Author Archives: Lorne Jaffe

Preventing A Depression Spiral By Taking My Daughter To The Movies

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I hate and fear my birthday. Yes it’s just a day like any other, but it’s one that so clearly marks the passage of time, one that depression sufferers such as myself tend to use to focus more than ever on the “failures” of the past and of time “running out” than on the now. Normally I feel sad on my birthday, distraught that I don’t have the money, the elite job title, the house, and I obsess over my life’s crossroads. What if I accepted the cool girl’s party invitation in junior high school instead of chickening out? What if I’d taken that film publicity job I’d been offered following my junior year internship instead of imagining my parents’ wrath at not completing college (I learned years later that the secretary during my time there became a vice president)? A few blogs ago I wrote about how I especially dreaded my birthday this year because it would be my 40th and how since Elaine would be at work late into the night, I felt intensely apprehensive that I’d spiral into such narcissistic despair that I wouldn’t be able to be there for Sienna, but I never wrote about the day itself and how I met that challenge.

On the morning of my 40th birthday I decided to take my 22-month-old daughter, Sienna, to the movies. I wasn’t sure if 22 months was too young for a child to go to movie theater, but I didn’t care because I knew if I didn’t get out of the apartment, I’d dwell until misery swallowed me. There was, of course, only one movie for us to see (cue Miss Idina Menzel):

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Elaine’s not a big Disney fan, so I saw Frozen alone when it first opened, but since that day Sienna and I have probably watched the ”Let It Go” clip on YouTube about a quadrillion times, so I thought seeing it on the big screen would blow her mind; plus it was the sing-a-long version so I knew if my daughter yelled at the screen or ran around I’d at least be surrounded by similarly frazzled parents with their rambunctious children. In hindsight this was also a massive undertaking since I’m anxious any time I take Sienna outside, always imagining people talking about and judging me for being a stay-at-home dad, but on my birthday, a clear, crisp February morning, I bundled her up, strapped her into her car seat and told her it was adventure time.

As we entered the multiplex Sienna looked around and took in everything, particularly the luminosity of the theater lobby, big white bulbs overhead, red blinking lights announcing theater times. “Lights!” she repeated on a loop. “Lights!”

“LEGO Movie?” a fiftyish man with a bushy red mustache asked when we reached the counter.

“Nope. Frozen,” I said. “Taking my daughter to her first movie.”

“Good choice.” He smiled and gestured towards Sienna who wore her most serious expression. “And in that case we have something special in store for this little cutie. Just head over to the concession stand and let me know she’s a first-timer.”

I did so and after many congratulations, we received a free children’s popcorn. We walked down the hallway and passed a huge cardboard advertisement for Muppets Most Wanted and Sienna quickly ran up and touched Animal’s face. She LOVES Animal, especially his solo during the Muppets’ rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I had to sneak in a quick shot.

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The theater was packed and by “packed” I mean crammed with empty seats. Seems 10:25 AM on a Monday is a perfect time to take your kids to the movies, especially if a film’s been out seemingly forever. I chose an aisle seat behind a wheelchair area giving us plenty of legroom in case Sienna needed to run around. I had no idea what to expect from her. Would the movie’s volume scare her? Would she sit for more than 10 minutes? As I said: adventure time.

I placed her in a seat and made sure I could access everything: popcorn, water, Cheerios, diaper bag, Elmo doll (wish she’d lose that thing! Not an Elmo fan!). Then I had to snap a pic because she looked so darn small and cute and befuddled!

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The lights dimmed and we sat through ads and previews (“GREEN!” Sienna yelled happily whenever a preview card appeared) and then it was magic time.

First a clever, Oscar-nominated Mickey Mouse short in which Mickey, Minnie and the gang break through the screen and into a CGI, 3D world. “MICKEY MOUSE! MICKEY MOUSE!” Sienna announced, pointing at the screen. I told her it was indeed Mickey and ran my fingers through her hair. Then it was time for the main feature.

I don’t know how she did it, but Sienna sat through nearly the entire movie as if she were a film critic (or maybe she’s just like her mom who gets distracted and sucked in by any type of moving image, including commercials—she could be talking to you while walking into a room, but upon noticing the flickering TV, she’s an instant zombie and you actually have to snap your fingers to get her attention. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating…you don’t always have to snap your fingers). Getting back to Sienna, she stood up once and nearly fell through the space between the seat back and cushion, but then she resettled on my lap. She got a little antsy near the end of the film and ran around for maybe 15 minutes, but most of the time she looked like this:

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We sang along to “Want To Build A Snowman?” and she pointed out all sorts of things like “SNOW!” and “HORSE!” and “WOLF!” to which she gave an accompanying, ”A-wooooooo! Wooooo-woooo–wooo!”

And when those opening, almost hypnotic notes of “Let It Go” began she jumped up and squealed, singing along as best as she could and mimicking Queen Elsa’s movements, arms thrust in the air in triumph. I sat there not thinking about my birthday, turning 40 or the past or future, but concentrating only on my daughter, on our special time together.

When the film ended we stayed through the second rendition of “Let It Go” and headed back into the lobby. I thanked everyone for being so kind and then decided I needed to get Sienna a plush Olaf to mark the occasion of her first movie. We drove to 4 stores, but no one had anything Frozen-related leaving me highly disappointed, but Sienna none the wiser. I think I wanted that Olaf doll more for me than for her. I think I wanted it to salute my taking action against my anxiety and depression on a day where they’re often incapacitating. At least I have the pictures and memories.

While seeing the movie with my daughter was incredible, I’d like to say that I was able to completely avoid my usual birthday doldrums, but I can’t. By the time my mother took Sienna and I out to dinner, I felt deflated and downcast. When Elaine came home after I’d put Sienna down for the night, my chest was tight and I felt sad and alone and near tears. She asked me if I’d seen all the hundred+ birthday wishes from people on Facebook, but I hadn’t checked because I knew I’d concentrate more on who DIDN’T wish me a happy birthday than on who DID; just another evil aspect of depression.

But then I recounted the morning: the empty theater; Sienna checking out the ad for the new Muppet flick; our daughter getting that first taste of movie popcorn and, like a pro, grabbing fistfuls without taking her eyes of the screen; Sienna standing on my lap, our arms raised, our voices nearly drowning out Queen Elsa’s. I broke into a grin thinking of how proud I was of Sienna and how happy I am to be a dad and how although I couldn’t completely shut out my demons, I stunted them by taking my daughter to her first movie, and how for a good portion of my 40th birthday I was able to just let it go.

Whit Honea, Author, Nails Parenting in “The Parents’ Phrase Book”

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“If you take one thing from this book, here it is: The secret to successful parenting isn’t money, status, or any other classification that society throws your way. It doesn’t matter whether you are a two-parent family, single, gay, straight, adoptive, foster, or other. All that matters is that you are full of love and respect, and you do your best to share it with those who count on you.” – Whit Honea 

Boy did I need to read that first secret because I constantly criticize myself for lack of money, and as a stay-at-home dad, I often feel like I’m failing my daughter because I don’t have that prestigious job title. But I love my little one and I will keep showering her with that love for the rest of my life.

I wish I had a great anecdote to tell, one that fits perfectly within Mr. Honea’s insightful, wry, poignant and laugh-out-loud catalog of incidents our children will encounter; innocent, yet existential questions they’ll ask us; and general and specific parental duties, but alas, my daughter is only 23 months old and although verbose, she still babbles half the time. That being said, when it’s time I’ll know just where to look: on my bookshelf under “Whit Honea – Genius.”

What Mr. Honea does in The Parents’ Phrase Book is lay out everyday situations while offering advice on how to react, how not to react, what to say, and what not to say all while admitting that we, as parents, are bound to make mistakes, but those mistakes will just make us better parents so long as we allow them too. Mr. Honea advises us to keep a sense of humor (but be stern) even when the kids are painting the walls with ketchup, to always communicate in order to get to the underlying meanings behind a child’s words and to never stop loving. Those are the themes permeating The Parents’ Phrase Book, and as you read it you can feel and imagine Mr. Honea sharing his own experiences, growing as a parent, and wanting to share with us what has worked for him and what hasn’t, and by doing so, by designing the book in such a way that shows us his triumphs and errors, by breaking the book into simple-to-follow chapters such as “Conflict and Bullies” and “Play and Creativity,” he has created a completely universal text, one every parent and parent-to-be should read. To be honest, I’d recommend even non-parents read the book in order to learn how to become better people.

Here’s a short example of how The Parents’ Phrase Book works. Mr. Honea notes something that each parent will face; in this case, let’s use his discussion of religion and politics, a topic a kid might bring up only to leave a parent uttering a Ralph Kramden-esque, “Hamana hamana hamana!” Mr. Honea offers typical phrases and variations we might hear: “What is our religion? Why do you think some politicians are wrong?” He then advises honesty lest we lead the child down a path of criticism and intolerance. He suggests what we should say: “This is what I believe…” and tells us to explain our beliefs and the reasons behind them and should others hold different opinions, allow the child to ask them the same questions. We’re then treated to what not to say along with a variation: “What we believe is right and what they believe is wrong” or “Don’t listen to them” followed by reasoning. “Teaching children that it’s wrong to engage in debate or respectfully listen to all sides is doing them a terrible injustice,” states Mr. Honea. The keys are communication and discourse and trust and love. Always. No matter the situation, keep your mind and your heart open.

Along the the way Mr. Honea offers up beautifully written stories, ones that might even elicit a tear here or there. And a couple of sentences later he might have you cracking up such as when he uses the name “Jimmy” as a generic child stand-in and writes, “First, Jimmy didn’t really do anything. I made him up. I don’t want any letters from Jimmy, his friends, his family, or other concerned citizens. Relax Jimmy.” That one had me rolling.

If there’s one quibble I had with The Parents’ Phrase Book, it’s during the section on school. While Mr. Honea rightfully labels good teachers “superheroes,” he fails to account for bad teachers or worse, teachers with bullying tendencies. Such teachers do exist (trust me, I have a lot of personal experience with this), and often they can lead children to distrust authority figures or even their parents. For example, should a child complain about a teacher showing favorites (or calling a someone a “failure” in front of the class as happened to me in 3rd grade) and their parents do not believe them, it could establish a dangerous precedent along with damaging the child’s psyche. It is my hope that in the next addition of The Parents’ Phrase Book, Mr. Honea addresses this one aspect I felt was missing because it’s an important one, in my opinion.

Regardless, The Parents’ Phrase Book knocks it out of the park, and as my daughter gets older and more and more of these situations arise, I’ll know just where to look for advice.

“Children are amazing,” writes Mr. Honea, “and nothing is ever going to change that. Appreciate everything.”

This parent sure will.

My Coffee With Peter Shankman

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Not the best pic of me, but here’s me talking with Peter Shankman at Dad 2.0

Ok. The title of this blog is a bit misleading. I didn’t have any coffee. Peter (if I can call him Peter – I completely forgot to ask, but I think he’ll be okay with it) did and he did offer me a cup, but I’m not a coffee drinker, so I passed. Plus I was plenty nervous so I think I would have passed on any beverage he offered.

When I spoke with Peter, the final keynote speaker at Dad 2.0 (you can read Michael Moebes’ recap of Peter’s speech here), at the conference, I mentioned that his references to needing to limit technology when it comes to parenting reminded me of Neil Postman, the late father of Media Ecology, creator of the master’s program I attended at NYU, and author of plenty of revered books including the brilliant Amusing Ourselves To Death. When I said this, Peter responded, “You know, so many people say I sound a bit like Neil Postman, but I’ve never read any of his work. Do me a favor, send me a list of books I should read. Better yet, here’s my number and e-mail. Let’s meet up for coffee sometime in NY.”

Stunned, I took the info and wondered if I’d ever do anything with it. I mean, we’re talking about a man who travels the world as a consultant for Fortune 500 companies and government agencies, an author of 3 books, the founder of the Internet sensation, Help A Reporter Out (HARO), not to mention the father of a 9-month-old. Why would he want to spend any of his precious time talking with me?

So I debated and worried and worried and debated and finally about a week and a half after leaving New Orleans, I sent out an e-mail and soon enough we set a date, time and place.

We met at a Starbucks but then quickly went next door to Peter’s apartment building. Peter, looking comfortable in jeans and a blue sweatshirt (thank God I didn’t dress up!) offered me coffee and then immediately began cleaning up bottles and toys and all sorts of kid paraphernalia. I gave him a copy of Amusing Ourselves To Death and he thanked me saying he couldn’t wait to read it. Then he offered me a seat and said, “So what would you like to talk about?”

Beat.

I had no idea. I figured based on our conversation at Dad 2.0 and me giving Peter a copy of Postman’s book that we’d discuss media, but what came out of my mouth was, “How do you deal with failure?”

SIDE NOTE: This is where I’m going to have trouble. I don’t know if it’s because of my depression or my meds or letting things build up so long that they eventually led to a severe nervous breakdown, but my short-term memory isn’t wonderful, so I can’t repeat things verbatim. I’ll paraphrase and write about the conversation’s themes, but I so wish I could write exactly what he said.

Peter talked about how many times he’s failed at business and in life and how each time it happens it angers him and at times he misplaced that anger, though he’s learned no longer to do that. Unlike me who’s crippled by failure, by even the THOUGHT of failure, Peter’s able to learn from his mistakes and move on. Naturally this led to a discussion about fear because I’m so afraid of, well, everything, but especially of failure. Peter, who continued to pick up a stray toy here or there and put it away leading me to think this man is just a dad like any of us dads, talked about how fear helps us learn and move, that when I got up on that stage at Dad 2.0 (and I was touched to know he saw me speak), he knew biologically that my pupils dilated and blood rushed to my legs because it’s a natural fight or flight instinct. He said he needs fear to keep going. That’s why he skydives. He needs to feel that fear and he needs to overcome it. He talked about how fear, if you let it, can imprison you, but it’s not worth it because life is so short. Not trying because you’re afraid makes you a self-fulfilling prophecy (something my therapist’s tried to drill through my skull about a zillion times). I told him how I had to be taken into a back room because I was hysterical after my reading and he said it makes sense, that it was the adrenaline pumping through my body and it needed release.

“But what about everyone else?” I asked. “How do you not worry about what they think of you?”

“What’s the point of worrying about what people who could care less about whether you exist on this planet think? Look, some people think I’m a douche. Sometimes I AM a douche. But who cares? I’m me.” He’s right. So’s my therapist. So’s my wife. So is everyone who’s ever told me this.

I sat curled up in a ball on a chair in Peter Shankman’s living room. Toys littered the floor. A playpen stood in one corner. Every once in awhile Peter’s phone or computer beeped as he got a text or e-mail.

“You’re giving too much power to other people,” he said. “The power needs to come from within. You have to like yourself even if you don’t believe it at first. Eventually you will.” Again echoing my therapist.

We swapped stories about our pasts, our troubles, bullies, depression. Peter was self-deprecating and down-to-earth. His eyes blazed with triumph when he talked about how he’s taken up cross training and iron man to help get the good chemicals flowing in his brain. He urged me to do the same even if it’s just walking on a treadmill at home…just get those good brain chemicals flowing.

He also advised me to start enjoying the little things.

“You see that cat over there?” he said, looking towards a a small white porcelain cat waving at us from the windowsill. “I bought that for 2 bucks in Thailand. It’s supposed to bring good luck. I love that thing. Probably the best thing I ever bought. I just smile and laugh every time I see it.” I thought about an episode of The Amazing Race where teams had to search through hundreds of little waving porcelain cats to find a clue. The little things.

He also said, and this I love, “I don’t understand why people can’t just be nice.” I couldn’t agree more.

That’s something I never expected to hear from a person in his position, someone I imagined to have wealth, fame and power and I said as much. He explained that that’s all an illusion, that if we went outside and asked 30 people who “Peter Shankman” is 30 people would have no idea, that he has no real power to change the world and that he lives comfortably, but he’s no billionaire Wall Street guy and he feels like he doesn’t even belong in their company.

“Look,” he said. “You did something big just by coming here. Plenty of people came up to me at the conference and asked to meet, but you’re one of the few who followed up. That impressed me.”

But did it impress me?

As our time neared an end, Peter brought out this sweet-looking grey-black cat and talked about how much he loves him, how the cat loved him unconditionally and I choked up a bit thinking about my own love of cats, my lost Zeeb who died when he was just 9. Again, the little things. And let’s not forget the big things like our wives and children. We have people who love and depend on us. We have a lot to live for.

I stood up, put on my jacket and Peter walked me to the elevator saying that he’d be more than happy to meet up again. I thanked him profusely and said I’d definitely send him another e-mail.

The elevator door closed and my chest began to hurt. All of a sudden anxiety flooded my body. Or was it anxiety? I thought back to what Peter had said about the adrenaline rush after my reading and how I did something big just by going to meet with him, how it impressed him.

Perhaps I did indeed impress myself as well.

Star Light, Star Bright, I Wish This Moment Not To End Tonight

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Sienna and Daddy sit in star-filled wonder

There are those instants as a parent that you don’t want to end, moments that fill you with such joy that you want to freeze time forever. Tonight I had one of those experiences.

Elaine usually puts Sienna to bed, but she’s been out of commission for the last few days due to a bad back. I’ll be honest and selfish here. I haven’t been happy about it because when my wife takes our daughter into her room for night-night, I feel a bit free. No more watching a near-two-year-old toddler every second making sure she’s not demolishing everything in sight or putting herself in harm’s way; no more inventing new, monotonous games like, “Legs Open! Legs Closed!” (that sounds a lot worse than it is); no more being a slave to a hungry, thirsty, moody, pooping, peeing, destructive, demanding, yet lovable little tyke. Sometimes when Elaine tells Sienna to give Daddy a kiss and closes her bedroom door, I take a deep breath and congratulate myself on not losing my cool at any point during the day. Because you have to. As a stay-at-home parent, sometimes you have to give yourself credit for not jumping out a window.

But then there are those special instances, ones that remind you of the exhilaration of parenting allowing all the day’s stress and your personal battles with depression and anxiety to melt away. The time when your daughter pats the floor and says in a cute, little voice, “Daddy down? Daddy down?” And so you get out of the rocking chair and spread out on the fuzzy carpet as your child adjusts your arms until she’s safely in the crook of your shoulder. Then together you gaze up at the ceiling, at the blue, battery-powered night sky. You count the stars and stare at the moon. Together you listen to the white noise machine, the soft ebb and flow of the surf, the magical singing of humpback whales, the same beautiful melody that weird alien ship demanded in Star Trek IV lest it destroy Earth.

“Those are whales,” you say. “They’re singing to each other.”

“Whale,” she repeats. “Whale whale whale whale!”

Then she returns to babbling in her own language before turning over, her nose right next to yours, a smile on her face.

“Stars. Mommy in morning.”

“That’s right, sweetie,” you say. “You’ll see mommy in the morning. Let’s count the stars again.”

She turns back over and snuggles back into the crook of your shoulder.

“One two three four five six seven eight nine TEN!” she says gaily.

And you smile down there on the floor under a fluorescent blue night sky.

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Your daughter’s not yet two, but she’s growing up so fast. So fast.

Before you gather her in your arms, give her a big kiss goodnight and lay her gently in her crib making sure she feels secure by surrounding her with stuffed monkeys and bears, a smurf, a lion, you look at the projected stars and make a wish. You wish for the moment never to end.

Even though you know it must.

Dealing With Rejection And What Ifs

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I hadn’t seen her in years, this girl, now woman, I’d crushed on from my tweens all through the end of high school. We’re both happily married. We both have beautiful kids. But when I saw her wondrous smile I time-warped back to the 80s, back to when I was 13, back to the roller skating rink with its flashing colored lights and squeaky floor. Duran Duran on the speakers. Back to the day when I asked her out and she said no, a day of such demoralizing rejection that it marked the last time I asked a girl out until my mid-20s, though the development of my gynecomastia played an enormous role as well.

She pointed to my blue t-shirt, the one that boasts the National At-Home Dad Network‘s logo, and congratulated me on my blog, my reading at Dad 2.0, my family, as her children taught Sienna how to color on an IPad. I offered up my usual sheepish thanks. She told me how much she wanted to meet Elaine and called Sienna adorable. And then she put a hand on each side of my face causing the anxiety pains in my chest to surge.

“You look so sad. Don’t look so sad.”

“It’s my perennial look,” I semi-joked.

I’d started halfway between the room and the roller rink, simultaneously Sienna and her kids’ laughter and the bleeps and bloops of ancient arcade games, but now that sting of rejection threatened to suffocate me as my brain screamed WHY NOW?? WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE SAID YES AND CARESSED MY FACE BACK THEN??? and I silently yelled back to JUST SHUT UP FOR ONCE!!

Because I no longer wanted her in any way other than as a friend. I love my wife and my daughter more than anything in this world. But still that haunting pain of repudiation and its buddy, fear. Still the what if scenarios.

What if she’d said yes? Even if we’d only gone on one date, most likely a chaperoned stint to the movies, would my fear of rejection regarding not just females, but of life, have developed into these massive walls that still rebut all compliments and acceptance, but remain tender enough to let the smallest slight or possible abandonment drown me in a monsoon of depression and fear?

I don’t know. I’ll never know. Does it matter?

At 13 I already felt rejected by my father because he favored my sister (as always, I must state that my dad is a totally different person now). I already felt like a failure in school particularly because my 3rd grade teacher called me that to my face. Gynecomastia already held my self-esteem in its powerful grip. Bullies already sensed my fragility. I’d yet to hear from one of my so-called friends that this girl thought everyone in our class was cool except me. My friends had yet to turn against me, but they would in time…twice. I’d yet to be continuously ignored and dismissed by my University of Michigan college housemates because they’d rather binge drink than spend even one night at the movies with me. The letter from the UMich creative writing program thanking, but not thanking me had yet to be opened causing me to act the maudlin cliché, locking myself in my room for hours with Crowded House’s “Don’t Dream It’s Over” on repeat.

So much more rejection to come. So many more un-acted-upon crushes left in my mind’s darkness. So many stories and essays left unsent. So much more outright- and self-torment. My first panic attack awaited me 19 years down the road. My first nervous breakdown a mere months later.

What if?

What if seeing her elicited only pure joy at reuniting with an old friend instead of bringing back decades old sadness leading to a body brimming with anxiety? What if my ears picked up just her sunny voice and our children’s glittering laughter instead of also hearing the echoing squeals of roller skates? What if my 40-year-old self saw just a married woman with two wonderful kids so happy for and proud of me instead of a 12-year-old girl shaking her head?

What if I can rip off these tough scales of negativity, of pessimism, of fear and accept praise. What if I could feel deserving? What would that be like?

Because I really want to know.

And it’s time I do.