When I–and the many talented writers here–embarked on this project, the question was this: would dads be interested in reading/sharing thoughts about fatherhood when they were ‘off the clock.’

The answer is: no.

And I don’t say that in a sad or bitter way. It’s just a fact of modern man. We take care of the kid(s) for a few hours on the weekend or at night and we are exhausted. The last thing we’re going to do is read about fatherhood with our last bits of remaining energy. It explains why there’s an abundance of motherhood blogs (many of them thriving), and so few fatherhood blogs.

Don’t get me wrong: a lot of good has come out of this multi-year experiment. I got to process a lot of feelings (!) leading up to and after the birth of my first child. Better yet, I got to work with amazing writers who I consider talented not only with the written word, but conjuring up something important to say.

I can’t thank enough these proud dads who shared their wry observations:

- Dan Beeby (for content and web-mastery)

- Matt Winkler (for keeping it going as long as it did)

- Mike Rehfus (for some of the funnier posts)

- Matt Ledoux (for getting in trouble with one of his entries)

- Rob Curtis (for gear reviews and support)

- Chris Belden (for being an amazing tiger father writer)

- Brian Hoover (for his astute insights and “being ready”)

by regular contributor Brian Hoover

I got a cryptic e-mail from a college friend the other day saying he wanted to talk. We didn’t really have a talk-on-the-phone kind of friendship, so I wrote him back and told him to give me a call. After catching each other up on our day-to-day stuff, he finally told me why he wanted to get in touch.

As a first-time father of a eighteen-month-old, I’ve been on the advice-seeking end of this kind of conversation more than the advice-dispensing (I can talk a decent game, but I’m as clueless as anyone). But my friend’s question had less to do with any specific act of fatherhood than it did a common but chiefly modern concern: When is the best time to start a family?

Once upon a time, it seems, this question was a nonfactor in our cultural experience. The best time to start a family followed hard upon exchanging vows: You got married, you had kids, you lived in happy pursuit of the American Dream ever after. There are many more paths to parenthood now that we have begun to recognize that the capacity to raise kids does not sit squarely with the white bread nuclear model of generations past.

We have more freedom now to plan our families than we’ve ever had before. With more control over our reproductive destiny, in terms of conception and contraception alike, we can wait until that ultimate state of Readiness arrives. We can wait until we’ve finished that graduate degree, wait until we’ve ditched town for a lawn in the ’burbs. We can wait until our careers are on bedrock and there’s money to burn in the bank. The inclination to say, “We’ll wait to start a family until we’re totally ready” is easy to understand. It’s what my wife and I did; we knew we wanted to expand our family some day, but that some day wasn’t even discussed until we were five years in.

At that point, she and I were 30 and 29, respectively. My wife had finished her master’s and ascended to the chair of her department at school; I had worked my way into the stage actors’ union and had steady income from a variety of performing and teaching gigs. We owned a home—not the house on the cul-de-sac of our wildest fancy, but a decent condo in a respectable school district. We’d scratched out a little bit of a savings, somehow. We were in a good place. We were Ready.

So we decided to go live without a net, so to speak. And it was good. We got pregnancy tests, and when they didn’t show us little blue plusses or whatever they were supposed to do, we kept at it. And it was good. Maybe a little more like work than we’d expected, but good all the same.

All around us, our friends were growing their families. The wedding boom we’d experienced post-college segued into a baby shower boom. We held our old roommates’ infants and imagined what our own would look like, hoping that it would happen for us soon so our kids could all grow up together. Some of our friends were getting pregnant with their seconds, and we remained the couple with the spoiled cat. We started to wonder about ourselves. Was she barren? Was I sterile? Had we screwed up the process by our chemical meddling? Or had we just waited too long after all?

We believed we were Ready, but we hadn’t accounted for difficulties conceiving. We hadn’t accounted for miscarriage once we did conceive. So we took stock, decided to be less aggressive in our pursuit, to let come what may. For every story about the couple who’d gotten pregnant as soon as they’d started trying, there was one about the couple who’d had no luck. Usually, the tales had it, they’d try and try, become stressed and obsessed, and it was only when they eased up or even gave up that they magically conceived. Perhaps that would be our story.

It wasn’t. We fell into a more natural rhythm, and we stayed as childless as we’d always been. We considered getting ourselves tested. We considered alternative fertilization methods, we considered adoption. We considered whether this was all a sign that the Universe had good reason to deprive us of offspring and that we ought not to push it if we had any sense of what was good for us.

When the housing market tanked, we were saddled with a mortgage far in excess of what our condo was worth; our savings meant a lot less in light of that. Acting work was harder to get, and the teaching was starting to wear me down. The future at large started to feel as infertile as the present and so, a bit restless, I applied and was accepted to grad school. It would be a rough couple of years and there would be lots of loans to repay, but we’d survived my wife’s grad days and we’d survive mine. The Readiness of a year or two before had been almost completely compromised, but it was all in the spirit of letting come what may.

We found out we were pregnant just exactly as all this was going on. Obviously.

And so I told my friend, in reply to his question about when’s a good time to start a family, that there is no such earthly thing. You can be Ready, and nature could have other plans. You could be completely Unready, and then it happens. Strike that: No matter when it happens, you will be Unready. The simple fact of the matter is that there is no amount of preparing you can do that will ever adequately equip you for the indescribable extremes of parenting. You are charged with making sure this tiny, helpless thing survives, because without you, it cannot. You love this tiny, helpless thing more than you thought yourself capable, even though it pukes and cries and never lets you get three hours of sleep and lays utter waste to your social life. At 3:30 in the morning, when your infant has a high fever or an erupting incisor, you’re not so much going to care about your 401(k) or how many more payments you have on your Nissan as you will about tending to this tiny, helpless thing so that everybody can get some rest.

Get your ducks in a row, if you like, or don’t—it doesn’t matter. There’s no such thing as the perfect time to start a family. No matter when you decide to start a family, parenthood is going to be the most glorious and god-awful hardest job you’ve ever had, and it will take precedence over everything else. You will do what you have to in order to ensure survival, The End.

I asked my friend on the phone several times, “Am I making any sense?” He assured me I was, but I’m not sure I agree. I talked in circles for forty minutes and I couldn’t seem to put my finger on the right thing to tell him about when to have a family. Frankly, I was worried that I was scaring the shit out of him.

When I told my wife later on about the conversation, she was able to distill it in a way that I couldn’t. “The only requirement for starting a family,” she said, “is wanting to have a family. Everything else will work itself out.”  She didn’t mean that you’ll have to do nothing. No, sir. But if you want to have a family, have a family. There will always be challenges—financial, reproductive, you name it—and you will have a lot of figuring to do along the way.

Just know that Ready is a myth.

I was hanging out with an old friend the other day—someone I’ve known long before I was ever a dad—and she paid me a rather nice compliment. She said matter-of-factly: “Fatherhood suits you.”

At the time, I thought, “That’s nice.” But as the days went by, that simple compliment really got me thinking. About what it means to be a dad. About what a huge responsibility it is. And that it appears I’m doing a good job of it, or that it seems to come naturally? That’s just icing on the cake.

So from this perspective, a week after hearing that friend say “Fatherhood suits you”, I’ve realized it was the highest compliment I have ever received.

If you noticed we haven’t had many posts of BoF lately, well then God bless you for noticing.

It’s been quiet in these parts because of one thing: work.

All of us know that when you have a kid, everything changes. Your tolerance for fecal matter. Your (lack of) sleep schedule. And for many of us, our approach to work.

Over the years, I’ve certainly applied myself at work, but usually skated out relatively on time in the evenings: preferring to work efficiently rather than log a sh*tload of hours to prove a point. But recently, I’ve been pouring myself into my work. Which seems at odds with having a family at home who could use my help/presence. I’m not avoiding them, it’s just that I feel a new responsibility to excel at work as I have a very cute new dependent at home.

If it were just me and my wife, I might not be applying myself so diligently. I can always find a new job and not sweat the month or two without income. But with junior in the picture, any loss of income (even a month’s worth), cuts into his “college fund” (should college even be an option in 18 years).

So here at work I sit. Getting here so early in the morning, I’m the one turning off the security alarm. Leaving so late on my bike that there’s little traffic on the streets of Manhattan. Which means some days I don’t get to see my son awake at all—just getting one little peek at night to see him sleeping.

That can’t be right, can it? Spending all my time at work to protect my job because of the little guy, but then missing out on seeing him? This has required me to find balance, to be firm with my coworkers about when they can expect me to be present, and when they cannot. Boundaries are tough to set, because you don’t want to upset your employer.

Striking that balance is, you guessed it, hard work.

What did you guys go through involving work after your baby was born?

My great grandfather built a vacation home in 1912, and having taken my son there this past week, it is now five generations old. The place is on a lake in northern Michigan. Nothing fancy, just a simple structure that a district superintendent of schools in Chicago could make (plus the help of a local handyman).

It was bittersweet bringing my son here, because it was my father’s favorite place in the world—unfortunately, he passed away before my brother and I had children of our own. My father would’ve loved to see his grandchildren playing in the water.

My son Soren got “baptized” in the rather cold water. And that’s the perfect term, because the place is holy to me. At just three months old, he’s already been anointed into a family tradition.

In 2012, the house (named “Chez Nous”) will be 100 years old. I hope in roughly 30 more years that my son introduces his child to this sacred place. Because it’s not the view or the structure, it’s the fact that at least something in this world can be consistent in the midst of so much change. And that the generations who came before us can live on.

Last night, I tried to summarize the concept of parenthood to some single people. It went like this:

Having a kid is just like inviting a little freeloader into your house. He doesn’t pay any rent. He doesn’t buy any groceries. He doesn’t clean anything. Just the opposite, all he does is make things dirty. He poops in his clothes. He eats almost all the time he’s not sleeping. And cries in between. He really doesn’t even recognize your existence–even after everything you’ve done for him. And you have to keep reminding yourself: ‘I was the one who invited him in.’

But then around the 10 week mark he looks at you. Really looks at you. Not at a space two inches above your head. Not at the twirling fan on the ceiling. But at you. Then he smiles. And that “freeloader” analogy is totally blown away.

Since when did I become an all-too-proud, all-too-annoying facebook father? Apparently today.

Even with all the fb privacy concerns, I continue to upload cuter-than-balls pictures of my kid, all while knowing I run the very real risk of someday seeing his image used in an advertisement. And guess who would benefit? Facebook Stock Images, Inc. and certainly not me.

So while it’s possible that I’ll see his picture in an ad for “KutKo’s Fast ‘n’ E-Z Home Vasectomy Kit”, I continue to post them? Why? Because I’m proud of the little guy. And I grow even more pleased/proud when people reply, “ooh, ahh, so cute!”—the number of comments in direct proportion to how cute the posted pic is.

Yes I have become a cliché: the cheesy parent who posts pics of their kid thinking others will find him as cute as I do. But not only am I a cliché, I’m also a hypocrite: because I find it somewhat irritating to see other people posting pictures of their kids. Showoffs.

Here’s a surefire way to gain a boatload of admiration for women in two “easy” steps:

• Get a woman pregnant (perhaps even your wife)
• Watch that woman give birth

And partners, I’m not talking about just “being present” at the birth. I’m talking about being down by the magic place and full-on watching the miracle of the birth—from “the crowning moment” to the placenta’s world premiere.

Who the hell ever said the female was the “weaker sex”? That’s not a rhetorical question: seriously, who said it? I researched the phrase to no avail. It’s one of those mystical “quotes” that people rail against that were never really uttered. However, they do say that if men had to give birth, the race would be extinct. Ain’t that the truth? I can’t imagine doing what my wife did that day. And she did it without drugs. Twelve hours of contractions and three hours of pushing. I’ve never heard such screaming. And she never once fell back on those clichéd TV moments: like swearing at me for getting her into this mess in the first place.

What if…wait for it…what if the justice system made anyone convicted of a crime against a woman watch the birthing process first-hand? Wouldn’t that change around his perceptions and maybe even get him to gain crazy respect for that gender? Just a thought.

Watching a woman give birth almost makes me want to accept the concept of women’s tees on the golf course.

Almost.

And I don’t even golf.

Gents, did your appreciation of ‘the weaker sex’ skyrocket exponentially on your baby’s birthday?

We make so much of the baby’s firsts. First sneeze, smile, word, step. First everything.

But what about a parent’s firsts, specifically a dad’s?

I went on my first post-baby business trip this week, and it was hell. The travel wasn’t delayed nor difficult, the accomodations were fine, and the work was rather productive. It was hell because I was away from my family for the first time overnight. Sure I had a nice dinner and had a fine hotel bed, but that was about it.

There were no interruptions in my sleep, no looking over at the baby in the middle of the night to make sure he was still breathing. No sunrise diaper blowouts to change. I thought I’d love that break, but it turns out I really missed these things.

And if one night was hard, I can’t imagine a week of them away will be like (which is what happens next week when they visit my mother-in-law).

I’m sure I’ll have a few fun nights out, maybe experience what it’s like to have a hangover again (after so many months of reduced drinking). And I know I will someday soon be grateful for a few days of quiet. But I have to say, I’m glad that I miss them as much as I do.

–Sappy-ass dad out.

What did you do on your first night away from family? Get arrested? Go bar-hopping? Fall asleep early?

Could Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” be the ultimate father & son story?

I’m not necessarily talking about the movie version (which was “Meh +”). I’m talking about the full-on depressing book version.

Some would point to biblical stories as being more intense (Abraham sacrificing Isaac anyone?). But for my money, the end-of-the-world survival tale of “The Road” wins every time.

I’ll even go so far as to say it’s required reading for fathers new and old. Why? Because it distills the essence of what it means to love and protect someone. It prepares you for the concept of giving everything you have so that your child might live a better life than you did.

But why is it a story specific only to fathers and sons? That’s a good question. Swap the boy with a girl, and you’d still have a similar story of survival. But there’s just something different about that version—can you explain it for me?

As for us dads in the here and now? We can only deal in the hypothetical: what would we do in this kind of situation? How long would we survive? Would we be able to protect our children from dangers great and small (from cannibals to insect bites)? Until a crappy Roland Emmerich movie comes true (2012, Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow), we’ll be sitting on our asses pondering these questions as our kids fetch us beers.