Tag Archives: Family

Depression And The Path Not Taken

Posted on by

I nearly had a massive panic attack upon viewing Ava DuVernay’s Selma last week, but it’s not for reasons you might think. It wasn’t DuVernay’s masterful direction especially during the “Bloody Sunday” sequence or David Oyelowo’s gripping portrayal of Martin Luther King, Jr. or the film’s heady and timely content. It was a name that scrolled by during the credits, a simple name that squeezed out my breath sending me stumbling out of the darkened theater and into 1995, the year of my biggest regret.

The name, let’s call her “Joan Morrison,” appeared next to the title “Unit Publicist.” Back in 1995 Joan was a secretary at a publicity firm at which I interned leading to the ONLY positive work experience in my life. Unlike other companies, this particular firm rewarded its interns for their hard work with knowledge and professional benefits. I’d sit for days happily stuffing envelopes until my hands blackened with ink because I knew that around the corner something special would happen – working a press junket for a film and learning exactly how they worked; getting to sit next to Steve Buscemi at lunch and talking to him about his then upcoming directorial debut; working the red carpet for a film’s premiere; sitting in the VIP section with Catherine Keener as the bass pumped and colored lights swirled at the party following a movie screening. The rewards didn’t even have to be that amazing. They could be nuggets into the business’ inner workings, advice on how to succeed in the industry. I treasured every prize I earned and worked harder than I ever did in my life. I loved everyone with whom I worked. There was no tension, no drama, no games. And because of my hard work I received a job offer at the end of my internship, the chance to be a personal secretary for one of the firm’s higher-ups. I held in my hands a golden ticket, an opportunity to work for a company I knew loved to promote from within, one that nurtured and respected me as an intern. And I turned it down. I turned it down because I was 21 and still had a year of college left. I turned it down because I intensely feared my parents’ disapproval. I let them, without them knowing, choose my life’s path. A few years after I turned the job offer down, Joan was promoted to Vice President of Publicity for the entire east coast. Meanwhile, during an awful senior year within which I struggled to concentrate and suddenly found myself lost and near-paralyzed while writing class papers, I suffered my first panic attack.

In a moment of irony, the film’s inspirational theme song “Glory” by Common and John Legend eased from the emptying theater’s speakers as I wobbled towards a wall and slid down until I sat on ugly red carpeting amongst spilled popcorn next to a huge cardboard cutout advertising The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Heart pounding, my forehead beading sweat, I took out my phone and frantically Googled information on Joan Morrison’s rise as a Peter Jackson-esque battle raged through my head.

That could have been me! That SHOULD have been me!

You never would have met Elaine. You never would have had Sienna. You have the loves of your life.

I could have been famous! I could have been the golden child of the family instead of the black sheep!

You’re NOT the black sheep! This is just where you go!

I am! I failed at work! I’m a failure! 

YOU HAVE A BRILLIANT AND BEAUTIFUL AND HEALTHY DAUGHTER AND AN INCREDIBLE WIFE! SHUT THE HELL UP!

My life could have been so different! I could have been a success! I could have had money! I could have been someone!

My shaky fingers scrolled through article after article: a picture of Joan wearing sunglasses on the steps of the Alabama capital building head turned slightly away from the lens preventing me from making a positive ID; Joan and another important woman mentioned in Variety; Joan’s official job title – Vice President of Publicity for Paramount Pictures.

Put away your phone and get up! GET UP!

I turned off my phone and clung to the banister weaving slightly down the stairs. A blast of sharp wind smacked my face as I opened the outside door. A car honked at me in the parking lot because I failed to look both ways. I found my car, got in and sat breathing shallowly with my arms and head on the steering wheel.

I could have been Joan. I could have been Joan. I could have been Joan.

Every so often I regret turning down the job and wonder, but here I was feeling the full weight of my life’s biggest crossroads almost 20 years later just because I saw a name scroll by amongst hundreds of others. Miraculously I made it home without causing a 12 car pileup.

Work remains my biggest trigger, the biggest force behind my depression and anxiety. Growing up work was a touchy subject in my family; to me it hovered over everything like a pesticide. I associated my father not with love and family, but with work, with suits and ties (he is no longer like this). I associated my grandfather handshakes, short conversations and work. As each grandchild graduated it seemed to me we were measured by our jobs and salaries. Before my 2nd nervous breakdown in 2010, my core belief was that work equaled identity and that I’d failed in the eyes of my family, especially my father and grandmother. I’d been a lowly secretary for nearly ten years with no hope for upward mobility. Each day I’d scroll through employment ads but my chest would fill to bursting and I’d have to turn to something else. I was that anxious. That scared. That depressed. I despised myself and fell deeper into the abyss with each passing day. Nothing else mattered or if it did (such as marrying the love of my life) despair quickly gobbled it up.

When I got home I immediately grabbed the computer and continued searching for Joan. I found an old Twitter address and sent her a message, but Elaine forced my laptop shut when I told her what I was doing and why.

“It might have been a different Joan,” she said logically. “There are probably tons of Joan Morrisons.”

“The odds of that are near impossible,” I stubbornly countered.

“Even if you had taken that path you don’t know if you would have made it. You can’t predict that your issues wouldn’t have gotten in the way. And you wouldn’t have me or Sienna.”

That much is true, but I couldn’t help to not just imagine, but glorify the path not taken. Of course I would have made it because history proved that that internship was the only enlightening, humanizing work environment I ever experienced – I kept in touch with my former employers through college and when I told them that I’d be traveling through Europe upon graduation, for instance, they hooked me up with a short job at the Cannes Film Festival and gave me tickets to MTV’s enormous gala (for those wondering, the firm did not have any openings when I graduated and the ensuing internships I took were horrible, soul-sucking experiences). Clearly I would have thrived at work meaning no work trigger, no depression, no anxiety. In my head which always extracts the negative from any situation, I convinced myself that none of the issues I experienced during childhood nor my predisposition to depression or the whacked out brain chemical imbalance I have would have reared their ugly heads in my perfect life. Rather, I would have followed what was then a passion and what now alludes me creativity- and work-wise; the passions that are Elaine and Sienna stood right in front of me as I tore myself apart imagining what surely would have been my sublimely accomplished and lucrative life, but I couldn’t see them.

Most depression sufferers do this. When languishing through an episode we can’t see anything but our own twisted minds. We aggrandize the what ifs, the things we don’t have, the choices not made, the paths not taken, at the expense of the positive people, events and choices in our lives. We also refuse to deal with reality or grow because we’re afraid of getting the tiniest bit more hurt than we already are.

Facts:

  • I am alive
  • I’m married to a wonderful, intelligent, funny, gorgeous woman who loves me because I’m me; next year is our 10th anniversary
  • I have a beautiful near 3-year-old daughter who loves life. learning and spouting out 80s catchphrases
photo (5)

My beautiful Sienna

  • I’ve never had a better relationship with my family including pre-1995; my parents often tell me how proud they are; my sister and I went from no relationship to a great one
  • I’ve held true to my beliefs in being loyal, kind and considerate and have the same best friends now at near 41 that I did in elementary school
  • I hold a master’s in media ecology from NYU and bachelor’s in English from the University of Michigan
  • I am a proud stay-at-home dad
  • I’ve delivered a speech about depression and fatherhood in front of hundreds of people, I’m published in a critically acclaimed book, appeared on numerous podcasts and I’ve found my place in a community of dads and writers I value beyond words
  • I may not be growing by the leaps and bounds my mind demands, but I am growing each and every day

Reliving “The Decision” (sorry LeBron James…my decision came long before yours) wreaked havoc on my weekend leaving me splayed on the couch like soft boiled cabbage, eyelids fluttering to stay open, my concerned daughter asking me if I’m “awake” (meaning “okay”). One name appearing on screen during Selma‘s credit roll took me back to the crossroads of 1995 as quickly as Marty McFly’s DeLoreon causing a near panic attack and another bout with depression, but the truth is it was just another trigger. I’ll never know what would have happened if I’d taken that job, but I can’t change the past. All I can do is try not to be so negative about it and instead concentrate on what my life is now – the passions that are my wife and daughter; growing my blog and improving my writing; learning how not to be so afraid. Who knows what’s around the corner?

What are your biggest regrets and how do you prevent them from overwhelming you?

Hanukkah, Christmas And The Best Of Both Worlds

Posted on by

Fact: Christmas can be oppressive for us Jews especially when we’re children. It seems everything out there is Christmas. Every TV special. Every house decorated with streams of ethereal lights. Santa in every commercial touting all the great new toys his elves are toiling away at when he’s not at the mall letting kids sit on his lap and ask for presents. Stockings. Tinsel. Incredibly beautiful indoor trees housing stacks and stacks of presents. Candy canes. A grandmother that was run over by a reindeer. The Nutcracker. Rockefeller Center. A date that doesn’t move around each year. An eve.

What did we have? 8 nights of lighting candles and saying a prayer. An electric orange menorah in the window. Dreidels. A boring song about dreidels made out of clay. Delicious latkes (ok, I can’t complain about that one). Chinese food on Christmas Day. There were presents, of course. In our case we’d get a big one on the first and last night of Hanukkah and small things in between. The holiday couldn’t even figure out how it wanted to spelled!

I wanted Rudolph. I wanted Frosty. I wanted Santa. More than anything I wanted to cover our house and bushes with a fantastic array of twinkling lights. Each year I’d beg my parents for lights, but the closest we came was a paper “Happy Hanukkah” to hang in the window that no one could see after dark. My parents felt for me for I’m sure they were envious as kids as well. They’d put presents by the chimney. They had one of my dad’s best friends dress up as Santa just for me.

“You’re not Santa!” I said in my brattiest tone. “You’re Mickey!”

As an adult I so appreciate my parents for trying especially since Christmas now seems to start before Labor Day making it even more onerous for Jewish people. Which is why I’m so happy for Sienna who gets to experience both holidays even though Christmas is a bit wacky (my wife’s parents are of a Christians but of a sect that doesn’t celebrate the holiday, so my wife didn’t even have Christmas growing up. She does now).

Sienna stares at our menorah (my late grandmother's) as the window reflects our little Christmas tree

Sienna stares at our menorah (my late grandmother’s) as the window reflects our little Christmas tree

Sienna gets to enjoy the power of both holidays. She gets to help Mommy trim our little silver Christmas tree covered with blue lights (silver and blue – the colors of Hanukkah). She gets to help Daddy screw in the electric menorah’s lightbulb for 8 days. Perhaps next year we’ll move on to actually lighting candles as well. She can watch holiday themed Sophia the First, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Jake and the Never Land Pirates without feeling like an outsider. She gets to revel in Santa’s ho-ho-ho and jiggling belly and enjoy the big Christmas tree in our building’s lobby while also pointing out the building’s silver menorah. We listen to her sing herself to sleep. Sometimes it’s a the Dreidel song. Sometimes it’s a Christmas tune.

She celebrates with her parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and great-grandmother during Hanukkah, 5 kids running around the house opening presents, spinning dreidels, eating chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. Meanwhile her aunt, uncle and cousin are driving up from Louisiana for a special Christmas visit and we’ll spend Christmas Day with my wife’s family. And boy does she get presents. So many presents we’ll probably need a second apartment in which to store them. But what I love, what I experience through my daughter, is not feeling left out. I feel her soaking in both holidays on an equal plane. She loves evenings when both the Christmas tree and menorah alight basking our living room in a festive glow. For her, “Happy Holidays” truly means “Happy Holidays.”

10882159_10205706701011853_5354265862061265837_n

Sienna and one side of the family pose for 4 generation Hanukkah picture

Religion has yet to play a role in the holidays. I’m not religious. I’m an agnostic, but I somewhat follow Jewish customs. My wife is spiritual, but not religious. We have plenty of time before we have to deal with the religious angle and I’m curious and a bit fearful of what will come.

But for now Sienna gets the best of both worlds (or at least the worlds of Christmas and Hanukkah). She gets to enjoy her dreidels and candy canes; trees and menorahs; presents and presents. It’s a joyous time of year for her and a jubilant one for her parents. I for one have banished holiday envy from my heart as I give a Hanukkah gift to my wife and receive a Christmas gift in return.

I even get my festive lights.

Why I Want My Daughter To Curse

Posted on by

No. Not right now. She’s 2 1/2 years old, silly people! Right now I want to her to spout goofy things or get all serious like she did the other day when she said, “I love you, Daddy.” I’m not ready for her to go all Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy of George Carlin on me, though come to think of it it’d be pretty cool if Sienna started dissecting language the way the great Carlin did. No. I just don’t want her to become like me, a person so scared of being judged that he’s unable to say the four-letter words that comfortably fill the public lexicon.

I’m not ready for Sienna to have her mom’s sailor mouth, but eventually, when she’s a teen, I don’t want her to be afraid of speaking the language of her classmates (yes we’ll have the comedic swear jar) and once she reaches adulthood, I hope to be ready for her to speak such words in my presence as part of normal conversation because the reality is that cursing is ordinary and sometimes, often even, acts as a release for pent up stress.

I wish I had that release, but I’m terrified of what people will think of me if I curse – fear of judgment, just another aspect of suffering depression. I’ve been trying to figure out where this particular one comes from and I believe it’s from my father who in turn got it from his mother. My grandmother doesn’t curse at all and doesn’t believe either of her children, their spouses, any of her grandchildren or THEIR spouses use words like s–t or f–k…EVER. She lives in a perpetual dreamworld, a life of denial, because as far as I know, just about all of them curse. My sister dropped the F-bomb at least 4 times during a magazine interview about the prominent comedy club she runs and I can only imagine my grandmother’s face as those bombs exploded before her eyes. My late grandfather, teller of bawdy jokes, probably cursed, though never in front of my grandmother. My aunt, I’m not sure. My dad? I assume he did when he was younger in front of friends and while in the National Guard. I know he does at work sometimes. I heard him once when I temped at his office. But he seems uncomfortable with it, like my grandmother’s directly in his brain.

My dad never cursed in front of me when I was growing up and seemed terribly uneasy when my mom did. And I think I took that discomfort and internalized it to the point where I can’t curse in front of anyone…not even my wife. I think I feel that if I utter a f–king this or f–king that or call someone an a-hole, my dad will know and think less of me. To be honest I imagine everyone will think less of me. And that’s insane. It’s ludicrous. Why would anyone care? But just like with my anxiety it manifests physically, twisting my stomach, weighing on my chest, my veins feeling as if shot with cold radioactive dye. I even have trouble writing the words as you can see by my incessant use of hyphens.

I tried to change when I went to college. I went in there thinking that I’d start cussing like Al Swearington on Deadwood (ok, Deadwood wasn’t on yet, but you get my meaning). I wanted to create a new identity. I wanted to be normal. So I tried. Freshman year I said something about my roommate to my best friend, something like my roommate’s “getting off” on being a jerk and my best friend’s eyes widened to the point where I thought they’d burst.

“You’ve never said anything like that before!” he shouted. I know he was proud, but I took it as criticism – and I didn’t even really use a swear word! And that was it for me in college. I couldn’t curse after that. Freshman year became a pathetic war with hallmates trying to get me to utter obscenities.

I’ll never forget Chad, a tall, lanky, long-haired blonde fratboy who’d corner me daily.

“Say s–t,” he’d say, but I wouldn’t. “Come on. Just say it.”

And he’d laugh when I I couldn’t because at that point he’d win. They’d all win. I’d be cursing for them, not for me. And the pressure in my head built.

When alone, profanity swirls through my head and expletives spout from my mouth. If driving alone I’m not immune to deriding a bad driver with a “motherf–ker” or even give someone the middle finger. When I’m alone vulgarity comes easy, but my jaws clamp in front of others. “Friggin’” I’ll say. “Morons. Jerks. Idiots.” For the longest time I wouldn’t even say “hell” or “damn.”

18 years post-college and I’ve cried in front of my therapist about my inability to curse, tears streaming, face scrunched and reddened with embarrassment and anger.

“You’re safe here, she’ll say,” leaning towards me as twist myself into a pretzel. “Let go. Say f–k.”

I sputter like Fonzie trying to admit he’s wrong. “Fu…fu…fu…fu.” But that’s as far as I’ll get.

“I’ll leave the room,” she’ll say. “I won’t hear it. Just say it.”

And she’ll leave, the door clicking. I’ll sit there furious with myself, face blotchy, hands tightened into fists. The room dulled and quiet. Sometimes I’ll whisper it, sometimes not. It doesn’t matter. No one’s there to hear me so I’ve still failed. “F–k” and “s–t” and so many others remain missing from my daily speech.

I have, however, added some over the years. For some reason I can now say “hell” and “damn” and even “bastard” and “son of a bitch.” It took 30+ years for me to say those words out loud in front of people. I’m not sure if I say them in front of my dad. I KNOW I don’t say them in front of my grandmother. But I still feel so much internal pressure when it comes to swearing, like the world would stop, a collective gasp catching in everyone’s throats, fingers pointing, judging, always judging, if I dare utter the f-word in front of another person. And I don’t want that for Sienna. I never want that for her. The cycle that began with my grandmother, passed to my father and then to me seemingly by osmosis will end. I want my daughter to curse.

I look forward to having a swear jar and by the time Sienna’s old enough, I hope to be adding a few coins to it myself.

Important Messages For 2 Important Moms

Posted on by

get-attachment

 

“Do you want to go wake Mommy?” I asked Sienna with a grin.

The little girl opened her eyes wide and beamed.

“Please!”

It was last weekend and I’d either let Elaine sleep in or she’d taken a nap. Regardless it was time to wake her from dreamland so a little girl could climb a bed like the North Mountain in Frozen and jump into her mother’s arms. I walked down the hall to the bedroom. Sienna ran already calling, “Mommmmy!!! Mommmmmyy!!” Little does she know Elaine can sleep through almost anything, even the stomping down the hall and calls of her daughter.

I turned the knob and Sienna squeezed through the doorway well before I opened the door to allow myself in. She hit the bed at a run.

“MOMMMMMMMYYYYY!!!!”

Elaine awoke dazed and sat up, but when she saw her daughter scaling the bed, she smiled with utter warmth and joy. And that’s when the shrieks and squeals began because, well, Mommy was home and awake and nothing ever tops Mommy being home and awake. Nothing.

Once Sienna reached the top of the bed she jumped fell into Elaine as if her mother were a pile a pillows, not a human being who might suffer broken ribs, poked eyes or, as happened in this case, have the wind slightly knocked out her leading to an “OOMPH!” One day Sienna will know she needs to be more gentle, but not yet. Right now she’s all id, a ball of energy that wants her mommy and nothing was going to stop her.

Elaine and Sienna proceeded to play a game called “Tent” in which Mommy holds her leg straight up under the covers and Sienna does a fake scream and fall and then gets wrapped up in the blanket. She could play this game for hours or days or years. It’s a great test for endurance. Perhaps they should make it a challenge on Survivor. I mostly watched and took everything in because those squeals of pure elation got me thinking about something and once “Tent” was over, Sienna had scrambled off the bed and run down the hall and Elaine had gotten up, I took Elaine gently by the shoulders and said it.

“Did you hear those shrieks and squeals when she saw you?” Did you see how happy she was to see you? That’s because of how much she loves you. It’s NOT because you’re working during the week and she doesn’t see you as much as me. It’s because you’re her Mommy and she loves her mommy. Every day it’s, ‘Mommy?’ and I have to say you’re at work. The girl worships you. She adores you. You’re her Mommy and even if you were home all day, she’d still shriek and squeal when she sees you. You’re that special to her.”

Elaine’s eyes watered and she thanked me because yes, she does think she’s failing as a mom (she’s not…not by a long shot) and yes she does feel guilty that she’s not home enough and that Sienna maybe, just maybe, loves me more than her (so far from the truth!). Elaine is a wonderful mom, an amazing mom who can invent a silly game like “Tent” and play it over and over even if it’s starting to hurt her hip. She thinks about Sienna constantly. She thinks that Sienna’s existence and beauty and sweet nature proves that a higher power exists. And only an incredible mother would do and think such things. Elaine is just that and Sienna and I are both extraordinarily lucky to have her in our lives.

Sienna & Grandma on Sienna's 2nd birthday

Sienna & Grandma on Sienna’s 2nd birthday

My mom doesn’t like to be photographed. It must be in the genes because I don’t like to be photographed either and unfortunately it means I couldn’t find a nice picture of the two of us on my computer when I decided to write this blog an hour ago in honor of Mother’s Day. So I guess you’ll have to deal with a great pic of Grandma Lynne and Sienna and why not? She’s a terrific grandmother – kind, generous, tolerant, stern when she needs to be. She’s such a wonderful grandmother that Sienna asks to see her almost daily. Lucky for her, Grandma works across the street. Unlucky for her, Daddy has issues he needs to deal with about going outside, but he’s working on them.

Daddy’s got a lot of issues that stem from many things in his past, but none of that’s important right now because I want to talk about how far my mom’s come in learning how to deal with a child suffering depression and anxiety, how much she’s been there for me, how she never stops believing in me or fighting for me even when I sort of take things out on her (we do tend to hurt the people we love, unfortunately), and how without her, I doubt I’d be as kind or generous or tolerant or stern when I need to be as I am. She’s taught me so much these past 2+ years when it comes to raising Sienna and she’s been there so many times when I’ve broken down and needed help. She gets a text or a phone call about me having an anxiety attack and she runs, not just for my daughter’s sake, but for mine…because she loves me and she’ll do anything for me. She’ll stay there all day playing with Sienna in the living room while I recover in bed if need be.

I know she feels guilty about not protecting me enough when I was younger or maybe pushing me a little too hard. I know that I’m still not able to completely let go of those things – yet – that sometimes they infiltrate my system and try to break and punish me, tell me lies about myself. My mom tells me the truth. She tells me she loves me. She tells me I’m talented and have enormous worth. And even if I can’t accept it at the time, I’m trying to let those words and feelings in.

Mom, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You were a 1st time parent dealing with a child who had and still has a chemical imbalance in his head that was exacerbated by certain things. We know a lot more about depression now today than you ever did when you raising me.

And here’s the real truth. I treasure you. You’ve unconditionally accepted Elaine and love her with all of your heart. You adore Sienna. You cherish me. And I thank you for that. I thank you for everything. I don’t say it near enough. I love you and I treasure you. Because you’re my mommy.

Happy Mother’s Day to my phenomenal wife and devoted mom, both truly special people.

 

 

Sienna And The Frightening Fly

Posted on by

Twas the first day of May and Elaine and my mother sat casually feeding Sienna eggplant rollatini in a pizzeria down the block form our apartment when out of nowhere the scariest creature on the planet zoomed by Sienna’s head. No I’m not talking about a rat or a killer bee or a king cobra. No great white shark decided to make a side trip from the ocean to have a slice of pizza. I’m not even talking about that insidious varmint known as Elmo. I’m referring to an ordinary housefly.

It’s amazing what strikes fear into the hearts of toddlers. According to eyewitnesses (Elaine and my mom), Sienna screeched and jumped into Elaine’s lap, clinging to her neck as if it were the last life preserver on the sinking Titanic, and buried her face on her mommy’s shoulder when the fly first buzzed her head.

“It’s just a fly, honey,” Mommy allegedly said. “It’s gone. Nothing to worry about. No more fly.”

Reports say it took some time for Sienna to calm down and release her mommy from that death grip.

“No fly,” said Sienna. “No fly.”

“That’s right,” echoed Elaine. “No fly.”

Then that monstrous beast streaked across the room and Sienna was back in Mommy’s lap, tears streaming, knuckles turning so white as she gripped Elaine that Mommy began to turn blue. Time and again a terrified Sienna would calm down and then hurl herself at Elaine when that fly flew overhead. Even when they reached the safety of the apartment Sienna would occasionally ask to be held while shaking her little head and assuring herself: “No fly. No fly.” This was something I witnessed when I got home and Elaine made me aware of the evening’s events making sure to always spell F-L-Y so as not to upset out daughter. I watched as Sienna peeked her head around the corner, looked at my wife for comfort, asked to be picked up and said, “No fly. No fly.”

When night-night came, Sienna seemed okay. It was Elaine’s night to put her down and our daughter laughed and played under fluorescent blue stars until my wife told her to climb into bed. She fell asleep, but apparently that devilish fly haunted Sienna’s dreams. As we sat on the couch listening over the baby monitor we heard our daughter whimper and then cry out as if a serial killer were after her in her sleep: “Help! Stop! Mommy! Daddy!”

Elaine went in first. She picked a drowsy Sienna up, held her to her chest, sat down in the rocking chair and rocked. But the little girl screamed and squirmed, screamed and squirmed. I went into the darkened bedroom and asked my little girl if she’d like to lie down on the floor with Mommy and Daddy.

“Please!”

I don’t know if she was awake or asleep when she answered, but it doesn’t matter. The three of us lay on the floor, Sienna between Elaine and myself. She sucked her thumb. She held her blanket. She fidgeted and fussed. Elaine and I ran our fingers through her hair and stole glances at each other. Finally I decided this was a night Sienna needed us, her parents, even more than ever. She needed to feel safe. We brought Sienna to our bedroom, placed her head on a pillow, shut off the light and got into bed. It was barely 11 pm so I had to take half a melatonin otherwise I would have lay there staring into the blackness.

I asked Sienna if she’d like me to sing “Rainbow Connection” which happens to be her current favorite song (I’m so proud!). She said yes and I dutifully complied, the words flowing over her in the darkness, lulling her to sleep. Little snores escaped her tiny nose. In her sleep she slipped across the pillow and landed with her face in my back. And I loved it. I loved being there for my daughter even if it meant having barely enough room to keep myself on the bed. I lay there feeling warm and important. I lay there feeling like vital father.

It wasn’t an easy night. Fitful sleep for all of us. Sienna periodically moaning, asking for help as that ghastly fly plagued her dreams, Elaine and I waking up at each whimper. According to Elaine, when she got up for work at 5 am, she had to leave a mewling and suffering little girl filling her with heartbreak. By the time Sienna and I awoke around 8 am, all was well with the world, both the actual fly and its nighttime apparition gone from our toddler’s mind. Elaine’s mom came over and she and Sienna had a grand time going for a walk and picking dandelions as Daddy tried to do some work – actually write a blog for the first time in forever as Elsa and Anna say in Frozen which we’ve now watched at least 10 times.

Sienna’s napping now and it’s peaceful. No bad dreams. No flies. The previous night is over but it left me with so many lessons and feelings.

One lesson is obvious: it’s way too early to introduce Sienna to Brundlefly.

The other lesson is that caring for my terrified little girl gave me sense of joy and love I haven’t felt in at least a month due to a depression relapse.

Who knew an ordinary fly could do so much?

What simple things have frightened your little ones so? How did comforting them make you feel?