I don’t know if you’ll care about this when you get older. Maybe you won’t, and if that’s the case, that’s fine by me. All I know is that every day, I watched you two grow a little, shedding the skin of your previous selves. Every day, I remind myself that, Eric, you need to write about them—or at least, start taking notes—so you don’t forget. And every day, I waved it off, why? Out of fear, perhaps. Fear of the stakes involved in writing about the world that means the most to you—the people who mean the most to you—and not hiding what parenthood and marriage really are. They’re beautiful, but hard. Boy, are they hard?

But I think the real reason is that I love you two so much that, I fear that I can’t write from above it. I’m not an 80-year-old man who’s looking back on his life through scrapbooks and half-memories, faint truths and illusions. I’m living right in it. As I write this very sentence, you’re both playing Lego on the floor next to me, screaming bloody murder and running back and forth from room to room. I tell myself that maybe I should wait until you’re older to write these stories, because there are still so many stories to come. But I think, I’ll try this now. I can’t tell you why, but it feels important.

You two need to be at the center of a story. As a writer, I can’t avoid it—nor do I want to. With fiction, I can hide behind the characters. I can scatter little pieces of my life through them, like pixie dust. But when you write nonfiction, it feels a little like standing up in front of a room filled with everyone you’ve ever known, taking off your shirt, zipping down the entirety of your midsection, and saying, “Hey, here’s everything that I am. And likely everything I’ll ever be.”

It’s a tough one, we’re so accustomed to hiding in plain sight. From the time we’re born, we’re trained—directly or indirectly—to stuff down that which causes us grief. We’re experts at it. Writing feels like self-exploitation. It feels like guilt, but a pang of necessary guilt.

Though I try my best to ensure that you both know the man behind the mask, I know there will still be times in life when something keeps you from coming to me. When embarrassment and shame creep into your consciousness, making you feel like you’re letting me down—or your mother. Times when you’ll be in your bedroom, feeling like the whole world is wrong. Wondering when you woke up to streets that felt different, skies that looked sinister, friends who were never truly friends—just small-town bodies in close proximity. It will happen, as it happened to me.

And though my parents never told me not to come to them, I still felt a natural inclination toward solitude. Reprieve through music and movies. Through anything except talking. Because even if you have someone to go to, sometimes, you just don’t have the words. That’s life. For better or worse.

At the end of the day, I’m writing these stories because I need to. As much as I need to breathe, to eat, to hydrate, to love—I need to write. And what’s more important than the two of you? As I hope you’ll gather from these stories, the answers will be spread out throughout the entire book.

Nothing

Lukas, you’ve recently become infatuated with maps. You sit on the floor, your maps sprawled out, staring intently as your finger traces across continents, oceans, and rivers. You softly whisper to yourself while your mom and I exchange smiles. You’re only six, and yet, you bury me every time in a game of Find the Country. It’s not even close—and no, I’m not letting you win. Not at all.

Recently, you asked me about the places I’ve been to.

“I haven’t traveled a whole lot,” I said. “Just around Canada.” I pointed to Quebec City, then Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa, and finally Winnipeg.

“You’ve been to Manitoba?” you asked, your eyes lighting up.

I told you, yes, and that’s where I was when you were born.

“You weren’t here when I was born?” you asked, your voice filled with outrage.

I shook my head. “No, I wasn’t.”

Naturally, the follow-up question was, “Why?”

I gave you the short and sweet version: your mom and I were living in a small apartment in downtown Fredericton when she told me she was pregnant. So, I decided to get a job with the railroad because it paid well and would give us a chance to get a house—to start life like a proper family. But that meant training in Winnipeg for the entire summer of 2017, which is when you were born. I came back on August 4th and nervously held you for the first time.

There are parts I left out, for what I think are obvious reasons, but I’ll tell you now because if—or when—you read this, you’ll be older.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I freaked out. As much as I’d love to say I was a man, that I stood up and instantly came up with a solution, I didn’t. I didn’t want to have a kid at that point—I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. I was still infatuated with a self-serving world that featured only one main character: me.

I wanted to be a rock star. You might laugh when you find some of my old songs on Soundcloud and ask, “You seriously thought these would propel you to rock stardom?”

I won’t get offended. I’ll probably laugh too and tell you, “Yes, I did.” Your late teens and early twenties can be a time of massive overconfidence—the end of feeling invincible.

Today, I can’t write a single song I’d feel comfortable sharing with the world. I ask myself all the time, what happened? I used to get up and play in front of drunk frat boys. Now, I can barely sing in front of your mother. Tough but true.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I remember it clearly—or at least the memories feel clear. Whether they’re 100% factual, I can’t say, but I’ll tell it the way I remember.

I was coming home from work at the lumber yard—or possibly another job—and your mom was sitting in our bedroom on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets. She looked pale and frightened, and I suppose I already knew what she was going to say. When she told me, I flew off the handle. I think I even left. Not my proudest moment, but I eventually came to my senses.

I grabbed a coffee downtown and thought about everything. The small apartment that seemed fine for two poor students—or recent graduates—felt woefully inadequate for a child. Drug addicts lived in the adjacent apartment, and it wasn’t unusual to see syringes littering the steps and parking lot. The thought of rolling you in a stroller through that mess, past the high hellos, made tears well up in my eyes. I felt like I’d failed you before you were even born.

Looking back, I was overthinking. We could have made it work for a little while until we came up with a plan.

Instead, I decided to pursue a career I’d been running for my entire life: the railroad. It ran in the blood of my father, uncle, grandfather, and great-uncle. CN was hiring in my hometown, Campbellton, which seemed unbelievable for a post-industrial town hanging on by the skin of its teeth. But it was true—the men who’d started in the 70s were finally retiring, and a position opened up. I called my father and asked for his help, and he was happy to oblige.

After a few rounds of interviews, I got the job. The training was in Winnipeg for the entire summer.

Your mom and I had many conversations about whether this was the right path. Ultimately, we decided it was. She and her parents would help her move while I was gone. When my training was over, we’d settle in Bathurst. New house, new son, new job. It was a lot, but we made it work... for a little while.

(For the record, we moved to Bathurst because getting hired in Campbellton meant working in Miramichi as well. To avoid hotel rooms, I traveled between the two.)

“Peek-a-boo,” I say, leaning over your tablet. You’re in bed, and you smile—that sweet, innocent smile.

“Peek-a-boo,” I say again, and this time, you swing the tablet up with all your strength and smash me in the lip. Jesus, it hurts.

“Zoey, good lord. That hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

Nice, the sociopath stage—when does this end?

I’m prone to back spasms. Sometimes they hurt so much I can barely breathe. So, I lay on the bed on my stomach while you both brush your teeth.

From around the corner, I hear you, Zoey. “Lukas, let’s play motorcycle.” And before I can protest, you both run in, jumping on my back with reckless abandon. It hurts, and your mom calls out, “Kids, get off your daddy. You’re hurting him.”

Can you guess what you say, Zoey?

If you guessed, I don’t care, you’d be right.

It hurts—neither of you are light—but I sway back and forth, back and forth, until I swing you off me. You both laugh and naturally shout, “Again!” before jumping right back on.

“Daddy’s back hurts,” I say.

“Again! Again!” you both chant.

Your mom laughs. And so, we go again.

You both like reading. Please, don’t stop. The world is fast—Jesus, it moves fast, and I feel it myself. There’s an anxiety in just sitting, breathing and telling yourself to slow down. I went to see Kevin Costner’s Horizon, and I could feel it. I’m so used to grabbing my phone from my pocket every ten seconds that sitting in a theater by myself, in the dark, with no phone and no distractions was hard. I hated it, because it never used to be hard.

But reading slows the world down. It lets you take in information at your own pace. And when you find a book that completely pulls you out of your own reality—well, you’ve just discovered magic.

As you go through the public school system, you’ll probably lose some of your love for reading. If it’s anything like when I was growing up, you’ll be force-fed old classics. You’ll be made to dissect themes, motifs, antagonists, protagonists—all of that—and it will almost certainly take some of the joy out of reading. You might even start thinking there aren’t any books beyond the so-called classics. I know I was assigned Jane Eyre so many times that I became convinced every book was written the same way.

But my parents were both avid readers, and they assured me there was nothing quite like a good book. They gave me some great places to start. So, I’ll do the same for you.

First, I need to tell you how reading saved me during a time when my mind was getting blacker and blacker. We were broke, and COVID was making it nearly impossible to find another job. I’d made some bad choices, and I was sinking into a depression unlike anything I’d ever experienced. (I’ll get to that later on.)

Reading brought me back to the land of the living. There was a used bookstore on St. Peter Street where books were either $1 or $2. I found some of the greatest books I’ve ever read there—magic for $1. (You can also visit your local library, where they rent out magic for free.)

Here are some of your old man’s favorites (in no particular order):

Stephen King – The Stand

Philip Roth – American Pastoral

Tim O’Brien – The Things They Carried

Dennis Lehane – The Given Day

Frank Herbert – Dune

John Steinbeck – East of Eden

Ernest Hemingway – For Whom the Bell Tolls

I hope you both keep reading so that one day, you can share your favorites with me.

It’s magic, I tell you. Magic.

Don’t ask me how this started, because my answer won’t go further than, “I have no idea.” But beers in this house are known as larries. Your mom and I even call each other Larry from time to time. Again, I can’t remember the origins of this oddball nickname, but it’s stuck, and like many things in my family, it’s probably not going anywhere. (I got scared of Teen Wolf with Michael J. Fox when I was five years old, and my parents and brother still mention it every chance they get.)

Anyway, Lukas, you’re seven, and Zoey, you just turned five. I don’t hide the fact that I like beer from either of you. Some might question my parenting on that, but I’m a firm believer that alcohol in moderation is nothing to be ashamed of, nor anything I need to hide from you. It’s just a can, after all. What makes alcohol dangerous is the monsters it can bring out, and I assure you—it’s not monsters flowing through my veins when I drink a beer after a long week of work. It’s just calmness. And it’s only light beer, after all.

When I was a boy, my father, brother, and I had music nights in my dad’s man cave in the basement on Fridays and Saturdays. A couple of hours, a couple of times a week—those moments will forever be imprinted in my mind. They’re wonderful memories, and I’m trying to create something similar with you two. You’re not super interested in music yet, especially not mine, but every once in a while, I’ll catch you playing with your toys and swaying to the music like no one’s watching. But I am, and nothing makes me happier.

As a kid, I’d run upstairs to grab two bottles of beer for my dad and race back down with lightning speed. Every once in a while, he’d let me open a cap and take the first drink. It was a different time. I’m sure your mom would murder me—and promptly dispose of the body—if I let you or Zoey drink beer. But those memories are vivid for me. They never fail to bring a smile to my face. I can feel it now, even as I write this.

Although I don’t let you drink beer, I do ask you and Zoey to grab me a Larry from the fridge. You both love doing it. I don’t know why, but I remember feeling the same way when I did it for my dad. There’s something about it that makes you feel older, like a grown-up. And you’re both certainly at an age where wanting to feel grown-up is at the forefront of your minds. I remember that feeling well. (You hate it when I call you my little babies.)

I suppose I’m writing this because I’m a beer drinker. So, is your uncle—so is your grandfather. And I’ve never been present at a moment where beer turned frightening or made El Padre lay his hands on me or your uncle. For me, beer is a working-class drink, something you earn through a hard week of work. I’m not trying to promote it. If you never want to taste beer in your life, that’s perfectly fine. I just want you to know that I have it under control. For me, it’s just something to enjoy with a movie or a great album. It’s a way to unwind.

(Although, I suppose all addicts say the same thing. But I’m not an addict. Or am I? Just kidding. Oh, and by the way, grab your old man a Larry, please?)

The world is constantly changing. And at some point, a person stops flowing with the times. Your current dries up. You’re completely unaware of when this happens, but somewhere along the line, it does.

Every generation comes with its own difficulties, and no matter how much you want to relate to your kids, there will always be differences. Sometimes, those differences are so massive that the void can rip a person apart. But other times—and I hope this will be our case—they’re just things to laugh about. Oh, Dad. People don’t say that anymore. Something like that. Hopefully.

I can’t begin to imagine I’ll understand everything you’re going through. All I want you to know is that I’ll keep an open mind, an open heart, and open ears. I’ll give you both my time and my understanding. Because I don’t want you to think of me as a relic. I don’t want you to bury me and forget about me. I don’t want you telling your friends that I’d never understand what you’re going through. I want you to come to me, and I want you to be patient with me, just as I’ll be patient with you.

When the time comes for you to have kids of your own (if you want to), I hope you’ll see that being a parent can mean being a friend. Not always a friend, not a certain type of friend, but a friend nonetheless. Some people don’t believe they can be friends with their parents, and I think that’s bullshit. I agree I can’t always be your friend. There’s a line to be drawn. You’ll need to know I’m a parent first. But when it comes to snacks and movies, books and music, trips and adventures, or whatever else you want, I’ll always want to tag along and be part of it.

I never really went through the embarrassed-of-my-parents phase like so many of my friends did. I was always happy to have them around, and I hope you’ll always want me around too.

(I promise not to invade your space... too much.)

Come to me. Don’t let me become a relic.

As you get older, life becomes harder in certain ways, but in others, you become more conscious of the hard work you put in. High school can be tough, but when you study your ass off for that test and get a good mark, it feels pretty great. When you work hard and get the call that you’re starting in the next ball game, it feels incredible. And so on, and so on. These moments feel big. They stop you in your tracks and make you sit back and think, Wow, this is really great.

Perhaps part of the difficulty for your generation is all the doom and gloom on social media. It’s tough because it’s everywhere, and it’s hard to escape. But don’t be fooled—there will be moments in life when those good chemicals are flowing through your brain at a rapid speed. Those feelings will keep you hungry for more of them. And a healthy focus is the key to a happy life. (Though I still struggle with focus to this day. Case in point: this book, which I’ve started and stopped 500 times this year. But hey, a good point is a good point, whether or not I’ve followed my own advice to a T.)

There are a few moments like that in my young life. Many more involve you two, but I want to point out some great ones from before I had kids. I hope you read this before you have kids of your own, because a full book about how life sucked before kids might not keep you engaged. So, let me tell you about some of those moments.

One of them was playing my first gig by myself—just me and my acoustic guitar. I’d played a few shows with a buddy before. He sang, and I played guitar, but this time it was just me. A hurdle I seriously didn’t think I’d get over.

It was early winter, and I was standing outside an apartment building in Fredericton called Princess Place, where I lived with your uncle. I want to say it was early 2015, but it could’ve been 2014. I was wearing a faux leather jacket with a plaid shirt underneath (a la Springsteen in ’78—we’ll talk about him more in another chapter). I’d rented a beautiful Taylor acoustic guitar from Long and McQuade, and it sat in a leather case, firmly in my hands.

The wind was howling viciously off the river. In a few years, that same wind would make me want to die, but at this point, I didn’t care. I was waiting for a cab to climb the icy hill and take me to my two-hour show at Ringo’s Bar and Grill uptown.

I was shivering, but I felt like a rock star. Because for everything else in life, I was doing something many others never do. How many great musicians are out there, sitting in their basements, too scared to unveil their craft to an audience? I wanted to do it. Before the show, my father said something like this to me:

“Hey! No matter what happens, you should be proud of yourself. Just getting up there is a huge accomplishment. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

The show itself was fine. I made it through the two-hour set with no major hiccups. But the show isn’t the memory. The memory is the calm before the storm. The waiting. The sense of doing something important. Something that would propel me in other areas of life. That was one of those moments.

Another moment was a few years earlier, at the start of university. It was the first week in my dorm room at Rigby Hall. I was rooming with a buddy of mine, and though the happiness wouldn’t last long—soon replaced by a period of confusion and struggle—at that moment, it was perfect.

We were throwing a football in front of our room, the early fall sun beating down on us. A pretty blonde girl was in the room next door—tall, with an infectious smile. (Hope your mom doesn’t read this part.) We’d become fast friends.

Inside our room, my buddy and I ate pizza until the boxes were stacked to the ceiling. We drank beer and watched TV. One evening, I went to bed and rolled over to face the wall. I couldn’t stop smiling. Friends, girls, a new life, a new me—it was all wonderful. That was one of those moments.

And the last one—for this chapter, at least—was winning the provincial title in basketball in 2010.

The game was neck and neck, and we managed to pull out a win. The crowd was huge. When the buzzer sounded, we jumped on each other and cheered. Cheerleaders jumped on us too. It was perfect. But that wasn’t the moment.

The moment was when your uncle came down, and we high-fived. It was the perfect slap. I did it. It was one of those moments.

Those moments are scattered throughout everyday life. Don’t search for them—let them come to you. And when they do, try your best to freeze time.

“What do you want to be when you get older?” I ask Lukas.

The grin on your face tells me you’re not going to give me a real answer. It’s going to be something ridiculous, and you prove me right.

“I want to be a poop. That poops everywhere.”

“Nice, what do you really want to be?”

“I’m being serious.” You can barely contain your laugh as you say it, and I glance over at your mother and roll my eyes.

Then Zoey, you come out of the bathroom, and I ask, “Zo. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Um. I want to work where Mommy works so I can be with her every day.”

I look over at your mom, and she can barely keep the tears in.

“My heart,” she says.

Life, above all else, is confusing. You’re still at an age where you can do whatever you want. You can change paths a thousand times and still end up on the trail that leads you to where you need to be. That feeling can be both exhilarating and overwhelming.

Lukas, over the past few years, this is how the conversation about what you want to be has gone:

“Hey, buddy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Spiderman.”

The following year:

“Pikachu.”

The next year:

“A police officer.”

And now, as I mentioned in the previous chapter:

“A poop. That poops on everything.” (Cue eye roll.)

Of course, no matter what you do (except for becoming a poop), I’ll be proud of you. In my heart, I’d love for you to pursue something creative. Become some kind of artist, because when you create, your eyes light up, you become hyper-focused, and it’s wonderful to watch.

In fact, you and your sister are the reason I’m writing this book. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time but kept putting off. Sometimes that light in my own eyes dims, and I give in to the exhaustion of life. But you both help me get it back. This time, I’m staying hyper-focused on this project until it’s finished.

Zoey, you’re no innocent bystander when it comes to the poop and pee jokes. The other night, when I asked you what you wanted for supper, you replied, “Poop. And to drink pee.” You burst into laughter like it was the greatest joke ever told.

But when I asked what you wanted to be when you are grown up, you gave me a more serious answer.

First, it was a princess. Now, you want to work on nails with your mom.

You love getting your nails done, and you’ve done your mother’s nails many times. You’ve even done mine. You’re vibrant and drawn to colors that pop. I hope you find a life filled with all the colors of the rainbow. I hope you keep that light in your eyes. I’m going to do everything I can to ensure that you do. Both of you.

Now, let me tell you a little bit about my path. Where I thought I’d end up and where I actually did. I’ll tell you one thing—it wasn’t a straight line. It was filled with detours, roadblocks, and technical malfunctions. So many, you wouldn’t believe it. You might even think what I’m writing is fiction, but I assure you, it isn’t.

I grew up in a time when older generations often worked the same job for the same company their entire lives. There’s something noble in that, I think, but it’s a bygone world. I certainly don’t expect you to find a job at 18 and stick with it until you’re 65.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll feel a certain weariness at the prospect of being tied down. It might be fine for a year or two, but eventually, you’ll start to feel a sense of dread—or something close to it. Maybe not dread exactly, but the fear that this is your life now. That all you’ve done, and all you’ll ever do, is stand on a production line at a sawmill in the middle of the boonies on the graveyard shift. (Yup, I spent countless nights doing that.)

It’s a hard feeling. A sinking feeling. Because I was once just a kid standing with my guitar in my hand as the river howled. I was the kid running across the Van Horne Bridge in the late hours of the night to see a girl who wanted nothing more than to see my face. I was the kid sitting against the fence at the skatepark, drinking chocolate milk with a basketball between my legs, dreaming of Europe, dreaming of college, dreaming of the pros.

The same thing happened to my father, though, and eventually, acceptance has to find you.

Either that, or you become so driven that there’s no plan B—just your dreams and nothing else. Unfortunately for me, I was never that driven. I’m as indecisive as they come.

Here’s a timeline to showcase my indecisive nature, so you never feel bad about not knowing what you want in life:

2011: Graduate high school. Attend university in Fredericton in the fall. Feel lonely and move back to Campbellton to chase a girlfriend.

2012: Live in Campbellton with my grandmother while your grandparents are in Montreal. Work at Dollarama then quit and got a job at Kent Building Supplies in the garden center. In the fall, moved back to Fredericton with my then-girlfriend. Big mistake.

2013: Work with your uncle setting up sporting events. Things fell apart, and by the end of the year, I lost my mind and moved to Montreal to live with my parents. At the time, I have no intention of ever returning to New Brunswick.

2014: Meet your mom while working at Tim Hortons. Move in with my brother. Her first words to me? “Are you stupid?” (Not quite a Hollywood romance.) My girlfriend and I break up, and I start writing songs. Music doesn’t pan out, but writing sparks something inside me.

2015: Your mom and I move in together. I quit Tim Hortons, and she goes to aesthetics school. I got a job at Kent's lumber yard, met great friends, and kept playing music.

2016: Graduate University. Your mom graduates from aesthetics school. The future looks bright. She becomes pregnant with you, Lukas—a true blessing that doesn’t feel like one at first.

2017: Start working for the railroad. Lukas is born, and I return to a new home, a new son, and a new job.

2018 – After a long period of training, I finally started making money with the railroad. With dollar signs in my eyes, I decide to buy a big house on a hill overlooking a golf course. It’s beautiful—but it turns into a nightmare beyond belief before too long.

2019 – Railroad life is harder than I ever imagined. I’m missing too much time with Lukas, and when I am home, I’m too tired to be present. It’s not the life I want. Late in the year, Zoey, you’re born. You’re so beautiful, and this time I don’t miss a moment. I was there the whole time, and I even cut the umbilical cord. I love you to death.

2020 – I hit my breaking point and quit CN early in the year—a decision that will haunt me. A few weeks later, the world was on shut down with a little pandemic known as COVID. Work everywhere freezes. Our days of financial stability are over. The seclusion, combined with financial strain, puts me in the worst mental place I’ve ever been. Absolute horror. I feel trapped. What next?

In the fall, I finally say enough is enough and take a job at an industrial laundry. I load stinky clothes from a pot plant in Campbellton into an industrial washer and fold uniforms. It’s not exactly a step up. Meanwhile, your mom, after being a stay-at-home mom for a few years, gets a job at Dollarama to help keep us afloat.

2021 – I get a call from the sawmill in Belledune. By now, I’m exhausted from switching jobs. My head is in a better place, but it’s still not completely right. Your mom and I talk in bed about what’s best, and at that moment, what’s best is money. We need it, and the mill pays more. So, I leave yet another job and head out on the highway once again.

2022 – I’m placed on the labor pool at the mill, working the graveyard shift. My routine is grueling: I work all week, come home Friday morning, sleep for three hours, and then, get up as your mom heads out to work for the entire weekend. We barely see each other.

But we finally managed to escape the financial burden of the big house. We find a smaller, more affordable home downtown, and things begin to stabilize. Then, a surprising opportunity comes—a job as a reporter at the local newspaper. It feels like a dream, and though I’ve worked hard to get where I am at the mill, I can’t resist. I put in my notice and took the reporter position. It seems like a turning point—until the paper lays me off after just three months.

2023 – I become a stay-at-home dad for a while, and Zoey, and we bond like never before. I take you to playgroups, we bake together, and we hang out. It’s wonderful. But after a few months, I know I need to go back to work. I reached out to a man I interviewed during my short time at the newspaper, and he decided to take a chance on me and hire me.

2024 – For the first time in years, life feels normal. No sudden changes. No upheaval. Just stability.

Life is confusing. I’m still battling it. So, don’t ever feel bad when you’re unsure of where you’re going or how you’ll get there.