook in the face of disaster and seemingly baffled by losing. For those of you who don't know, shook means fearful. Since we are talking about superheroes let's consider this: most of us who grew up loving Spider-Man of the comic books did so not because he easily laid waste to any and every enemy he's faced, but rather the exact opposite. On one occasion after another Spidey's enemies would get the best of him and beat him within an inch of his life. He suffered a lot of collateral damage along the way as well, but he somehow managed to muster the strength to prevail. At battle's end he'd swing home half naked, his costume in tatters, wearing half a mask and one boot, covered in his own dried blood.

Jordan got dragged off the court a complete and utter mess by teammate Pippen after the performance of a lifetime while suffering through a stomach virus. Dirk played most of the Finals looking like a snot nosed child. Kobe will grow old with arthritic fingers. Even D.Wade refused to be saddled by a busted hip.

If you're trying to shed blood you've got to be willing to bleed in the process. Or, at the very least understand that it might happen along the way.

If you begin to come unglued, then remain unglued once defeat appears to be inevitable, defeat is certain. A true champion is the man or woman who fights against the odds stacked against them: whether that's building a team and snagging your first championship from a mighty franchise or marching into history against the statistical odds of winning six.

LBJ changed teams, put on a nationwide tour, shuffled and danced, and told an entire city a fairytale of what what he would do. Oh yeah, and he dragged D. Wade down with him. Sorry, I like D. Wade. Expressionless and a little defensive when questioned, but he gets down when he has to and I'm so glad he found himself in this series and began to perform like the D. Wade he used to be. But like D. Rose before him in these post season games and Jordan before them all, you can't be a team by yourself. What was to be his ultimate solution proved itself to be his ultimate undoing. I can only imagine how ridiculous he must feel having to sit there during every postgame interview next to a dude he probably has wanted to punch in the face at least once during this whole bizarro soap opera.

Throwing Tomatoes
I'm just a regular guy with a regular life, living it everyday. There's no hate here. I genuinely expected more just as I did last year. Here is a self-proclaimed champion collapsing in on himself before the game is even over and now I've got to explain what's happening to my son and keep him respectful of this man on the TV. Regarding that real, venomous hate spewing from the Midwest, Cleveland needs to move on. Dan Gilbert needs to be a true owner and drop his former player off his radar and definitely out of his Tweets. They can't be mad that they gave one man, honestly, a boy at the time, so much power over them. And wishing bad on another human being brings about its own ill will on the wisher. This may be the reason why Cleveland is the sports town it is, but it's not my place to say. I'm not from there. Regarding LBJ's management of the hate cast his way: it shouldn't even be a conversation. A Tweet, a Facebook status, an email, whatever, is irrelevant (remember what I said about giving one hot damn). Unless it's a hateful reporter and until someone starts throwing beer at you from the stands, man up and ignore it. You chose to dance on this stage. Sometimes you have to dance when they are throwing tomatoes too. These so-called haters don't pay your bills or write your checks just as you don't theirs. A man who aspires to be a Man among men should be able to walk amongst the common man, not call him out on his "commonness" of which he is fully aware.
During my last trip to South Beach I saw more "common folk" than I did residents of Star Island. Everyone dancing out in front of the American Airlines Arena after the Bulls were defeated this year didn't look like they were living celebrity lifestyles.

Addressing the insignificance of the common man's fickle insensitivity to you makes you just as fickle. You also alienate those who support you and those who were barely paying attention to you. At the end of the day you are just one person with 15 minutes of fame. The common man is a fraternity of people who will endure as long as humans walk this Earth.

LeBron only had to go one place for the change that he so desired for The Ring he wants so badly: the man in the mirror. As his desires aren't matching neither his actions nor his outcomes it's pretty easy to assert that something is wrong. Something is missing. Something went left years ago instead of going right and he is living out the consequences now. No matter how much he changes his suits, environments, teams...whatever. The results will always be the same because like the dude who can't find love again and again and again, the problem never was about the females he dated or the city he lived in. LBJ's problem(s), from the obvious to the ones we, the regular people, will never understand (nor should we) will always be the burden of everyone else (right now the Heat's and the City of Miami's) until he learns this. I imagine if this blog still exists in 2012 I will be writing this post again around the exact same time with the exact same picture for the third year in a row. I'll be genuinely surprised if I'm not. Maybe this wouldn't matter so much to me if I wasn't currently neck-deep in one of the biggest fights of my life. One where my faith, hope and optimism are all at stake. I refuse to concede any of them. Maybe I could have just watch these games without introspection if I didn't have someone in my own life who is frighteningly LeBron-like. Maybe none of this would matter at all if i didn't have a son.

Last night James tweeted “The Greater Man upstairs know when it’s my time. Right now isn’t the time,” after the Heat lost Game 6.

As Jason Whitlock and nearly every other person on the planet has said since then, "God doesn’t care about the NBA Finals." What He does care about the condition of your heart and how you use it to march forward through that which opposes you as Dirk, The Jet, J. Kidd and Tyson Chandler did. This way the doors of opportunity won't slam shut on you once they are opened to you.

Parents, husbands, wives, children and dreamers, this has been your Teachable Moment, courtesy of LeBron James.

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.

This morning my 15 y.o. son stayed up with me to watch the lunar eclipse. My wife and daughter slept through a rare spectacle that is scheduled to occur again on 2092. Accepting my own mortality and reflecting on it, I said the following to my son:

"Well, except for maybe your sister, none of us will be around to see the next lunar eclipse unless they figure out a way for people easily live past one hundred."

My son then says, "2092. That's like forty years from now."

I stared into the darkness of my living room waiting, waiting, waiting and waiting.

But there was only silence.

Moments later I spoke. "Shh...I don't think you need to say anything more tonight. God bless your heart."

He says, "Wait, it's only 2010," and begins to laugh. "Leave me alone, it's late."

"Uh huh, instead of Black Ops, maybe I should've gotten you 'Addition and Subtraction' to play on your xBox."

But he did stay up with me. Other than discussing basic math we had a nice time talking while waiting for the moon to disappear.

Have You Subscribed Yet? * Are You On Facebook? * Do You Tweet?

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.

Have You Subscribed Yet? * Are You On Facebook? * Do You Tweet?

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."

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).

I can't count myself as one of the legion of super-knowledgeable sports fans. I don't follow drafts and picks. I can't rattle off rosters, nor do I know any teams salary caps and so on and so forth. For whatever, that's just never been my thing. If I'm not competing I've always had a hard time immersing myself in the life of another athlete.

But that doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan (to my wife's chagrin), and that doesn't mean I don't get excited to see true warriors emerge, be it on a basketball court, tennis court, football field, track or in a swimming pool (sorry Golf, I'm not including you).

I was very excited going into the contest between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Boston Celtics --- a team I've passionately hated since the age of ten. A darling of the Jordan era of the Bulls, there was no way I can ever support them. "It's the principalities of the matter."

Instead of a contest where the supposed warrior god LeBron was expected to move into the next round I perplexedly watched him and his team implode and then appear to be surprised about it. What I was treated to however, was the amazingness that is Rajan Rondo.

"Next year, other teams looking, what it's going to take for him to win a championship, blah, blah, blah." The experts and super fans can argue themselves silly over this. What I will say however is that no man is a team, and no man, no matter how talented should expect things to go their way without effort. Game 5 was an effortless performance by the man dubbed the best basketball player on Earth. Maybe currently, but until Michael Jordan passes on into the next life, LeBron shouldn't be burdened with this mantle. Did he think it was going to fall out of the sky? Did he honestly believe an older, harder team was going to hand it to him? In the end only he knows what was going through his mind and not driving him.

And here's the lesson: talent without effort is nothing. Skill without discipline is wasted skill. The Celtics knew LeBron was better than each of them individually, so as a team, they combined, quadrupled effort and worked harder to defeat him and his Cavs.

For all of you out there with sons who have dreams of being this new Number 23, please instill in them that effort is everything. A hard worker can spot a person more talented than them a mile away and if there is any chink anywhere in their armor, the hardworker will cut that person off at the knees and shove their talent right down their throat --- each and every time.

I'm no Ph.D. is sports. But that's just my two cents.

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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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