Mocha Dad

Being a father is the most rewarding and challenging job a man can have. God blessed me with my first child eight years ago. I was frightened and inexperienced and stumbled through the first few months until I gained my bearings. Since then, my wife, K, and I have had two more children and I can attest that fatherhood has been more rewarding and more challenging than anything that I’ve ever experienced before (other than marriage).

I can remember exactly how I felt on the days of each of my children’s births and I’d like to share those feelings with you:

Nee

One night at dinner, K, told me she had been extremely hungry lately. I didn’t think anything about it until she said, “Maybe it’s because I’m eating for two.” I was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of joy.

I was going to be a dad.

I was the doting husband throughout my wife’s pregnancy. I attended every checkup and birthing class. The pregnancy went fairly smoothly, but we had some complications during the delivery when the umbilical cord wrapped around Nee’s throat. The doctors rushed K into the operating room for an emergency C-Section. I was worried for my wife and baby, but I didn’t allow K to see I was afraid. I just stroked her hair and assured her that everything would be okay.

When Nee was delivered, the nurses rushed her to another operating table to ensure that she was breathing correctly. During the commotion, the OB/GYN failed to find out the baby’s gender. Throughout the pregnancy, our doctor insisted that we were having a boy. She even pulled out an ancient Chinese chart to prove it.

“What is the baby’s gender?” the doctor yelled across the room.

“It’s a girl,” replied a nurse.

“Are you sure?” the doctor demanded. “Because we’re supposed to have a boy.”

“Doc,” I said. “Can you please verify that we have the right baby?” Another woman in the same operating room had delivered a baby (a boy) at the same time. Thoughts of my baby being switched at birth ran through my head.

The doctor and I walked across the room to find my baby. She was wrapped in blankets and had a tiny knit cap on her head. I have to admit that I was not as overwhelmed by fatherly prided as I thought I would be. My newborn daughter looked like a little alien. But it didn’t take long for that little alien to abduct my heart. And today, daddy’s little girl is still the apple of his eye.

*       *       *       *

Nee woke me up eager to give me the cards she made for me. Of the several she gave me, one touched me the most. On the outside of the card, Nee drew a cat and wrote the words: Have a PURIFFIC Father’s Day. On the inside she wrote, “OUTSTANDING! You’re the best father!”

*        *       *       *

N

Every father longs for a son and I was blessed with my first son in 2003. To avoid the operating room confusion with our daughter’s birth, we decided to learn the gender of this child in advance (my wife also wanted to know what color to paint the nursery).

I remember sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for the results of the ultrasound. N was being quite active (a trait he still maintains) and the technician was having a hard time capturing a suitable image. The suspense was driving me crazy. Just as I was about to grab the instrument out of her hand and operate the ultrasound machine myself, the technician finally turned the screen around and said, “Congratulations, you’re having a boy.”

“Yes!” I yelled and gave my wife a big hug (she rebuffed my high five).

On the day of my son’s birth, I sat next to the operating table holding my wife’s hand as the doctors worked. Within a few minutes, the doctor handed me my son. He had a head full of thick, curly hair. His hair was so pretty that I had to check to make sure that he was actually a boy.

Over the past five years, I’ve discovered that he is all boy. He likes to run, play in the dirt, and wrestle with me. He is also very outgoing and popular with the girls. But most of all, he is my son and I will love him forever.

*       *       *       *

At church, N made me a Father’s Day card. He made a paper tie and pasted it to the front. Inside, was this poem:

His prickly face rubs mine each day.

His hands hold mine to pray.

His strong arms hug me and hold me high.

He lets me sit in his lap when I cry.

His ears listen when I have something to say.

His legs run fast when we play.

His fingers can tickle and make me wiggle.

He can make silly faces so I will giggle.

I love my daddy, and he loves me.

I’m glad he’s part of my family.

*       *       *       *

X

When my wife informed me that she was pregnant with our third child, I was apprehensive. Aside from the increased financial responsibility, I would be responsible for guiding two African-American boys into manhood, and that scared me. But when I held my beautiful son for the first time, I could hear God whispering all is well. Immediately, my fear turned to joy.

In the past year, my son has developed into a rascal who keeps me on my toes. However, he knows that he only has to say “Dada” in his cute, little baby voice and everything is right in my world.

*       *       *       *

Father’s Day vignette

Here is a conversation Nee and N had this morning:

Nee: We have to make Daddy breakfast in bed

N: No, we can’t

Nee: Why not?

N: Because breakfast in bed is only for ladies.

Stay Strong,

Mocha Dad

I’d like to acknowledge all of the real fathers who are caring for their children spiritually, emotionally, and financially. Happy Father’s Day!

Tags: baby, birth, dad, father's day, newborn, pregnancy, pregnant, ultrasound

As I’ve mentioned before, I do most of the cooking in my household. Every evening, I rush home to prepare a hot, nutritious meal for my family. The other night, I prepared some broiled chicken with a lemon glaze. I was quite proud of my dish because it was quick and easy to make. The aromas from the oven let me know that I had made a winner.

When my 8-year old daughter, Nee, bit into her piece of chicken, she screamed, “THIS CHICKEN TASTES TERRIBLE!”

I was flabbergasted.

“What’s wrong with the chicken,” I asked. I grabbed her chicken and took a bite. I discovered that her piece of chicken had some lemon zest on it and had a acquired a bitter taste. I removed the zest and told her to try it again. Reluctantly, she took a bite and deemed that it was suitable for human consumption.

I’m glad that I have thick skin or else my children’s blunt honesty would crush my spirit. However, I know that others are more sensitive than I am so I planned to teach Nee about sparing other people’s feeling.

At bedtime, I sat on her bed and asked, “How would you feel if you drew me a picture and said ‘Here Daddy. I drew this picture for you’ and I said ‘This picture is terrible’ when I looked at it?”

“I would feel really bad if you did that,” she responded.

“Well I felt really bad when you yelled, ‘This chicken tastes terrible,’” I said. “Do you want to make Daddy feel bad?”

“No,” she said demurely. “But daddy…”

“Yes, darling.”

“The chicken REALLY did taste terrible.”

Stay Strong,

Mocha Dad

P.S. – My 5-year old son was watching TV with my wife when an anti-wrinkle cream commercial came on. He turned to her and said, “Mommy, you need some of that.” I’m going to miss my son.

Tags: anti-wrinkle cream, chicken, cook, daughter, dinner, father, Fatherhood Friday, son

When summer rolls around it’s time for family vacations. My wife, K, and I have written about our ordeal…I mean vacation. K’s accounts are in regular type and mine are italicized.

*        *        *        *

A vacation at the beach. It sounded like the perfect antidote to a stressful spring. I spent hours – first badgering Mocha Dad about where and when we were going and searching Vacation Rentals by Owner for the perfect beach house.

The house had to meet some criteria that I call the 4 Cs: close to home (Mocha Dad didn’t want to drive very far), clean, comfortable and close to the beach. After several days of intense searching, I found an affordable, second row beach house in Surfside, TX.

A week after school ended, we loaded the family in the minivan and officially began our summer vacation.

Day 1

The drive to Surfside was less than two hours long so we didn’t have to contend with the kids’ constantly asking “Are we there yet?” As I drove, I could feel the tension start to melt away. I was excited about getting a few days of rest and relaxation, but my excitement started to wane a bit as we drove closer to our destination. Driving into Surfside, you get a lovely view of chemical plants that line the highway. I work in the hydrocarbon industry so the existence of plants doesn’t bother me; however, chemical plants near a beach town seemed a bit incongruous. Looking at K’s face, I could tell she felt the same way.

When we arrived at the beach house, we were greeted by a swarmed of mosquitoes. This unpleasant surprise was my second indication that this wasn’t going to be the idyllic retreat I had envisioned. By the time we climbed the stairs to the door, we were smacking ourselves and each other to kill the bugs devouring us. Things didn’t get much better inside where there were more bugs to greet/eat us. I think I killed 12 in our son, N’s room alone.

Once I covered everyone from head to toe in bug repellent (the owner had advised that we bring it, but he didn’t say we’d be eaten alive if we didn’t!), we decided to explore. Our next unfortunate discovery was that our 1-year old son, X, now hates the beach. While the sand was tolerable for digging, putting his feet in it was a whole different matter. He seems to have a problem with textures.

And the water? Forget about it. He wasn’t going anywhere near it, and he didn’t want me to either. “No, no, no,” X screamed as I attempted to place him in the cool gulf water. Meanwhile, Mocha Dad, Nee, and N were having a blast running up and down the beach, wading into the water (still wearing street clothes) and searching for shells. My attempts to join them were met with blood curdling screeches from X.

Although X was a beach hater, the older kids loved the beach. Despite the blight that surrounds the town, Surfside has nice beaches. The sand is pillowy soft and the water is clear with a bluish tint. As we waded through the water, I noticed a few crabs. Nee didn’t want to look at them because she was afraid they would pinch her toes. After N spied the crabs, he asked if we could catch them and have them and make Crabby Patties.

We spent about 45 minutes hanging out on the beach before getting cleaned up for dinner. After we ate at a Texas institution, Luby’s, we returned to the beach to experience “night beach.” The kids we excited to be playing on the beach at a time when they would usually be sleeping. Some of the neighbors were having a bonfire which fascinated N. I received several “What would happen if…” questions relating to fire on the beach.

Back at the beach house, I grabbed the hose to wash off the sand from our bodies. I noticed the pungent odor of dead fish as we washed. I quickly realized that the odor was coming from the water.

Since everyone was still covered in sand, Mocha Dad started running bathwater for X and N.

“K,” Mocha Dad called from the downstairs bathroom. “I think this is showering water, not bathing water.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I responded.

“It’s brown,” he said with disgust.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. It’s brown.” Sure enough it was. And so X’s next screaming fit began as Mocha Dad tried to give him his first shower.

I had purposefully selected a three bedroom house so the older kids could share a room and allow X to have the other. Unfortunately, the house’s extreme utilitarian design meant that there was no room for X’s playpen in either of the tiny upstairs bedrooms. We settled on placing X in the upstairs bathroom, but quickly regretted our decision. [When K placed X in the playpen, he looked around at the bathroom fixtures and gave her a “You gotta be kidding me” look.] He cried for an hour and a half. When we couldn’t take it anymore, we moved him into the master bedroom while Mocha Dad and I each stretched out on a futon in the living room.

Around 3 a.m., I was awakened by some strange lights flashing in the living room. Hoping this was not a Close Encounter of the Third Kind, I looked out the window to see what was going on. I spotted two police cars parked on the street in front of our beach house. One of the officers was standing in the middle of the street with a K-9. My protector instinct kicked in and I started thinking about packing it up and going home. I watched the scene for the next hour to make sure that there was no imminent danger. All of the commotion seemed to stem from the red house across the street. When we drove into the neighborhood, I noticed the red house was filled with college-aged men and women. I figured they might be instrumental in ruining my family vacation. More about them later.

Day 2

I like to think I’m one of those people who if the world gives them lemons, they make lemonade. But when Nee, N and X woke me up before 6:30 a.m. the next morning and my back was aching from the futon’s pancake thin mattress, I was ready to pull the plug on this family vacation.

However, we had already paid, so we weathered through. Things did improve. Nee and N got to have great quality time with their dad: they rode the waves in his arms [Nee told me that she was glad that I was in the water with them because Mommy wouldn’t allow them to go out so far], played tag on the beach, and built sandcastles.

As we strolled along the beach, Nee stepped into each of my footprints, “Daddy, I’m walking in your footsteps,” she said. This was one of those surreal moments when the impact of being a father hits you like a sack of bricks.

Later that night, after we got the kids to bed, K and I were relaxing in the living room when we saw more flashing lights outside. We peeked through the curtains and noticed two police officers running to the back of the red house. The inhabitants had decided to have another bonfire. Unfortunately, the fire grew out of control and was moving closer to the house. A crew of firefighters soon showed up on the scene and got the fire under control.

After the commotion settled down, K and I relaxed with a glass of wine and movie (BTW – Spiderman 3 is not worth watching at all).

Although X remained in the Master Bedroom, K and I were determined to sleep in a bed. We tip-toed into the room and quietly slid into the bed. Although X woke up early again the next morning, K and I managed to have a restful night of sleep.

Day 3

I got to hang out in the water some with the older kiddos because Mocha Dad kept the surly toddler occupied. We had fun together splashing in the water and playing in the sand. Later in the day, we returned to the beach house to cool off and enjoy Freeze Pops. I loved the view of the Gulf from our deck. God’s creation truly is remarkable.

As the day ended, I took the kids to the beach one last time. The beach had cleared out and the kids and I had free reign. N was thrilled to be able to run barefoot through the sand and Nee worked on a new sandcastle. We still had to be careful of the cars that would drive by periodically (Texas, please ban all motor vehicles on beaches). I sat on the beach listening to the soothing sounds of the waves crashing against the shore while watching God create a gorgeous sunset.

Red House Update: No police today!

Day 4

When we loaded the car for home after three nights at the beach, I was happy for the time we spent together. Unfortunately, my happiness subsided when we picked up our dog, Ginger, from the kennel and she was covered in ticks. A yard treatment, house treatment and dog treatment later and I’m still pulling ticks out of my carpet.

And as a final gift from our beach vacation, Mocha Dad got the first sunburn of his life. His back, head and nose are all peeling! We were so busy slathering on bug spray that he neglected the sunscreen (I now have a greater appreciation for my fair-skinned friends).

All in all, our vacation was not as bad as the Griswold’s but not as good as last year’s vacation to Florida (I didn’t write a post about it, but trust me when I tell you we had a great time).

Stay Strong

Mocha Dad & K

Question: Do you have any interesting family vacation stories?

Tags: beach, beach house, close encounters of the third kind, crabby patties, family, fire, griswold, gulf of mexico, police, summer vacation, surfside, texas, vaction rentals

For Christmas, my 5-year old son, N, received a Lego Coast Guard 4WD & Jet Scooter set. It had been languishing in his closet until he rediscovered it.

“Daddy, Daddy,” he screamed. “Can we build this?” I was a bit reluctant because what he really meant was, “Daddy, will you build this for me while I watch and badger you the whole time?” But his eager little face melted my resolve and I relented.

The 130 Lego pieces were divided into two bags – one for the truck, the other for the trailer and jet scooter (btw – I’m not sure that Coast Guard Seamen use jet skis to protect our waters). Before I could stop him, N had torn open both bags and scattered the contents across the living room floor. As my wife, K, will attest, I lack organizational skills, but I like order when I’m building something. When I was a child, I loved to build model cars. I would sort the pieces into five different piles: body parts, wheels and axles, chassis, interior, and engine parts. I placed them in a semi-circle around myself so I would have easy access to each piece. Here was my opportunity to teach this methodology to my son.

I reviewed the instructions then I asked N to sort the Lego pieces by color and arrange them in the sequence that they would be used. With all of the pieces neatly organized, I began the building process. I’m thankful that Lego didn’t hire the guy who writes the instructions for IKEA furniture or else I would be assembling the toy for the next few weeks.

Everything was going smoothly until N ruined the mood by asking, “When are you going to be done?” I was halfway done with the truck and I was hoping I could complete the entire project without hearing that question.

“Patience, my son,” I answered. “I’ll be done when I’m finished.”

“But when will that be?”

“Instead of asking when I’ll be done, why don’t you assist by assembling the tires?” Carefully placing each tire around its wheel, N made quick work of his task. I took the wheels and installed them on the truck. Part one was finished.

“Can I play with the truck while you finish the rest?” N asked expectantly. Since playing with the truck would keep him occupied while I completed the project, I agreed.

It took me about five more minutes to build the trailer, jet scooter, and outfit the coast guard figure. When I attached the trailer to the truck, N could hardly contain his glee.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he yelped.

“You’re welcome, son,” I said as I gave him a big hug.

For the next hour, N happily played with his newly built Lego set. Unfortunately, his joy was short-lived because his 1-year-old brother, X, immediately dismantled the toy after he woke up from his nap. What was once a cool Lego play set, is now a trail of miscellaneous Lego pieces strewn throughout my house that serve as a reminder of a few precious moments spent bonding with my son.

Stay Strong,

Mocha Dad

Tags: building block, christmas, Coast Guard 4WD & Jet Scooter, dad blogs, daddy, father, Fatherhood Friday, ikea, model car, son, toy, trailer, truck

Where does the time go? It seems that only yesterday my son, N, was a mere infant in my arms. Now he is a preschool graduate.

His school even had a graduation ceremony for all the students who were entering kindergarten next year. I find the notion of a preschool graduation to be a bit silly. It’s not like he spent four years mastering computer science or philosophy. He learned to color, write his name, and play nicely with others. What’s the big deal?

I quickly discovered that it is a big deal – to mothers. My wife, K, was ecstatic that her little boy was graduating from preschool. I managed to tamp down her enthusiasm before she could order fancy invitations or plan a huge graduation soiree. Her excitement waned further when she realized that she had a commitment that conflicted with the ceremony.

I knew that it was up to me to carry the banner in my wife’s absence. Although she was upset that she wouldn’t be there, she intended to make the most of my attendance.

“N’s teacher sent some very detailed instructions,” she said as she handed me a card. “Read that and make sure you follow them to the letter.”

I read the card and wondered if K was playing a trick on me. The card read:
Drop off your student at his/her classroom by 6:40 p.m. We will show a slideshow in the auditorium at 6:30 p.m.

“Is that it?” I asked. “The instructions seem pretty simple to me.” She gave me a glare that she usually reserves for the children when they are misbehaving.

“And by that, I meant ‘Yes, dear,” I responded. I’m no fool.

On the night of the graduation, I rushed home to get N fed and dressed. Searching for his graduation outfit, I discovered a suit that I bought him last Christmas.

“Put this on,” I said and went to my bedroom to change clothes. When N came into the room, he was beaming with joy. He always wants to wear a suit so he can look like Daddy. Unfortunately, the suit was too big and engulfed his tiny frame.

“That’s not going to work,” I told him. His smile turned sour. “Don’t look so sad. Daddy will find you a something to wear that will make you the best looking boy at the graduation.”

We finally settled on his Easter outfit – a trouser and vest combination purchased by his grandparents. I grabbed a tie to complete his look.

“I don’t want to wear a tie,” he complained.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I just don’t want to.”

“What’s the reason?”

He looked down at his feet and then replied. “Because all of the other boys will laugh at me.”

“But Daddy’s wearing a tie and no one is laughing at him,” I said. “Don’t you want to be cool like Daddy?”

He thought about it for a minute and then smiled. “Okay, I’ll wear a tie, but I want the red one because the striped one looks funny.”

“Okay. Wear the read one,” I said. “Now put on your shoes so we can go.”

“Do I get to wear my tap dance shoes?” he asked.

“What tap dance shoes?”

“You know,” he said. “The black shoes you bought me.”

“Those aren’t tap dance shoes,” I corrected. “Those are dress shoes, but feel free to tap dance in them if you’d like.”

After we were dressed, I drove us to the school and delivered N to his classroom at precisely 6:25 p.m. (that’s for K’s benefit). On each student’s desk sat a graduation cap made out of construction paper. N raced inside to try on his cap.

With N in his teacher’s custody, I went to the auditorium to watch the slide show. I was disappointed to see only four photos of N during the 30 minute presentation. K pre-ordered the DVD. I knew she would be disappointed too.

At 7 p.m., the kids marched into the auditorium and were ushered to their seats. The school’s director said a few words and then started calling each class to the stage. Although there were about 12 classes, the process moved quickly.

As the children traipsed across the stage, I noticed some of the mothers were weeping (see earlier point about being a big deal for moms). Several of the dads were down front jockeying for camera and camcorder positions. When N’s class was called to the stage, I jumped into the fray.

N walked across the stage with an air of confidence. Since I was his only family member in attendance, I couldn’t match the whoops and hollers that some of the other kids received. I doubt that my modest applause was noticed by anyone. Regardless, I was proud of my son’s accomplishment. I’m glad that I was there to support him.

The ceremony concluded with the children singing their school song followed immediately by a reception. N and I grabbed some cookies and punch and headed home.

N couldn’t wait to show his mother his diploma which read:

This certifies that N has completed the preschool course of study at Wee Wuns Weekday Ministries and is therefore entitled to this Preschool Diploma. Given on this date: May 27, 2009.

K studied the diploma carefully and begged for a summary of the ceremony.

“The director called N’s class to the stage,” I said. “Then each student walked across to receive his or her diploma.”

“No, no,” she demanded. “I need details.”

“I gave you all the details,” I said. “That’s all that happened. It’s a preschool graduation not a college commencement.” I got the look again.

Luckily, N saved me from imminent death. He placed his cap on his head, grabbed his diploma and proudly stated. “Now I’m ready for college.” K and I laughed.

“Let’s just prepare for kindergarten right now,” I said.

It won’t be too long before he will be going off to college, getting married, moving away, and having a family of his own. But for now, he is my preschool graduate and I will savor this moment in time.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

P.S. – I’d love to hear about your preschool graduation experiences.

Tags: ceremony, college, graduation, preschool

Walking through my old neighborhood, I noticed one of my old friends, Vando, walking toward me.

“What’s up, man,” he said as we shook hands. A few years had passed since I had seen Vando, but his weathered face made it seem as if it were decades.

“Nothing much,” I replied. “What’s been up with you?”

“Same ole, same ole,” he said. “Just trying to survive.” I knew all about his means of survival. Petty theft, pimping, and drug trafficking kept his pockets full of cash.

While we reminisced, I learned the fates of some of the neighborhood boys we grew up with. The ones who weren’t dead or in jail were quickly on their way towards one or the other. Only a few of us managed to slip through the cracks.

Since we last saw each other, I had graduated from college, got married, had kids and moved to the burbs. Vando, on the other had lived in the same house and hung out on the same corners that we did as teenagers. As I gazed into Vando’s dark eyes, the world I worked so hard to forget became real to me again, and I began to see traces of my former self in Vando’s weary face.

Before meeting Vando, books were my escape, taking me to places that transcended the poverty, squalor, and despair that surrounded me. Through my books, I could be an astonaut, detective, or brave knight. But the life Vando introduced me to proved to be more alluring than my pristine fantasies. Our escapades were filled with excitement and danger. We mostly engaged in typical juvenille deliquent activities such as shoplifting, vandalizing, or fighting with other boys. But one day, things took a turn for the worse.

Vando and I were loitering on a corner when he noticed a girl walking by. His demeanor turned grim, his body grew tense. Suddenly, he broke a huge branch from a tree, ran to the girl and started beating her. Tears mixed with blood poured from her face as Vando pummelled her – each blow producing a sickening whap against her flesh.

Afraid Vando would kill the girl, I grabbed the branch causing Vando to glare at me with rabid eyes. I was frightened, but I held on refusing to allow him to beat that girl anymore.

“Let’s get outta here,” he said after several minutes. Vando dropped the branch and we ran to his house narrowly escaping some men who were chasing us.

Once we were safely inside, Vando told his grandmother, “If someone knocks on the door, don’t answer it.” The gentle woman nodded quietly and continued watching television as if she had experienced this situation before. Vando and I ran to his bedroom and crouched in the darkness without uttering a word. We sat for about twenty minutes before we were startled by police officers’ banging on the front door.

“Just chill out,” Vando said coolly. “Don’t say nothin’ and they’ll leave.”

After a few minutes, they did leave. When they were gone, I turned to Vando and asked, “What’s wrong with you man? Why’d you beat up that girl?”

“She lied on me. She got what she deserved.”

I wanted to tell Vando that no one deserved such brutal treatment; that he was a cold, heartless animal. However, I said nothing because I didn’t want Vando to think I was soft.

After that night I avoided Vando as much as possible. Whenever he asked me to hang out with him, I always gave him ane excuse. He eventually got the message and left me alone.

With Vando, I was able to tap into the raw masculinity that boys long for. But I was misguided as many young males are. I thought that Vando was teaching me how to to be a man. All he was teaching me was how to be a criminal. That’s why it is so important for fathers to be involved in their sons’ lives. As much as my mother tried to teach me how to be a man, her gender prevented her lessons from sticking. Sons need fathers.

I realize that my sons will most likely encounter Vandos in their lives.  It is up to me to provide them with an authentic version of manhood so they will not be enticed by this pale imitation. I must teach them to balance their need to be rough, rugged and raw, with the ability to be caring and respectful. My example will be their sword and shield in the battle for their hearts and minds.

I think I may be on the right track. The other night, my 5-year-old son, N, said, “My dad is the best man I know.” If he can still say this 20 years from now, then I know that I will have been successful in my role as a father.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Questions:  How is your son learning to be a man? What is your daughter learning about authentic manhood?

Tags: father, john eldridge, manhood, peer pressure, son, wild at heart

My daughter, Nee, is such a sweet little girl: pretty, smart, and well-mannered. She is also painfully shy and finds it difficult to make friends. That’s why it breaks my heart that most of her “friends” have turned out to be mean girls.

One day Nee and her friends are all happily playing Ring-Around-The-Rosey. The next day, her friends go out of their way to make Nee’s life miserable. Some of the girls spew venomous verbal attacks, others make her feel invisible, and a few of the little witches physically assault her. Because of her timid nature, I know that Nee has done nothing to provoke such evil behavior, but the mean girls insist on crushing my daughter’s self-esteem.

Did I mention that my daughter is only in second grade? At a Christian private school.

When I was in grade school, I witnessed girls treat each other horribly. They spread nasty rumors, stole each others’ boyfriends, and had awful cat fights. My friends and I were amused by their ridiculous behavior, and would often instigate confrontations. But when your daughter is the victim, mean girls aren’t so funny anymore.

Nee’s “friends” have driven her to tears on more occasions than I care to count. Every time I see her cry, I want to injure the miscreants who caused my precious daughter so much pain. No 8-year-old should have to deal with this type of mental anguish.

My wife and I have decided to transfer my daughter to another school, not because of the mean girls, but for several other reasons. However, I’m glad that Nee won’t have to endure another year of misery at the hands of her “friends.” But you can’t escape mean girls. They’re everywhere – lurking on the playground, sitting in the lunchroom, even in Sunday School classes at church. I’m at a loss on what to do to prevent a new set of mean girls from hurting my daughter.

Therefore, I need your help. Can you please tell me why girls/women are so mean to one another? If I knew the cause of this behavior, maybe I could help Nee cope with the girls at her school.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Tags: bully, daughter, father, internet, mean girls, school

In 2006, The Washington Post published an op-ed essay by writer Joy Jones with the provocative headline “Marriage Is for White People.” The headline didn’t reflect Jones’ views; it repeated what one of her students told her when she taught a career exploration class for a predominantly black group of sixth-graders.

If you look at the statistics on marriage, you’d be inclined to agree. While 62 percent of white adults and 60 percent of Latino adults are married, only 41 percent of black adults are. Even worse, more than 70 percent of African American children are born outside of marriage.

The familial structure in the African American community has been severely damaged. It has gotten to the point that a mother is considered essential in a family, but a father is optional or expendable. I have several friends and family members who are parents and are either divorced or have never been married. It breaks my heart every time one of my single friends shares the good news of her pregnancy with me. While I want to be happy for her, all I can think about is the difficulties she will face as a single parent and the struggles the child will have without a father present.

Life without two parents in the household is tough. My parents divorced when I was young and my mother struggled to raise my sister and me by herself. However, my mother always taught us that marriage was a worthy pursuit even if hers didn’t work out. She proved her point by remarrying when I was a teenager and has been married ever since.

I have since realized that my mother was right. According to a 2002 study sponsored by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, married men and women tend to have lower mortality, less risky behavior, more monitoring of health, more compliance with medical regimens, higher sexual frequency, more satisfaction with their sexual lives, more savings and higher wages.

These facts have encouraged people like Maryann Reid, organizer of Marry Your Baby Daddy Day, to make marriage more common in the black community and throughout America.

“Most of our couples [getting married] are Black, because it is our community that has the highest out of wedlock rate of all groups,” Reid said. “However, the crippling family structure in this country is just not a Black issue, but a national one.”

While it true that the institution of marriage is under severe stress, I can emphatically say that marriage is not for white people. It’s for all people. I represent the 41% of black Americans who are married. My wife and I have enjoyed nearly 12 years of matrimony. And there are many more happily married couples just like us.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Tags: african american, black, Marriage, wedding

My five-year-old son, N, is so inquisitive. He bombards me with a constant barrage of questions when we’re riding in the car. If not for Google, my son might think I’m an idiot. As it stands, he thinks I’m the most brilliant man alive. However, he does come up with some questions that even the search giant can’t answer.

These are his “what would happen if” scenarios. Some are quite innocuous such as “What would happen if I ran really fast?” Others are rather absurd such as “What would happen if the letter Y came alive?” Nevertheless, I’m constantly amazed by how his brain works. Maybe he will be an artist, engineer, or even a mad scientist. By the nature of his questions, I’m leaning towards the latter.

Here are a few more of N’s famous “What Would Happen If” questions:

• What would happen if we had lips on our feet?
• What would happen if a car jumped on a ramp and got stuck in the clouds?
• What would happen if a giant knife came out of the sky and cut the street into little pieces?
• What would happen if bugs turned into giants?
• What would happen if it snowed in our attic?
• What would happen if a stranger came in our house and started eating all of our food?
• What would happen if it rained everyday of our lives?
• What would happen if we didn’t eat cows?
• What would happen if everybody had ten eyes?
• What would happen if cars would fly?
• What would happen if Batman lived in his Batmobile?
• What would happen if I you were my little boy?
• What would happen if God lived on Earth with us?

If you know the answers to these questions, please let me know because I’m stumped.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

P.S. – This is the first, in what I expect to be many, “What Would Happen If” posts.

Tags: batman, batmobile, God, google

My wife, K, and I had to have a talk about alcohol with our 8-year-old daughter, Nee. We realized that Nee was quite naïve about the topic after she attended a wedding reception. While waiting in line to get some hors d’oeuvres, Nee noticed another line and asked K what the people were waiting for.

“They’re waiting for drinks,” K said offhandedly.

“That sure is a long line for juice,” Nee replied. K chuckled and told her that they weren’t waiting for juice. They were waiting for alcoholic beverages. Nee looked confused, but didn’t press the issue until a few days later.

“Mommy,” Nee asked. “What’s a Hinke?”

“A what?”

“You, know. A Hinke? The thing Amanda’s husband was drinking.”

“Oh, you mean a Heineken. It’s a type of beer.”

“Like root beer?

“No, not like root beer. It’s alcoholic.”

“Root beer is alcoholic? But N loves root beer.”

“Root beer is not alcoholic. Beer is alcoholic. Beer is a something adults drink.”

“Isn’t alcohol bad for you?”

“Yes, it’s bad for you if you drink large amounts.”

“Wine has alcohol in it, right?

“Yes.”

“Daddy drinks wine every night?”

“He only drinks one glass.”

“But isn’t it bad for him?” K was a bit stumped, but tried to explain that a little alcohol is good for your heart. Nee wasn’t buying it, though. I had some explaining to do.

“Daddy drinks wine at night because it helps me to stay healthy,” I said. “But drinking too much wine is bad.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because it can make you drunk?”

“What is drunk?”

“Drunk is when you drink too much alcohol and you can’t control your actions,” I said. “I promise you that Daddy won’t get drunk.”

“Good.”

I realized that this was an excellent teaching moment because Nee is starting public school next year after three years at a private, Christian school.

“At your new school,” I said. “Some of the kids may tell you stories about their parents being drunk. Some of the kids may even tell you about they drink beer and other types of alcohol.”

“Kids can’t drink alcohol.”

“I know,” I said. “But some kids do and they might try to get you to drink also.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I want you to tell them ‘no’ if they ask you to drink.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t drink alcohol until you’re 21. That’s the law.”

“But people break the law all the time.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t want you to break the law. Okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she said. My 5-year-old son, N, was also listening and had to interject.

“If they try to get me to drink some alcohol, I’ll just smash their glass and punch them in the nose,” he said.

“Saying ‘no’ will suffice,” I said.

I never thought that I would have to have this conversation with an 8-year-old, but I have a duty to prepare her to handle difficult situations. Her tenure at her private, Christian school may have helped to develop her character, but they have also sheltered her from many real-life situations. It’s up to K and me to fill in these gaps regardless of how uncomfortable the topics are to discuss.

But we can’t always control how our children interpret our words. Here is a conversation that Nee had with one of her classmates:

Nee: I went to this wedding and the grown-ups were doing something with alcohol so the children had to go to another room.
Classmate: (Pious silence).

Eighteen can’t get here fast enough.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Question: How have you handled difficult conversations with your children?

Tags: alcohol, christian school, daughter, drinking, parents, wedding reception

Here is a Mother’s Day poem that I wrote for my mother:

For Momma

For Momma’s eyes when they made me behave
In a way words never could.
For Momma’s hands that could rub the hurt
From my heart.
For Momma’s heart, loving me
Unconditionally, covering
Me in a warm glow that said everything
Would be all right even if she did have
To catch the bus in the rain and
Couldn’t afford to buy me a
Car when I turned sixteen.
For Momma’s dignity
Raising me above filthy streets.
Teaching me about manhood
With no man around, and respect
For myself
And life (respect
For her is implied).
Prison wardens
Don’t make gumbo as good as Momma’s
And it’s always too
Cold at the morgue.
Momma taught
Me that,
And about God.
Her faith inspired me to
Seek salvation,
But I can’t imagine heaven being
Much better than falling asleep
With Momma stroking my hair.
For Momma, the queen of my heart
Apple of my eye, soul to soul we are one.
If I could only be half the man
You taught me be.
If I could only love like you love
With all my heart/body/soul.
If I could only touch others
The way you touched me
And appreciate life the way you do
Then I could finally make you proud
That I am your son.

I love, Mom
Mocha Dad

Tags: gumbo, momma, mother's day, poem

Last week my wife, K, and son, N, went shopping for Mother’s Day cards. While K searched for the perfect cards for her mother, godmother, and sister, N decided to browse further down the rack. A few minutes later, N returned looking confused.

“Mommy?” he asked handing her a card featuring a picture of a dead clown. “What’s this?” K shooed him away while she continued browsing.

“Mommy, why is that dog smoking?” N said bringing her the card with a nicotine addicted canine.

“N, go look at the kiddy cards,” she said, pointing toward the cards with Lightning McQueen, Buzz Lightyear, and other child-friendly characters near the end of the aisle. She made a mental note to never go card shopping with the boy again.

A few moments later, K was startled by N’s yelling again. “Mommy! Mommy! Come here. You’ve got to see this.”

“Wait a second, N. I’m almost done,” K said, but N was insistent. He approached and handed her a copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. On the cover, the string bikini-clad model was pulling down her bikini bottom.

K was horrified. “Put that back!” she screamed.

“Why is she dressed like that, Mommy?” N asked. “Look at what she’s doing to her bottom.”

“Just put it down and come here.”

K grabbed her greeting cards and hurried to the cashier. In the the car, K caught a glimpse of N’s crestfallen face in the rearview mirror and instantly regretted her knee-jerk reaction. She turned to N and told him, “I’m not upset with you. Sometimes people do inappropriate things and wear inappropriate things on magazines. They show their personal private business when they shouldn’t. We just don’t look at those magazines.”

“I was just looking at Barack Obama when I saw it,” N said. K gave him a smirk of disbelief.

“No, really, Mommy. I was looking at Barack Obama. He was on the book next to the magazine.” K shrugged. Maybe the boy was being honest. He is 5, not 15 after all.

Happy Mother’s Day.
Mocha Dad

P.S. – I love you, K.

Tags: barack obama, mother's day, sports illustrated, swimsuit

Like many dads, I am the designated family photographer. My former profession as a photographer may have something to do with that. Nevertheless, I take my job quite seriously. Photographs capture moments in time and I want to preserve those memories in the best way possible. It takes no great powers or magic to reproduce somebody’s face in a photograph. The magic is in seeing people in new ways.

It took several years for me to learn how to take magical portraits, but I’d like to reduce your learning curve by sharing the following 12 tips that will help you improve your photography immediately.

Operating the Camera:

• Read the instruction manual. Whether you have a simple point-and-shoot or a fancy SLR, take the time to learn your camera’s settings and how it operates. Dads, I know that doing is like asking for instructions, but it will save you time and embarrassment. I can’t count the times that I’ve seen people miss crucial shots because they didn’t have their cameras set properly.

• Use the right shooting mode. Here are a couple of simple rules to remember:  (1) Use Aperture Priority mode outdoors – This mode allows you to experiment with different depth of field effects that can dramatically improve the appearance of your images. (2) Use Shutter Priority mode indoors – This mode allows you to capture very natural-looking images, instead of photos with bright faces and very dark backgrounds. I recommend trying both modes with and without your flash enabled, and 1/30 sec or 1/60 sec are good starting points to use for your shutter speed. These modes will improve your photography and give you more control, but if you don’t want to think about your pictures this much, just turn your dial to Program mode and let the camera do all of the thing for you.

• Use the proper ISO level. Remember buying film and you had to choose between 100, 200, 400 or 800? You have the same decisions to make on your digital camera. I’ll keep it simple: (1) If you’re outside on a sunny day and everyone is standing perfect still, use ISO 100 or 200. (2) If you’re inside or you’re capturing action or movement, use ISO 400 or higher.

• Use your flash. Disclaimer: I hate flash (washed out faces, red eye, etc), but it can be useful when the lighting isn’t perfect. Using a flash will help to prevent the raccoon eyes (dark shadows in eye sockets) when you’re shooting outdoors on sunny days. When using your flash indoors, cover the flash with translucent item to soften the light. If you have an adjustable flash, bounce the light off a white ceiling or wall.

Photo Quality

• Move closer to your subject. Many people stand too far away from their subjects and then wonder why the people in the picture look so small. Get close enough so that your subjects’ faces adequately fill the frame.

• Look for natural expressions. Don’t tell people to say cheese unless you’re actually taking about cheese. Stiff poses and fake smiles ruin photos. Allow people to be themselves. If your kids want to make goofy faces, let them. Take photos when people are not expecting to be photographed. But most importantly, be an observer. You will develop an eye for unique photo opportunities.

• Pay attention to composition. Most snap shooters have a tendency to place their subjects dead smack in the middle of the viewfinder. Take a few seconds to move your camera an inch in any direction to make the composition more interesting. Also, pay attention to the background. You don’t want to have a pole sticking out of grandma’s head.

• Use a Tripod or Monopod. Have you ever taken a great shot and wondered why it was blurry or out of focus? Lighting conditions, lens speed, and imperceptible hand movements all work together to cause a condition called camera shake. Using a tripod or monopod will keep your camera steady. If you don’t have a tripod, find something to brace yourself against, such as a wall or tree. Also keep your legs spaced about shoulder width apart with your elbows tucked in.

Getting Involved in the Pictures

• Be fair and balanced. I have enough photos of my daughter, Nee, to fill a wing in the Smithsonian. The photos of my son, N, could probably fill a small art museum. Photos of my third child, X, will fill a nice photo album. All parents are super shooters when their first child is born, but the excitement wanes as more children arrive. Do your best to keep your passion for photography as your family grows. Take lots of pictures of all of your kids.

• Do something with your pictures. Print them, make slideshows, use them in scrapbooks, publish a photo book, enter contests just don’t let them die a slow death in your camera or computer.

• Get in the picture. I wrote an article for an insert that was published in newspapers around the country. Right before going to press, the editor asked me to send a recent photograph. I quickly realized that I have very few photos of myself. Dads, I know many of you have the same problem. If you look at many of your family photos, you’d think your wife was a single mother. Correct this problem by using your camera’s self-timer. Place your camera on a tripod, set the timer and join your family in a spontaneous portrait. Here’s another thought: Let someone else be in charge of the camera sometimes.

• Have a professional family portrait made. If you’re married, I don’t really have to tell you this because your wife will drag you to the portrait studio at least once. The thought of having a family portrait made may be excruciating, but you will appreciate the effort when you look at the beautiful portrait hanging above your mantel. You’ll get extra points if you suggest this idea to your wife.

If you follow these simple tips, you will see a vast improvement in your photography skills. Remember: Cameras don’t take great pictures. People do.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Tags: camera, dad, family, father, photo, picture, portrait

Fatherhood Friday is both a day and a growing community of dads and moms sharing stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood. In a world that seems happy to deliver a message that dads are incapable buffoons, Dad Blogs is committed to changing that perception. The reality is, as we see it, parents today are more aware of parenting and the impact it has on their children and dads everywhere are becoming more active caregivers. If you don’t believe me–check out the posts in our archives.

For the week’s Fatherhood Friday, I’m issuing a challenge to my buds at Dad Blogs, and anyone else who is up to it. Below are a few words from of my daughter’s second grade spelling test. Write a paragraph using each word (extra points for using them in the order they are listed):

• Remember
• Finding
• Chicken
• Upon
• Blind
• Quest
• Candy
• Kindness

I’ll begin the challenge with my feeble attempt:

I remember the summer my sister and I kept finding animals in our backyard. First there was a cat. We called it Binky. Then we discovered a turtle whose shell was cracked. The last animal we encountered was a chicken. Upon its head, someone had written the word ‘blind.’ It became our quest to locate the chicken’s owner. It took three days, but we finally reunited the blind chicken with its owner. The man was so happy that he gave us some candy and thanked us for our kindness.

If you can write a better paragraph, let’s see it. I’ve thrown down the gauntlet. Since these are her spelling words, Nee will select the best paragraph (so keep it clean, folks). I’ll reveal the winner on Dad Blogs.

Note #1: I blatantly stole this idea from Dirt & Noise so visit her blog and show her some love.

Note #2: Nee spelled all of her words correctly and aced the exam.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Tags: blind, candy, chicken, dad blogs, daughter, Fatherhood Friday, quest, spelling

Okay. I did it.

I went camping. Not the air conditioned cabin type of camping. I’m talking about the sleeping on the ground in a tent kind of camping. I know you’re surprised. So am I. But when my five year old son, N, looked at me with those big brown eyes and begged to go camping, how could I resist?

I blame my nephew, Alex, for planting this seed in N’s head. For the past two years he has regaled N with tales of camping with his Cub Scout troop. It didn’t help that N’s grandfather was the one who accompanied Alex each year.

Each time they went, N would beg me to go, too. I always used the excuse that he was too young, but when I saw the Father/Son camping trip flyer at church, I knew I had run out of excuses. So I talked with a few of the other men at church, and we all agreed to take our boys camping. I couldn’t wait to share the news with N.

“N,” I said. “Guess what?” Looking at me quizzically, he replied, “What?”

“Daddy’s taking you camping.”

“Really,” he said through a huge smile.

“And guess what else?”

“What?” he yelled. The anticipation was too much for him.

“Mister Man and The Boy are going too.” (Note: Mister Man is N’s godfather).

“They are,” he said. “Yay!!!”

N’s euphoria was short-lived as the reality of the camping trip started to sink in.

“Will there be wild animals there?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes, there will be wild animals” I said. “We’re going to the woods. That’s where they live.”

He sat quietly for a few minutes before responding. “Are we bringing a gun?”

“Why on earth would we bring a gun?”

“To shoot the wild animals,” he said. “You know…the bears and lions.”

“We won’t need a gun because there will be no bears or lions. Only a few raccoons, elk, deer, and maybe some snakes.” As the word snake escaped my lips, I wanted to stuff it back into my mouth. N’s face turned grim and his eyes grew wide.

“Don’t worry,” I said to reassure him. “The snakes will not bother us because they are afraid of us. Besides, Daddy will be there to protect you.” I guess my words gave him some comfort because his excitement returned. For the next few days, N told everyone he knew about the camping trip. In fact, he would tell total strangers about it.

As excited as N was about the trip, I think my wife, K, was even more so. As I mentioned earlier, my nephew had been camping a couple of times already. That nephew is my wife’s sister’s son. So they spent countless hours discussing what supplies I needed for the trip. To place this in the proper perspective, you have to understand my sister-in-law. She should have written the Scout’s motto, “Be Prepared.” Whenever Alex goes camping with Paw-Paw, the truck looks like a delivery vehicle for Patagonia.

The more K pressed, the more I resisted. I refused to be a pawn in her game, but she refused to be ignored. Each day she would volunteer to shop for our supplies. I kindly refused. She asked to pack our bags. I declined. She even offered to carry us both on her back all the way to the campsite. I thought about it for a minute, and then decided against that too.

N and I went to the sporting goods store and purchased the following items:

• Tent and tent stakes
• Flashlights (LED lights work great)
• Pocket Knife
• Leatherman tool
• Sleeping bags
• Pillows and blankets
• Slingshot
• Rain gear
• Fishing equipment

That was all that we needed to have a pleasant camping experience. If K and her sister had their way, I would have needed a caravan of pack mules to carry all of the gear.

The next day, Mister Man and The Boy came by to pick up N and me. We loaded the truck and an hour and a half north to Centerville, TX. As you can imagine, the boys inundated us with “Are we there yets?”

We reached the campground around 6pm. By the time we arrived, several of the guys from our group had already set up their tents. I unloaded our gear and proceeded to set up camp. As I stood there staring at a box of tent pieces, a couple of guys noticed my ineptitude and offered to help. Within minutes, my tent was up. Before I could appreciate our handiwork, I heard N crying in the distance. I turned to see a boy leading him towards me. The boy explained that one of the older boys elbowed N in the eye while they were playing football. I thanked the boy for his help and instructed N to stay with me until dinner time.

After he settled down, he asked me if we could go fishing. Once again my inexperience would be exposed. Although I had gone fishing many times, I never had to prepare for fishing. Most of my fishing trips occurred at my company’s lodge where guides handed me a fishing pole, baited my lines, guided me to the best spots in the stocked pond, and cleaned, gutted and bagged the fish for me.

“We’ll go fishing after dinner,” I told him. That gave me at least 30 minutes to become an expert fisherman.

We chowed down on Texas style BBQ. As we ate, more campers showed up. I noticed that one of the guys was struggling with his tent. I tossed my plate away and went to help him. After all, I was now a skilled tent-pitcher. As we talked, I discovered that he was a fisherman and he agreed to show me how to rig my rod since I had helped with his tent. He taught me all about sinkers, floaters, lures, bait, and how to tie the proper knot on your hook. I thanked him and prepared to impress N with my new found knowledge.

I beckoned N back to the tent and he eagerly ran toward me tripping over one of the tent stakes in the process. He got a pretty nasty scrape on his leg. Luckily, one of the other dads had a first aid kit (like the one K suggested I purchase) and I was able to clean and bandage N’s wound. Things weren’t starting off well for N. Unfortunately they got worse before they got better. We went fishing and didn’t catch a single thing. N was disappointed. So was I. It was getting close to 9pm so we decided to settle in for the night.

N and I held the flashlight to our faces and told scary stories. After one particularly scary story, N asked me not to make my stories so scary. Just a little scary. I complied. An hour later, we were both exhausted and decided to go to sleep. I had to run off a few of the older boys who decided that it would be a good idea to play football around our tent at 10pm.

After I tucked N into his sleeping bag, he turned to me and asked, “Will any snakes come into our tents tonight?”

“No snakes will visit us tonight,” I reassured him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, N,” I said. “I’m sure.” With that, he turned over and fell asleep.

Around 11pm, I heard the wind howling through the woods. At first, I ignored it, but after 45 minutes, it grew more intense. A few minutes later the rain began. It started as a gentle drizzle, then progressed into a torrential downpour. For the next 6 hours, we were inundated with stormy weather.

N hates stormy weather and becomes frightened when it rains too hard. I was worried that he would become hysterical. He did better than I expected. Maybe he was comforted by the fact that his daddy was there to protect him.

I maintained a brave facade, but I was worried that the tent would not weather the strong wind and pelting rain. For obvious reasons I did not get very much rest. Even if it weren’t storming, I doubt that I would have slept because sleeping on the ground is incredibly uncomfortable (Note to self: bring an air mattress next time).

The storm finally passed around 6am and N had managed to get a few hours of sleep. When I woke him up for “Morning Wrestle,” he seemed well rested. I’m glad to say that my tent stayed up and did not have any leakage. Many of the other campers didn’t fare as well. Mister Man and The Boy were completely soaked.

After cleaning up and drying off, we all had some breakfast tacos and coffee. N wanted to go fishing again so we grabbed our poles and headed to the lake for the next several hours. As we fished, I was awestruck by the beauty of my surroundings. I took in God’s masterpiece with all of my senses. At that moment, I realized how important it was for me to share an appreciation for nature with my son. Many kids, especially African-Americans, don’t get this opportunity. I intended to make the most of it. I taught him the names of the fish that lived in the lake, bass and crappie. I pointed out the longhorns that were grazing across in the field. I even told him about the water moccasins that slithered around the campsite. His face was filled with awe and wonder and I knew that these were moments that he would always remember.

We didn’t catch any fish, but N did learn how to bait his hook and cast. Besides, I doubt that catching a fish could have made the interaction between us any richer.

I’m thankful to have gone on this camping trip. It allowed me to bond with my son, learn a few things about myself, and marvel at the wonder of nature. I can’t wait to go again next year.

Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad

Tags: bbq, camp, centerville, dear mister man, fishing, patagonia, rain, texas