I have always loved sports. In fact, I believe sports was one of the most important factors in me surviving my experiences growing up – it was the only area of my life where I felt confident, where I could be myself. It also taught me I could rely on my body, a better connection to my body – something I was getting conflicting messages about to say the least from other sources.

But so far this love has not passed onto my Okapis. For instance, when I am watching SportsCenter in the morning, they always want to change the channel. Frankly, I think the biggest problem is time – I have not spent enough time playing sports with them.

I am an opera singer. I am a daddy. I am OperaDaddy.

I know it’s not the most creative pen name ever, but what it lacks in literary flair it makes up for with its comic book superhero punchiness. Like Daredevil, or Batman, or Cher. But unlike those defenders-of-all-that-is-good, I am only a superhero to one person and one alone: My ten month old daughter, OperaGirl.

In OperaGirl’s eyes I can move mountains (toddler gates,) I can toggle day and night at will (light switch,) I can harness the power of the giant alien food-bearing machine (refrigerator,) and I have a voice like rolling thunder (I happen to think she may be onto something with that one.) She even thinks
I can make her fly when we play “airplane.”

But the truth is, I am a mere mortal. It takes me about fifteen minutes to run a mile. My love of watching baseball and drinking beer has rendered my formerly bullet-repelling abs useless. I have career anxiety. I worry about money. I forget to put the toilet seat down. I leave my dirty socks on the floor (do you think superman ever leaves his cape all balled up in the corner of his closet to get all wrinkled? I think not.) I do however, have a smokin’ hot co-star: OperaWife.

Even with all my not so super-human defects, OperaGirl still smiles at me like I just saved the day, every time I walk in the room. That kind of admiration is hard to come by, even in my profession where people applaud my job well done every time I go to work. Just two weeks ago I took the final bow on a stage that was seventy feet wide in front of a crowd of six thousand people who were on their feet, clapping and cheering for me. But as great as that feeling can be, it doesn’t hold a candle to getting just one of those million dollar smiles.

Everyone should get to be a superhero to somebody.

Like many working dads I occasionally joke that come Monday morning my real weekend begins and I can relax at work from my actual weekend from my kids.  I can’t blame them for wanting daddy all to themselves as they don’t see me during the week and when I get home it’s usually a mere half hour before their bedtimes.  My own father did not get home until 7pm each night just as I was being sent off to bed each night.

My children love me very much.  And for that I am truly thankful. But what concerns me is at times when I go to leave the house they break into uncontrollable wailing that they either want to go with me or to not let me leave.

What is a man? Any male over the age of 18? Nope. Any male who can down 12 beers in 30 minutes? Nah. How about someone who sits around on Sunday watching football and scratching his rear while drinking 12 beers before the end of the first quarter? Sadly, not even close. And I dare say not one of the new variety who carries palm pilots and blackberries and wears pink shirts to the office all the while trying not to spill his double-soy-mocha-lo-fat-chi-latte-frappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. This guy would probably die of exposure on an 80 degree day if his A/C broke.

No, I’m talking about a real man. A survivor. A man who can live on the land just as well as he can with all our conveniences. One who, if lost in the woods, had the good sense God gave him to kill and eat, to build shelter, to find his way out or live long enough to be found. A man who hunts (for more than just wall decorations) for his food and can have the pride that comes with knowing that it was his gun and his wits that allowed his family to eat today. A man is someone who has better things to do with his time than sitting around watching TV like teaching his son how to be a man. A man works with his hands and builds things and fixes things. A man does not have to call the A/C man to change the air filter in his house. He does not have to pay someone to change the oil in his car. He probably doesn’t even have a car. He’s got a truck. (Just kidding on the last one. But if it’s made by Honda, Toyota, Nissan or the like, or if it’s battery powered, I kind of doubt it.) A man is someone who can save his family money by knowing how to work on his vehicles and his home. There’s nothing worse than paying someone 5 times as much to do something you should know how to do.

A man is someone who is strong, who can protect those he loves and anyone else who needs his protection. Someone with a strong heart, who stands up for what’s right and what he believes in in the face of opposition. A man has dignity and wouldn’t be caught dead sitting in a seat while there is a woman left standing, who would open the door for a woman because it’s the right thing to do.

A man is one who treats his wife with love and respect while leading his family in the right direction (Ephesians 5:25). Not one who degrades and disrespects his wife all the while being ruled like a little puppy-dog by her. One who, when guys at work start whining about their rulers (wives), has the dignity and respect for his wife to avoid the conversation or speak good about her and not participate in stupid, childish complaining just to fit in.

A man is one who has time to devote to the training and raising up of his children, to teach his boys how to become men and treats his girls like princesses. A boy’s marriage will depend on whether or not he was taught how to be a man. And a girl will probably look for a man like her father. That’s good if he’s a real man, but if he’s like one of those in the first paragraph, well…

What I’m saying is, I’m seeing way too many males who don’t understand that there’s more to being a man than what you got hangin’. It’s about who you are and what you believe in. The trend is sadly going down the wrong path and it will only get worse. Somewhere along the line, masculinity and the pride that came with it gave in to feminism, sensitivity, and Starbucks and I think it’s time to get it back.

So, to all the real men reading this, it’s up to you what your sons will become. Be vigilant because the next generation depends on you. To everyone else, don’t spill your coffee.

At more than one point in my two-year fathering career, I’ve looked at my wonderful little boy and thought, “I’m the Dad.” I remember, not so long ago, riding around town with my Dad, doing nothing but what he calls “loafering” (I have no clue about the spelling). I remember wanting him to stay home just so that he could put me to sleep (he was a truck driver) or buying him a rock of fools gold as a memento of his youngest son (Which he kept with him in his truck until it bounced around into dust).

And now, I look at this tiny version of me (or a version of my wife, depending on his mood and the way he looks at you) and I realize that I’m no longer just a son, but a father. That’s overwhelming to say the least. I viewed my father as a superman who could take down any obstacle. I still do in many ways. Can I live up to the same as a father? My only logical conclusion is, “NO WAY!” I’m not superhuman. At times, I barely feel human (and at other times, I feel all together too human). I have a temper. I don’t play with him enough. I stress. I get caught up in my activities. I…. Well, I just don’t have what it takes to fulfill that role!

Or do I. As an adult, I can look back and see that my father wasn’t perfect. I can honestly say that he was closer to perfection in many ways than anyone else I know, but I realize his faults. Maybe one day Reagan will understand that I’m not superman, but for now, I’m just Daa-DEE that comes home everyday at 5 o’clock, which is usually the first time he sees me, and tickles him. And he’s the little, vulnerable boy that notices when Daddy sits at the computer working after that five o’clock tickle fest, and artfully dodges his calls of Daa-DEE and his tries to grab my hand so that he can lead me off on one of his adventures (usually a run to the refrigerator, where he opens it up and points to Bacos, Danimals, Sprite, etc. and says, “This"). What am I supposed to do with such a creation as this?

I can tell you with certainty that his attitude is different when his Daddy is wholly there for him. When I come home and take all the time in the world for him to climb onto my back, or to build up the blocks and tear them down. Then to snuggle with him in the floor and watch Veggietales.

But I’m too busy to do that everyday, right? (Did you sense the sarcasm?, or the whining?) There’s no room for me to do fatherhood halfway. He needs all of his Dad right now. For the first 6 months or so, I used to tell my wife that when he got a little older, it would really be my time to bond. That was true. I’ve gotten much closer to him now that we can interact. But this kid is smart, and he’s passing me by with every day I put everything else ahead of him.

I’m a dad? Who would’ve thought that it’d be possible. But yes, I am a Dad.