I just love this gorgeously animated open letter to JJ Abrams, about how to make Star Wars great again, produced by a bunch of local PDX creatives called Sincerely Truman. As the father to two young boys who are, inevitably, spiraling deeper into the depths of Star Wars love and knowledge, I hope JJ is able to do something really special.
Super well done, guys.
This is a warning cloaked in a love letter. Our shot over the bow aimed at Disney and the team behind the upcoming Star Wars films. This is our chance to redeem Star Wars. JJ Abrams, please don’t mess this up.
Voice your support at www.dearjjabrams.com
Five years ago, today, I witnesses you enter the world.
And I cried.
Oh, how I cried. Sobbed, really.
Not because I was sad, or scared, or confused, but because you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life and I had no other way of expressing it. You were the special project that Mama and I had worked on together, finally here, and I knew my life would never be the same.
I was right.
That day I gave you your first bath, holding your tiny, wiggly body so, so carefully. That moment was so special to me, because I wanted to show you right from the start of your life that your Dada was someone who you could always trust to hold you safely — that even when you were sad, or scared, or confused, Dada would always be there to hold you. I washed away the gunk from your hair and your body — babies are born pretty slimy! — and marveled at how you could have my nose and Mama’s chin, and yet look so much like a combination of my dear Nana and a crusty sailor. You were full of delightful surprises from the start.
Two weeks ago, today, you started preschool. And this time I held your hand as we walked into your classroom for the first time. After you waved out the Goodbye Window to your little brother and me as we walked away, do you know what happened? We got in the car, and Dada cried again. Just a little.
Again, it was not because I was sad, or scared, or confused. I cried because I was so proud of you and the way you bravely took on this new adventure. I cried because I have been such a lucky Dada to get to spend so much time with you. And yeah, I cried because I am going to miss you.
But mostly I cried because that’s what parents do, it turns out.
I love the little man that you are growing up to be, Tucker.
I love the way you laugh and smile, your joy bubbling forth with such force that you positively dance as you talk about the things that excite you.
I love how you love to learn new things, and how your questions upon question reveal what a thoughtful and reflective kid you are. Oh Lord may that love of learning never cease.
I love the way you dote on your little brother, and the way you strive to be a good example for him. Oh Lord may that never end either.
I love the way you leap into my arms, and let me hold you, like it’s the safest place in the world, where all your cares and worries and fears can be washed away for a time.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
It’s amazing to think I’ve known Jodie Howerton and her husband Mike for almost 9 years now. Mike was one of the pastors on staff at my wife’s church when we first met, did part of our premarital counselling, baptized me and dedicated our firstborn son. Over the years we loved getting to know them and their family better; carving pumpkins in their living room, and even crashing their Easter dinner when we were back in town one year. I was also honored to work with Mike on producing artwork for several Christmas services, one of which was turned into a book. They’re a very special family to us.
I could not be prouder of Jodie’s latest project, where she and the family are courageously taking on how public education handles teaching our children about HIV/AIDS. I’ve asked her if I can share her story, and I hope you will watch the video above, read what she has to say below, and find a way to get involved.
I’m awoken by a little shake of the bed.
Rolling over, a cascading rainbow of plush friends greets me: Eeyore, with his dead eyes. Super Bunny, his mask all askew. Baby Pooh Bear, with his stumpy, useless limbs. And of course, Monkey. Always Monkey. Joining them comes Blanket, draping them all in all his threadbare, velvety glory. Then Coltrane himself arrives at the summit of the mountain he has created beside me, grunting through his pacifier.
“Light gween, Dada. Time up.”
Did you know I make children’s books? I do! And they’re awesome!
Just for my friends and fans and well-wishers, I’m having a huge sale on ALL of my books right now — 25% OFF when you purchase one through CreateSpace.
Just use the discount Code FEV5MFE8 at checkout. Easy-peasy.
Proceeds are going towards defraying the cost of going to the At-Home Dad Convention next month. 🙂
My sons are only 2 years old and 4 years old, respectively. Their knowledge about the difference between men and women is mostly limited to the fact that males have a penis and females don’t (“No, son, those things attached to that cow’s udder are not penises.”) and that babies only grow in women’s bellies. But someday they will be teenagers, and if well-meaning, loving moms on the internet are to believed, they will be at the mercy of random teenage girls who will be posting photos of themselves in all sorts of inappropriate ways. Photos which, apparently, will be permanently burned into my boys’ brains and lead them astray into all sorts of trouble. I certainly don’t disagree that teenage girls (and boys) need to make better choices about what they post online.
But seeing as it’s not my job to raise other people’s kids, I thought maybe I should talk to my own future teenage boys instead, to help avoid the problems that might arise because of the inappropriate postings my teenage sons will inevitably encounter.
Facts are stubborn, but statistics are more pliable.
~ Mark Twain
If you’re an at-home dad like myself, it’s always (well, usually) nice to see the odd piece in the media about what we do. When the goal is to make dad-as-caregiver be seen as a completely normal choice for a family, the more stories about “the rise of the Stay-At-Home Dad” the better, in my opinion. That I, and some of my friends, sometimes get asked to talk to the reporters writing these articles is nice too, I won’t lie. I love that there is a public conversation going on about this, far more than I feel the need to be in the midst of it, but when asked it probably comes as no surprise that I am happy to share my opinions.
It seems like there are others though that are getting tired of all this talk about us stay-at-home dads and our much ballyhooed “rise.”