Monday morning I got word that my fiend Tom Roeser had died the day before. In the early 1970′s, when I was eleven or twelve, I read a series of articles in the Sun Times by Mr. Roeser about the Catholic Church, Vatican II, and how most people held misconceptions about both. They were informative, well written, and they had an influence on me. Years later, when I had the good fortune to meet Tom Roeser, I was able to tell him that these articles were one of about a dozen factors in my decision to become a Catholic. He was visibly touched and said that bringing someone to the Faith was the best work a man could do and that he was gratified to know that he had in some small way helped me to find God. That was fifteen years ago, and we have been friends ever since.

Of course, I’ll be going to his funeral. I’ve already written a letter of condolence to his wife. In a few weeks, I will probably have an opportunity to talk to her after mass and I can think of a dozen things to say that will probably make her feel better. I imagine it is a comfort to her to know that many, many people’s lives were touched by Tom and will miss him. He was eighty-two years old, he had enjoyed a good measure of success in his life, he died a loyal Catholic with every expectation of God’s mercy, and so his death is not a tragedy, but rather the inevitable final act of a long life well spent.

Somebody else died early Sunday morning.

Sunday we had gotten a call. A boy had fallen off a building. Police weren’t giving out any details, but someone we knew in the building called to tell us that one of the two people in the building unaccounted for was my son’s friend “D.” It wasn’t until the next day that we got word that, in deed, D. had fallen to his death in what was probably a senseless accident. My son was told that all of D’s friends were going over to be with D’s parents at in their dreadful hour of loss. My son spent the better part of the day there, only coming home late in the evening.

When he got home, my son was plainly worn out, depressed, dragging. Wife-mate gave him some soup and no one spoke. After a few minutes, I mentioned that our friend Mr. Roeser had passed away on Sunday. My son nodded and said, “I’ll have to write Mrs. Roeser a letter.”

“I’ve already written one; you can just add your signature to mine.”

“I’d like to write her a letter, I know what to say to her.”

And we all understood what he meant by that. He meant that he had just spent a whole day with people that will never be consoled, who will never find comfort in his words, whose loss is unspeakable. After that, writing a letter to Mrs. Roeser would not only be easy, it would be a comfort to him.

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Probably fifteen years ago now, this fellow, we’ll call him “Pete,” asked me for a quote on a printing job, his sister’s wedding invitations. He was in the industry, worked for a pre-press shop out-putting film, and he knew me as a client of the shop he worked for. So I gave him the estimate and, seeing at it was for his sister, I gave him the usual 20% discount that people in the trade give each other. The estimate was for about $350. But the job did not come in as quoted. It was larger, more complex, in short it wasn’t the job I quoted on. And it came in at a rush, the invitations needed to go out promptly, so I expedited the job without ever having a chance to talk to him about it not matching the spec’s quoted. And, when it was done, I billed it out for what it was worth, about $600-. His sister picked the job up and thought it was lovely, and I sent the bill on to Pete.

That’s where the trouble began. His take was that the bill was about $250- over estimate, whereas my perspective was that the job was about $250- more work than the job I had quoted on. He put up quite a fuss and, rather than argue, I just told him to pay me what he thought he owed me. He cut me a check and I washed my hands of the matter.

I thought I was through with this, but it was not to be. He was not a person I had to see at work, and so I did not. I avoided him, kept it superficial when I ran into him, and in general just tried to drop it. But then I was at a party, a real nice catered affair, and Pete came up to me and acted like we were still pals. So I told him in no uncertain terms: “You can be my friend, or you can rip me off, but you can’t do both.” He was shocked, he thought the matter was settled. The next week I received a packet in the mail consisting of copies of all the estimates, my final bill, and a letter justifying his conduct. Naturally, there was no mention that the job delivered did not match the specifications of the job quoted.

About six months after that I ran into him again at the Critical Mass bike ride. He tried to ride next to me and I told him to “get lost.” (Actually, I used a more common phrase making vulgar reference to fornication.) He thought his letter had cleared everything up, but I gave him a real reaming, explaining in rather profane terms why he was just dead wrong about this.

Much to my utter surprise, the next week I received a check from him through the mails for the disputed $250-. Wow!

Didn’t see him again until election night. I had done some printing for a lady lawyer who was running for judge and she had invited me to an election night party. Since her husband owned the nicest bistro on the North Side and, as the party was to be held there and, as I had worked all day as a judge of election without a break, I thought I might stop by for a beer and maybe some escargot. But Pete was there. He came right up to me and acted like we were friends again. But I stopped him short: “Remember buddy, I told you that you could be my friend or rip me off, but you couldn’t do both!”

He staggered back, “But I sent you the check!”

“You can’t make me cash it!” I snapped, “I’d rather go on hating you than cash that check!”

Pretty straight-forward deal, wasn’t it? By refusing the $250- I had every right to keep on hating him, didn’t I? He can’t buy back my friendship, can he? No! I have principles. My hatred is worth more to me than venal money.

But really, I had left Christ out of the equation. Whenever we chose not to forgive someone (no matter how “justified” we may feel) we reject Christ’s mercy. Only by forgiving can we have any hope of being forgiven.

It’s a hard teaching, but there it is.

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I usually don’t post videos, but this is a lovely introduction to Chris Hedges, author of “I Don’t Belive In Atheists”

I have read several of his books and recently heard him speak personally. He is a man of great insight and integrity and I cannot reccommend his books too highly.

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Once in a while, something will happen to me that really drives home how we no longer live in a Christian society, or even a society where Christian values predominate.

About six weeks ago a woman opened up a yoga studio on the floor right above my print shop. After a day or so of holding yoga classes, she came down to tell me that the noise from my machinery didn’t really bother her (it is, after all, very low pitched and rhythmic), but that my radio did. And she asked if I could turn the radio off when there were classes in session.

Fine, I’m a nice guy, sure. So for the next four weeks, I would go up to her studio on Monday mornings and get a schedule of the week’s classes so that I could accommodate her. Then, last Monday, I went up for a schedule, and she told me I could look it up on line.

Well, that really frosted me. Here I was trying to accommodate her, by not playing the radio, and she couldn’t be bothered accommodating me by providing me with a schedule.

Now, I can be a touchy guy, and so (just to see if I was looking at things the right way), I asked just about everyone I saw that day (co-workers, clients, my kids, etc.) how they added the situation up.

One person thought my neighbor was just being a jerk, “She should have been bringing you down a schedule without your asking!” But EVERYONE ELSE asked if I had not immediately gone down-stairs and turned on the radio full-blast.

That’s right, no one urged me to do the Christian thing and bear with her. Virtually everyone thought that I should strike back immediately.

Wow!

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Rather surprising that a bourgeois liberal like Penelope Leach would say something so absolutely on the mark:

Why is it socially reprehensible for a man to leave a baby fatherless,but courageous, even admirable, for a woman to have a baby whom she knows will be so?

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On 5 March 2003, I came home and, right after I closed the front door, my Bean-Girl ran up to me stark naked and give me a big hug.

So I ask, “Why are you naked?”

“Because I haven’t got any clothes on!”

You may or may not think this is cute, but I do. After all, she’s my daughter. And you might be wondering how I know exactly what day it happened on. That’s because I wrote it down. In the kitchen, right underneighth a pile of un-read newspapers (mostly the Wanderer) and magazines (Harper’s, Mother Jones) and whatever book I’m reading (Nolte’s Three Faces of Fascism) you will find my current note-book where I write down everything almost as soon as it happens.

On the same page as Bean-Girl’s clever tautology, I have other things she said or did:

• Breakfast 3/7/3: sausage, chocolate crêpes, pickles.
• 3/16/3 calls tortillas “Taco Buns”
• Visit to Nature Museum 4/7/3: “Let’s split up into one group.”

Kids do these things and you are convinced that they are the cleverest, funniest, cutest things ever, and that you will never forget them. But guess what? There are seven days each week, thirty or so days each month, and 365 1/4 days in each year and you do forget them. That is, unless you write them down.

Keep a note-book handy and, if it’s not at hand, write things down on scraps of paper or in your date book. Take a trip to the zoo or someplace interesting? Have them tell you their impressions over dinner and write them down. At the end of the year, I even take an inventory of their favorite things (What’s your favorite movie, book, meal, friend, etc.)

I have four note-books full right now, and another one in use. They are the most precois things I own.

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Is anyone else bothered by the increasing amount of political content on this blog? A quick check on the “About” page shows these to be the purposes of this blog:

• Providing a forum for Catholic Dads to share relevant experiences and insights
• Fostering discussion on issues related to Catholicism and/or fatherhood
• Identifying information resources about being a Catholic father
• Providing a visible presence for Catholic Dads and Catholic Dads members in the larger online community

Nothing there about fiscal policy, war, elections, or how the Israelis are helping out in Haiti while the Arabs aren’t. Since joining this blog two years ago, I have been pretty scrupulous about posting only fatherhood related items and confining my politix to my own blog.

By their very nature, both politics and religion are very divisive. I visit this blog every day hoping to find a group of men than I can agree with on matters of religion, family, and morals, not to be aggravated by my political differences with them. It’s no secret that I’m pretty much a socialist, but first-and-foremost I’m a believing Catholic. The value of this blog is that it is a place where Catholic Dads can share their insights, thoughts, and stories, and this value is degraded when the blog merely becomes a soap-box for political opinion.

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My friend Moira has a new baby and she is feeling rather overwhelmed. Her little boy is fussy, aggressive, restless, and she feels unable to cope. Moira’s even said that “perhaps this motherhood thing isn’t for me.” Naturally, I’ve done my best to reassure her. In point of fact, she’s a fine mother who couldn’t be more loving or attentive to her child. A lot of the problem is that her first child is a boy, and they are routinely more restless than girls. (It is my fondest wish for new mothers to have the girl first, so as to get used to babies in general, and then have the boy and get used to trouble.) But much of the problem is that she feels isolated and alone. Her mom had lousy maternal instincts, most of her friends are still single and none of the others have had any kids yet, and the advice she reads on-line is both dogmatic and contradictory, so she hasn’t much of a support system. Of course, she feels she can count on me, but I’m a Dad and much of what she’s going through are distinctly motherly self-doubts. Perhaps the best thing is that she’s begun making friends with some of the other moms in our parish, and so I see this as a low spot she is going through, rather than a real crisis. (Of course, an extra prayer or two from a Catholic Dad wouldn’t hurt things one bit.)

Now, Moira and I are very close friends but, while he’s a fine fellow and I count him as a friend, her husband and I are not close enough for me to presume to offer him any unsolicited advice. Were he to ask, however, this is what I would say to him, as well as to any other new dad:

1] Your wife feels overburdened. A child is a crushing responsibility and, however much you might feel this, a mother inevitably feels it more strongly. She needs help with the baby but, just as important, she needs to feel she can count on you. Doing a few extra things around the house for her will free up some of her time but, more importantly, the feeling of her burden being lightened will be a spiritual comfort to her.  Make sure she sees you doing more now than you did before!

2] Perhaps without being aware of it, every new mom feels that it’s her duty to be with the baby night and day. But she needs time for herself, time away from the baby, and she probably won’t let herself have this. It’s not enough that you hold the baby so that she can cook or clean, at least once a day you need to take the baby out for a walk, or down to the basement, or just away, so that she can have a break for at least a quarter-hour. (Also, you need alone time with the baby!)

3] Don’t second guess her. Until children can walk, talk, and be faced with moral decisions, their primary care giver is their mother. She’s the one with them all day, she’s the one faced with the decisions, don’t question her choices. Feeding patterns, nap time, bathing schedules are all her domain and let her run it. Babies need nurturing, not discipline, and no one nurtures like a mom. Your judgement and input are really not needed until the child is old enough to throw a tantrum and then it is your duty, not mom’s, to be the heavy.

4] Your wife needs reassurance. She is a wonderful mom. She is doing all the right things, but she feels that things are turning out wrong nonetheless. You can’t tell her often enough that she’s a wonderful mom, that you appreciate all she does, and (of course) that you love her. Father Andrew Greeley (not a man I often agree with) once said: “The best thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.” I believe he is right.

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My son was complaining the other day about the key plot twist in an old episode of Perry Mason that he had seen on TV. The key to the mystery was that there were two guns, the murder weapon and one that was never fired, and that the only witness, a woman, couldn’t tell the difference between the two. Plausible enough, my son thought, except that one was a revolver while the other was an automatic, and so the difference ought to have been immediately apparent to anyone.

“Well, she was a woman,” I countered, “Guns aren’t important to women.”

“Dad! Anyone can tell the difference between a revolver and a gat!”

“Ah, maybe. Say, did you see your girlfriend today?”

“Yeah.”

“Notice what she was wearing?”

“Of course!”

“What color were her shoes?”

“Shoes?” he asked in a tone that indicated he shouldn’t even be expected to know.

I nodded and called his sister into the room. I asked her, “Hey, Bean-Girl, what’s the difference between a revolver and an automatic?”

“Uh — well they’re both guns, right?” When I nodded, she went on, “Does an automatic have more bullets?”

“Something like that,” I changed the subject, “See your friend DeeDee today?”

“I see her on the bus everyday.”

“What color were her shoes?”

“Black Converse high-tops with the white circle on the ankle, why?”

“Well, because Pod-Man knows the difference between an automatic and a revolver, but he doesn’t know what color shoes his girlfriend was wearing today.”

She shook her head, saying to Pod-Man before she left the room, “Guns are stupid; shoes are important.”

So I then told my son always to keep in mind a few lessons:
• People naturally think about and remember what is important to them.
• You need to put some effort into remembering the things that are not important to you because you won’t do it automatically.
• Different things are important to men and women , and you had better figure out what is important to the women in your life.

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‘Your baby is too fat’: Insurer denies baby Alex Lange coverage because of weight

He’s cute and cuddly, but 4-month-old Alex Lange is too chubby for insurance
The Colorado baby has been denied health-care coverage because he tips the scales at 17 pounds and measures 25 inches. “We can’t put him on the Atkins diet or on a treadmill,” said Alex’s father, Bernie Lange, a part-time news anchor for KKCO-TV in Grand Junction, Colo,. Lange and his wife, Kelli, said their insurance shot up 40% when Alex was born. When they went shopping for a better premiums, they shockingly leaned their baby’s size matters. “Your baby is too fat,” the couple was told by an insurance underwriter for Rocky Mountain Health Plans. The blue-eyed tyke weighed 8 1/4 pounds at birth, but he boasts as healthy appetite. “He’s healthy in our eyes,” said Kelli Lange. “It’s like we’re being punished.” The frustrated parents said their child was the odd infant out in a cruel numbers game insurance companies play to determine who they’ll cover. A chart by the Centers for Disease Control used to evaluate potential patients puts Alex in the 99th percentile for weight and height for babies his age. No matter how healthy the infant, most insurers won’t cover any baby above the 95th percentile, said Rocky Mountain Health Plans director Dr. Douglas Speedie. “We do it because everybody else in the industry does it,” Speedie told the Denver Post. The Langes said they’re appealing the insurer’s decision, but don’t plan to curb the diet of a baby they affectionately call their “happy little chunky monkey.” “I’m not going to withhold food to get him down below that number of 95,” Kelli Lange said. “I’m not going to have him screaming because he’s hungry.”

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