I end each day pretty much exhausted.  And most of that is just from being a “dad.” Forget all the housework and yardwork, it’s the parenting that wears me out.  I’m not sure how the working dads do it, especially in this age of 60-hour workweeks.  I’ve never had an outside job with kids in the house.  I do remember coming home from work and having nothing to do or think about besides an evening bike ride with my wife, or going out to a dinner and movie whenever we wanted.

Two of my best friends from college are both in work-intense careers… They endure 12-hour days and bring work home with them.  Most weekends are filled with paperwork, phone calls, and meetings.  Plus, they travel frequently.  I laugh (behind their backs) when they talk about “quality time” spent with their children because I just don’t believe there’s much quality in the 20 minutes a week when they can sit down and focus on being a parent.  I feel sorry for them, and I feel sorry for their kids.

But I also understand that they’re doing what they need to do, for the most part.  I’ve advised each of them that it is possible to get by without the long hours.  They don’t need every promotion, every project, every raise.  There’s such a short window of time to raise your children.  Why miss out on it?  Do what you must do to pay the bills and have some financial security, but go the extra mile at home, not at work.  It doesn’t seem possible to do both.  Kids don’t want “quality time,” they want their dad to be home with them all the time.

I know I’m lucky to be a stay-at-home dad.  I don’t mind being exhausted, because I’m giving my kids something they’ll remember the rest of their lives.

Old Man Winter and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a very long time. I was about 15 the last time I took my life in my own hands and hurtled down ‘Suicide Hill’ on a flimsy plastic sled at the local park.  By the time I was married the only exposure I got to winter weather was running to and from the car. The rest of the time I would spend huddled in my bed or recliner covered with a wide variety of comforters (all covered with our mutt’s dog fur for extra warmth).

I realize that not everyone shares in my aversion to all things snowy.  God forbid we go to my in-laws for Christmas. They are notorious ‘walkers’. After all the presents had been opened and the food had been consumed, I would settle down in front of the fireplace with a book that I had no intention of reading, my only purpose being to fall asleep in that post - Christmas haze that I had grown to love. Just as I would begin to drift off, my Father-in-Law would come stomping in and announce at full volume that I had to get up, we were going for a walk. It took me several years to convince them that I was perfectly happy observing the winter splendor from inside, wrapped in a blanket, book in hand and with my eyes closed. Eventually they learned to leave me alone.

But this season, I am considering calling a truce with Old Man Winter. I just spent an hour in the back yard with my son, Jack and my daughter, Julia. It is the first real snow of the year (second if you call that 1/2 inch we got about 3 weeks ago real). They canceled Julia’s preschool, and so we avoided the morning rush to dress and hustle out of the house.  After a few hours spent lazing about on the couch, watching cartoons and eating Lucky Charms, Julia started poking, prodding, begging, hugging and kissing me in an attempt to convince me to bundle everyone up and venture out into the snow. Finally, I caved. What father can resist his determined four–year-old daughter?

I began the arduous task of putting snow pants, coats, boots, mittens and hats on the kiddos.  I grabbed my camera because if I’m going to have to go through this, I’m definitely documenting it.  Pretty soon after we headed outside, we were throwing snowballs, making snow angels, catching snowflakes on our tongues and running around like a family of yeti. At some point I realized I was actually enjoying myself. The enthusiasm of my children for the newness of winter had begun to rub off. At that moment, I liked snow.

Then, we got to come in, stomp off all the snow, strip off our winter outerwear and huddle together on the couch, under a comforter, drinking hot cocoa. Norman Rockwell would have been so proud of us. But it was really quite wonderful.

So, Old Man Winter, right now I am willing to set the hostilities aside. Let’s work together for the limited time that I have while Julia and Jack are young and try to enjoy one another as much as possible, for their sakes. But, don’t get carried away. This was only the first major snowfall of the year. I may have an entirely different opinion by mid-March.

It’s funny how things work out.  At one point in the day, I thought about canceling the whole outing; what a loss that would have been.  It was nearly 2 hours after we left the cabin that our “Daddy-Daughter” hike finally got underway.  First I had trouble finding the trailhead, and then, after driving around for a while, Natasha got hungry.  We stopped at a park in Tannersville for a snack, after which she decided to settle down for a long summer’s nap.  As I sat there in the car wondering when she’d awaken, I could only laugh when I realized we were parked in front of Rip van Winkle Lake.

It’s actually quite hard to escape old Rip up here.  Besides the lake, there’s the Rip van Winkle Bridge, the Rip van Winkle Motor Lodge and the Sleepy Dutchman Inn, to name just a few.  It seems the most famous person to emerge from this part of the Catskills was a guy who slept for 20 years.  “Yup, that’s why we bought up here,” I reminded myself as I reclined the driver’s seat, wondering what I would look like with a white beard…

Rip clearly didn’t have any children under 3, because I didn’t sleep for 20 minutes, forget about 20 years.  (A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that Tammy would, in fact, recognize me on my return.) Natasha was awake, refreshed and eager to hit the trail.  I pointed the Honda in the apparent direction of the trailhead, into the woods and up a long, windy, unpaved road.  This time we had success.

Emerging from the car we laced up our boots, grabbed the guide book, signed the registry and entered the forest, looking like Frick and Frack in our matching blue jeans and Rutgers sweatshirts.  I asked Natasha one last time if she’d like to go in the backpack carrier.  “No,” I was advised, “that’s for babies.”

“Look, Daddy, a trailmarker!  It’s a red circle!” Natasha’s excited voice pierced the silence of the forest.  “And there’s another one (20 yards later) and another one, I found it, Daddy, I found it!  Look, Daddy, look!”

And so it went, for nearly a mile.  A walk in the woods with Dad became a lesson in colors and shapes, as well as Wilderness Survival 101.  Red circles meant we weren’t lost.  Yellow or blue circles meant we crossed another trail.  Two markers meant an imminent change in direction.  Each marked tree we encountered was like a surprise visit from Grandma.  “Daddy, we’re not lost – it’s another marker!” Often she would stop, wanting to touch the magical red circle, many of which were easily 7 ft off the ground.

Sore shoulders and all, this dad was quite proud if his little girl: not yet 3 but attacking the trail with gusto.  Anytime it got steep or rocky I would carry her, but the rest of the time she trudged ahead, fists clenched, arms exaggeratedly pumping with each stride, happily marching past a whining 7-yr-old boy whose father was no better at hiding his frustration than I was at hiding my pride.

We finally reached our destination: an open ledge at the top of an escarpment overlooking the Hudson Valley.  As I held my little hiker in my arms looking west to the Berkshires and north to the Green Mountains, I felt on top of the world in more ways than one.  But looking at my watch, I realized that this euphoria would end toot sweet if hunger and fatigue caught up to us in the woods.  “Let’s head back, Tasha-Masha!” I suggested.  “You lead the way!”

Well, looking for trail markers was no longer interesting, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the whining started.  Not wanting to be that guy from the way up, I had to think of something else to distract her.  Then, as if by divine intervention, two chipmunks ran across the trail. “Look, Daddy, look!” she exclaimed, taking off after them.  The fact that they vanished as quickly as they appeared mattered not.  For the next 15 minutes Natasha marched along, looking for her furry little friends, trying to coax them out of hiding.

“Chip-muck.....where aaaare yoooooou?!” echoed through the forest as we progressed, replacing the search for trail markers as peace disturber.  But alas, soon this too became boring, and we were still a half mile from the car.  We tried collecting pine cones, but that didn’t last more than 200 yards.  I had only one idea left, and needed it to work:

“Natasha, I always get thirsty after a good hike, are you thirsty?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“How would you like to go get hot chocolate after the hike?”

“Yes, Daddy.  And orange cheese!  I want hot choc-a-late and orange cheese!”

“Great!  Let’s march to the car and go get some!”

And so it was that hot chocolate and orange cheese saved a great afternoon from a bad ending.  Announcing her order to everyone we passed, Natasha marched her way down the mountain, through the woods and right to the car.  She even crossed a small stream unassisted.  “Hot choc-a-late and orange cheese for me!” announced our approach as we left the woods.

Sitting in Higher Grounds Coffee Shop 30 minutes later with a dot of whipped cream on her nose Natasha experienced for the first time the pleasure of a well-deserved reward after a long effort.  Backpack carrier no more! She had completed a hike all on her own and was celebrating with hot chocolate and orange cheese!

I don’t know how I will react when my big girl becomes a young woman.  But right now there’s nothing like munching down a few slices of Land o’ Lakes Yellow American and fondly recalling that special afternoon in the summer of 2004 when my baby became a little girl.

We live in a great house on the campus of Peninsula Covenant Church. It’s one of five houses that the church owns for staff housing. Just last week one of our neighbors moved out, and the Smith family moved in. Jeff is our Children & Families Pastor. Their moving in has created quite a stir in the ‘hood, because they have three very cool things they bring with them: a new baby, a dog, and a trampoline. A real, honest-to-goodness, big, round trampoline with a safety net and all.

So, for the last several nights, I’ve been heading out to the tramp with my iPod Nano and jumping for 20-30 minutes. It’s surprisingly good exercise...surprising because it’s actually fun. Tonight I listened to a cool mix of Michelle Shocked music and jumped for a long time.

David Crowder Band has released what will probably be my favorite so-called ‘worship album’ of the year. It’s called A Collision and it’s great...from the banjo and barn-dance choir of ‘I Saw the Light’ to the anthemic praise of ‘Here Is Our King’ to the spooky Sufjan Stevens cover, ‘O God Where Are You Now? (In Pickerel Lake? Pigeon? Marquette? Mackinaw? )’ to the apocalyptic finale, ‘The Lark Ascending Or (Perhaps More Accurately, I’m Trying To Make You Sing)’. This is a sweet record from start to finish. I’ve only been through it twice but I’m looking forward to digging into it again.

The twins have been waking up at 5:45 every morning and climbing into bed with Luanne and me. We have relative peace as they snuggle with us until about 6:03, when they begin demanding breakfast. The next hour consists of our telling them to go play in their rooms and their coming in again and again to ask for breakfast, to ask if they can watch TV, to ask if we’ll play with them, to snuggle and climb on our heads… I’m going to sleep now so that I can try to get up with them. I know someday I’ll look back on these days and miss them… I keep reminding myself of that. Thank you, God, for precious, healthy children!

I’m the practical sort.  When I think about the future I think about what is likely to happen.  I think about probabilities.  This isn’t a bad trait.  In fact, it’s quite useful.  All of us need to think about probabilities as we choose our future course of action.  What doesn’t come naturally to me is thinking about possibilities.  That is, envisioning a future without regard to probabilities.  This is the type of thinking that Ted Turner employed when he created CNN, the type of thinking Steve Jobs employed when he created Apple.  It’s the type of thinking that Martin Luther King, Jr. used when he envisioned a future where all people were judged by the content of their character and not by the color of their skin.  Each of these men thought about what the future could possibly look like, not what the future would probably look like.

I believe that one of the greatest gifts we can give our children is to train them to be possibility thinkers.  My youngest son is currently writing a book.  He is 11.  He is interested in fantasy writing and is determined to make it big one day.  He recently asked me what I would like to have once he was a rich and famous author.  Being the practical type, I was tempted to shout out, “Do you know the odds of becoming the next J.K. Rowling?  Why, you have a better chance of being struck by lightening than you do of becoming rich as an author.” That is probability thinking.  My son is engaged in possibility thinking.

If I am to teach my children effectively, I need to model the behaviors I desire to see in them.  If I’m critical of new ideas, they will be critical.  If I’m optimistic about the future, they will be optimistic.  And if I consider the possibilities of a better life, of a life devoted to positively impacting others, they will want to do the same.  Fathers can teach their children to be probability thinkers, but they should also encourage them to be possibility thinkers.  Maybe one day my son will become a famous writer, but even if he doesn’t I can always help him dream.