Busted in the Balcony

Tim Hogan and I messed around a lot in the church balcony during the worship service. We threw paper wads and small paper aircraft during the prayer when most eyes were closed. Made crude noises. Timed each other to see how long we could hold our breath. Drew unflattering pictures of Patty Winder along the margin of the church bulletin. While others prayed, we struggled to suppress our laughter.

One Sunday morning, our suppressed laughter caught the attention of my dad, the Reverend C.P. Tozer, who was in the middle of his homily. Tim and I didn’t notice that the Reverend had stopped preaching and was looking in our direction. Suddenly, there was thunder in the sanctuary.

“You two boys get up and come down here and sit in the front row,” my dad commanded, testing the capacity of the sound system.

My heart shifted into a new gear. As Tim and I made the long march down the back stairs, through the doors of the sanctuary and down the aisle, I knew that life as I had known it was over. This was the dawn of a new era. It was called death.

The church was silent as we neared the front. I could feel every eye boring into my sweating backside as we passed by. When we reached the front and sat down, my dad glared down at us momentarily, cleared his throat and commenced with his message.

I sat there through the rest of the service wondering what would happen when I got home—after the Reverend shed his clerical garb and became dad again. I spied Patty sitting up in the choir loft. As much as I hated that superior smirk on her face, I also envied her. After church, she would run home, eat lunch, go outside and play, watch Lassie on TV, make popcorn during Ed Sullivan, then go to bed with a gentle goodnight kiss from her mom.

I, on the other hand, would never again eat my favorite foods, watch TV or see my parents smile. Oh how I hated Patty. And Lassie. And Tim Hogan! It was all his fault anyway.

After church, I never heard another word about it. I didn’t know my dad could be so cruel.

10 Things Not on My Bucket List

Being inserted into an MRI tube … again

Skydiving

Becoming a spokesman for Comcast

Running in a marathon

Eating oysters

Attending anything that has to do with British royalty

Being an applauder at the NYSE closing bell

Visiting the new sculpture of Rush Limbaugh at the Hall of Famous Missourians at the state Capitol

Learning how to crochet

Traveling thousands of miles to see a likeness of Jesus on toast

Hang on, Dad—It Gets Better

If you’re a young father with adolescent or teenage children, then you are in the midst of the typical headaches and heartaches (oh yes, and the joys) of parenthood. You are trying your best to cope. You are often biting your lip, muttering under your breath, restraining yourself from saying or doing anything that you might regret.

Good luck. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You will regret much of what you do and say. Because you’re human, there will be moments when you let something trip off your tongue that you wish you could take back. You’ll be—and you probably already have been—faced with instances when you took hold of a son or daughter’s arm a little too aggressively, squeezed too hard, maybe gave it an extra tug before you caught yourself and regained composure.

Magic-moment memories

We recall instances when we wish we could go back in time. Today, we have the advantage of hindsight. Reflecting on the past has its upside and its downside. We think back to those magic moments when we connected with our teenagers, when they listened to our advice, when our counsel was actually on target—and everything turned out well. (Ah, we were so wise.) The outcome may have been accidental or due to the grace of a higher power; nonetheless, it felt good when all was right with the world.

Those other memories

We also recall those times when we were not friends with our kids, when we felt unappreciated, taken for granted or simply dismissed. Sometimes we deserved it. (Ah, we were so stupid.) At the time, however, we faced our kids on the battlefield of egos and control. It did not feel good to be disrespected and brushed off. After all, we were dads working hard at being dads. We demanded respect. Looking back, we realize that our teenagers were working just as hard at being teenagers. Sometimes they also felt brushed off and disrespected.

Here’s what we’ve learned, over and over and over. No one talks on a battlefield. There’s just a lot of yelling and hurting.

We share these reflections with young dads to reassure you that, in most cases, you and your kids will come through those turbulent years with a greater appreciation, understanding and, yes, respect for one another. Time finally heals most wounds and shuts the door on the past.  

Some sermons stuck, some stunk

It does an older dad good to hear his son say something that reflects a core value that once was the subject of too many parental sermons. Or to hear his daughter condemn behavior for which she herself was once admonished. We have learned that most—not everything—of what we tried to teach and instill in our kids actually stuck. And we confess that not everything we preached should have stuck. In fact, it stunk.

We are heartened by the fact that our efforts were not in vain, that our harsh words didn’t cut too deeply, that our lack of patience and quick temper were proof that we were simply human beings—not monsters.

Take heart, dad. That day will come.

(From “Dad2Dad,” a column for dads about dads from dads, by Tom Tozer and Bill Black, which appears in several newspapers across Tennessee.)

In Honor of Mom

With all the discussion about the role of Moms and motherhood in this year’s political circus, maybe it’s appropriate that an admiring dad just say it: In my opinion, there is no harder job in the universe than being a caring, nurturing stay-at-home mother.

The ‘Kansas Experiment’

Tom remembers only too well when his daughters were ages 2 and 4, and he tried to fill Mom’s shoes. Let’s be clear up front. (Now we really do sound like politicians!) Tom is not looking for accolades. He walked into the job quite willingly, thinking that this would be a great opportunity to stay home and write while his wife slayed the dragons in the 8 to 5 jungle. It required moving the family from Ohio to Kansas. It meant selling one house and buying another. It necessitated living in a townhouse for a month in a new city surrounded by strangers and anonymity. And yet, Tom was pumped. He looked forward to a new life of independence away from the demands and irritants of traditional office life.

Two-year … sentence?

It must be apparent by now that this was not a two-day or two-week babysitting stint. Tom’s newly found independent life—his Walden Pond existence—would be a two-year run.

Not to seem ungrateful for the opportunity to bond with his daughters, Tom confesses that there were some wonderful moments. However, he has hand-picked the word “moment.” Kansas was a tough, exhausting, maddening, hair-pulling and incredibly eye-opening experience that led to self-discovery and a heap of humility.

No great American novel

It wasn’t too long after settling into their new home that several realizations struck Tom between his dark-encircled eyes. He was not going to get much writing done. Food did not magically appear in the ‘frig. The girls were much too young to cook their own meals. When the younger daughter yelled, “Dad, I’m done!” … it did not mean she was finished coloring and wanted to show him her work of art. Clothes got dirty barely out of the drawer, and the hamper filled up faster than the kitchen sink that finally spilled over because dad was busy collecting green beans off the carpet. (He also discovered pieces of hotdog under the table from two nights ago.)

Ah, the life of a writer.

A grueling gift

Some things transcend politics and egos and posturing and competing for the gold. Being a stay-at-home parent—a Mom in most cases—is a gift beyond measure. But it’s also grueling, mostly lonely and often thankless work. And if Mom has additional roles outside the home, there’s no way to thank her enough.

Dad, you and the kids should try to thank Mom anyway. Thank her for the Mom she was and still is. She will appreciate it. Anyone—male or female—who belittles the role of a stay-at-home Mom has only been a babysitter.

Parting thoughts

Every husband ought to be a full-time Mr. Mom for at least one year. The family finances may take a hit, but the return on time invested will make up for it. Second, parenting should be kept out of politics. And finally, the Tozer girls survived the two years in Kansas, and Tom couldn’t wait to get back to the office! 

(This is an example of the weekly column under the banner “Dad2Dad” that Bill Black and Tom Tozer write for several newspapers in Tennessee. It comes out on Tuesdays in The Daily News Journal. This one will appear May 8. Feel free to visit dnj.com.)