`I remember the day of the 9/11 attacks. It was the day before my birthday and my mother’s, and the day of my best friend’s father’s birthday. I was too young to understand it, and it would be years before I’d fill my head with literature and documentaries on the attacks to understand what had happened that day.

My father picked me up from school, and I remember his smell and his youth. His navy blue worn Teamsters hat with black hair flowing out of the back. He looked serious, a little distraught, with a furrowed brow. He asked me how school was, and I said it was good. And then I asked him, “What’s wrong?”

And all he said was, “Something bad happened today.” And that was the end of the conversation.

We walked across Aaron Street and then down George and through Dover. My birthday was the following day and like most years, even though we were back in school, the sun hadn’t yet decided it was time for fall weather and was still beating down with the intensity of summer. I don’t remember how much we talked, or if we talked, but I remember being happy despite the circumstances.

Once we walked through the front door, we were in the living room and there was footage. I remember smoke and I remember my father standing behind the couch, watching. Because when anything intense was happening in the world, he never sat. He stood, restless, like he wanted to do something but knew he was helpless to do so.

But I sat on the couch, reading comics and sinking into the old cushions that enveloped me like a second skin. School was over, the weather was beautiful and I had my comics and my birthday, and my whole life ahead of me. I was happy and in the background was chaos.

The following morning, I woke up and walked to the dining room where the entire table was filled from corner to corner with comics and a card sitting in the middle. I felt like the happiest kid in the world, because the real world was not my world. The scenes on the news of the twin towers could have been a movie. Maybe one directed by Michael Bay, where a hero was going to go up and rescue everyone and everything would be okay. There were no stakes to real-life events for a kid, because they weren’t real. People didn’t die. The world was a haven for everyone, where people could walk home from school and sit on a couch and read comics, and get more for their birthday and then go to school where everyone smiled and said Happy Birthday, and then came home to cake with candles lit and their mom and father singing to them, and telling them that no matter what, they needed to feel special on their birthday.

As I grow older, nostalgia becomes a stronger and stronger force. And as many mundane memories from childhood slip into that dark ether where the less important moments go, all that remains is the mundane of today and the spectacular of those years. Creating a pseudo-fantasy, one that can be dangerous if not checked.

I spoke to my brother not long ago about writing a book based on our childhoods in the 90s and early 2000s. I said,

“Do you actually remember what it was like, then? Like actually remember?” He thought about it for a moment and then said.

“Not really. Some things. The movies we went to see in the theatre. The year we won the Varsity basketball championship. Things like that.”

I said, “Yeah. me too. But everyone our age is online everyday complaining that the world is shit now, and how much better it was 20 years ago.”

“Well, it was.” He said.

“How do you figure?”

He paused for a moment. “Look at this way, when you’re a kid, nothing is too late. That’s what nostalgia is. It’s the reason that people can look back at their father’s coming home drunk and beating their asses with a smile. Because even though it was likely horrible at the time, what they did was go to their room afterwards and dream. Man, in a couple of years, I’ll be out of this town. Shit like that. But now, the magic is wearing off, you see? Sure, self-help gurus will still tell you that everything is possible, but we know now that we’re not going to the NBA. We know we’re not going to play any sports professionally. You know now that you’re most likely not going to be a rock star. That’s why the past is better, because it wasn’t about what we were actually doing, it was about the possibilities of what we could do.”

“Wow.” I said and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” He asked.

“I was just thinking about 9/11.”

“That’s weird.” We laughed again.

“I know. I was remembering dad picking me up from school on 9/11 and telling me that something bad had happened. I was just remembering him younger, and stronger and walking home down Aaron and George and Dover, and the news being on the TV when I got home. I remember dad standing behind the couch, pacing like he always did. But I remember being happy, even as the news showed total destruction and the next day was the birthday when dad filled the dining room table with comics. You remember that?”

“I do.” He said. Then he laughed. “I was thinking about that not too long ago, too.”

9/11?”

“Well, kind of. It was at the same time that Brad and I stole the golf cart and crashed it. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember.”

“That was the same time. I broke my arm and told mom I broke it falling off a swing. Remember? We even went to the hospital in Bathurst, where mom went off on the doctor for saying that there was no way I broke it falling off a swing.”

At that, we both erupted in laughter. Picturing my mom screaming at a doctor, yelling, “If my son says he broke it falling off a swing, then he broke it falling off a swing!!”

“Then dad taped a wooden spoon to my arm and wrapped it in gauze. Remember that? I was playing baseball at the time and we practiced that whole fall. It was fucking brutal. Throwing the ball in the front yard with a broken arm and a wooden spoon taped to it. I was just thinking about that because I remember looking at your comics on the dining room table and accidentally knocking a couple on the floor with my spoon hand and you getting upset.”

“Shit, eh? I don’t remember that. That’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, the old man really wanted me to play in the majors. For a little while there, I thought it was possible.”

“You were pretty good.”

“Yeah,” he said with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“Your arm was broken, and you were in a shitload of pain and I was sitting on the couch as the towers fell. And yet these are wonderful memories.”

“They’re all wonderful memories. That’s the problem.”

I spent the summer of 2017 in Winnipeg training for a job with the railroad. 8 weeks at a state-of-the-art facility doing both classwork and practical work to ensure that I was good and ready to not lose a limb or cut myself in half by the time I returned home to eastern Canada.

My then-girlfriend (currently my wife) was pregnant with our first child, and we were living in a small apartment in Fredericton, New Brunswick. Before the announcement of the pregnancy, the apartment seemed like a little slice of heaven. Something of our own. A little hint of freedom. But when I came home from work one afternoon to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the duvet and nervously telling me that she was pregnant, the apartment instantly revealed itself to be what it truly was. A dump. A small decrepit building with lead-footed upstairs neighbours, and needle-using neighbours to the left with toothless smiles and irritated blotched skin.

At that time I’d just graduated from university and was working in a lumber yard while writing music and chasing dreams of becoming an acoustic singer-songwriter. I’d played a few gigs at bars and cafes around the city, and professionally recorded a few songs at a studio across the bridge by a young man who gave me a good deal because he’d just found out that his wife had another family in Europe, and just didn’t give a shit about his rates. I wasn’t climbing the charts or making any money, but I was young and filled with a self-confidence that boarded on narcissism, that seemed to be serving me well.

So when the announcement that I was going to be a father echoed in my ears, I felt my shoulders slump and I took a walk downtown past old gothic churches with sinister steeples that seemed to be mocking me in judgement. I’m no religious man but the symbols were strong and eerie, and all these years later, I can still picture them, images from the changing of the guard. When the skin was shedded, the old self was gone, and the rebirth of someone new. Someone not self-centered, someone who would provide and stuff away silly dreams of being a new Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, or whoever the hell I thought I was going to be.

That evening I sat in a coffee shop on Queen Street, near the back by the discount rack of books that smelled like stale cigarettes, and years of neglect. The chair was old and sunken deep, and beside me was a painting of a boat navigating an angry storm, dark, and malicious. I sipped on my coffee and thought about decisions, because anyone who’s a parent knows that those months fly by and the longer you put off some form of a structured plan, the bigger your chances are of holding a newborn, looking in their soft innocent eyes, and saying, “Sorry. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Then I travelled back in time to my teenage years in Campbellton. We lived in a house with stained white siding and a steel roof at the bottom of a hill in a working-class suburb. Whether this was a dream, reality, or a nostalgic cocktail of the two, I’m not entirely sure, but this is the way that I remember it. I’d lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as it slanted downward at a 45-degree angle, I’d hear my father and mother downstairs, talking. He was getting ready for work. I’d hear three soft kisses in succession and then the closing of our front door with a loud thud. I’d run to the window and peek through the blinds like I was Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window and stare at my father as he walked up the hill into a thick malevolent fog that transported him into the world of men. A world of danger, where the God was steel, and steel was an unforgiving and vengeful God. An Old Testament God. And my hands would shake as his body moved towards it. Stained overalls, a Teamster hat, a metal lunch bucket, a coffee thermos, and steel-toed boots tied with long laces wrapped around the top of the boot, one, maybe two times, and he was gone. That world frightened me as a kid, and I thought I’d outrun it forever.

But as I finished my coffee that evening, I realized that I was a man. Not much younger than my father was then, and it was time to embrace my bloodline and head back home, to the God of steel.

“What do you think about me asking my dad about seeing if he can get me on at the railroad?” I asked Morgan.

“There’s no railroad here.” She answered.

“No. There isn’t. We’d have to move. But it pays well, and we could have a house by the time the baby is born.”

“What about our friends? What about your brother?” She asked.

“We’d still see them. Just not as much.”

And she cried. But not tears of regret or longing, but rather tears of acceptance, and understanding that it was a good plan, or at least, the best plan in our limited options. So, I called my father, and the process began. A series of interviews, aptitude tests, and physicals got me to my training dates. The summer of 2017, when my son was due.

Then more tears followed as we realized that I’d likely be at the other end of the country when our son was born, and that Morgan’s parents would have to move her to a post-industrial town in the northern part of the province, where she didn’t know a soul, and she’d have to stay there, alone, pregnant, and hot as she waited for me to return so that we could start our new life.

She agreed.

On the evening before I was set to fly out, I didn’t sleep. I wrapped my arm around her belly and rubbed it throughout the evening, listening to her softly snore, and the steady rhythmic traffic outside the window. This had been our home, and in the morning it would no longer be home. The notion that the following evening I’d be sleeping in a hotel a thousand miles away had my heart racing and my skin cold. Was I making a mistake? Did I give up on this place too easily?

Too late now.

That evening is still tattooed on my brain. Her belly, my hand rubbing in a clockwise motion, the decisions of being an adult, how in the snap of a finger, it all changes.

The eight weeks spent out west were strange, but not without a ray of hope. I met some great guys. Guys that I’d still consider friends all these years later. Though we weren’t all navigating the same storm, we were all lost at sea, all seeking companionship to ride out the storm and see where we ended up. And in that aspect, we weren’t alone.

The courses weren’t overly difficult, but there was an overlying fear of failure. Guys did fail the course there, and you were sent off with a handshake and the best of luck as you hopped on a plane and flew back home without a job. I’ve since learned to handle my business and work under pressure in the subsequent years, but this was a major challenge for me, with stresses and anxieties that were as foreign as the prairie landscape of Manitoba.

Towards the end of the course, I received a text from Morgan telling me that she was going into labour. I could have flown back but there was an issue with doing that. If I went, then I wouldn’t graduate with my class and I’d have to wait and finish up with another class when they got to where I currently was with their education. Not ideal. There was also the very real, and rational fear that if I were to meet my son, kiss his head, look into his eyes and his mother’s and hold them, and for the first time understand what having a family truly meant, that there was just no way on God’s green earth that I’d hop on a plane and come back. That would restrict me, and all of this would have been for nothing.

So on a Saturday in late July, Morgan went into labour and I watched via FaceTime in my hotel room. I went through the highs and lows, and the unbearable pain of not being there. I watched as Morgan screamed, and I transported myself back to the evening before I left, just me and her round belly, and all the questions of the world that I couldn’t answer. And I asked myself once again, “Was this all a mistake?”

Then after hours, our son was born. But there were complications in the delivery. Shoulder Dystocia is what they call it, and it’s basically when a baby's shoulder gets caught above the pubic bone, when they finally delivered my boy, they rushed him off to the NICU in a panic. Just like that, “Where’s Lukas?” I asked. And Morgan screamed, “Where’s my boy? Where is he? Where is he?” And she cried, and I cried, and I threw my phone across the hotel room looked out at the city skyline, and closed my eyes. Wishing I was back home, like the Wizard of Oz, there’s no place like home.

There were some mild complications, but after a few hours we were able to see my boy in a tube in the NICU and it broke my heart. The doctors said he’d be fine, that they just needed to monitor him and a few days later, he was out.

Then came the day when it was time to go home. We all went to the airport and sat and waited with anticipation. My class all graduated, except for one and we were feeling pretty proud and unbelievably excited to be home. Morgan moved from Fredericton to Bathurst, which was about an hour south of where I grew up. The job required an immense amount of travel, so we rented an old house in a nice neighborhood, and her parents moved her in with the help of my brother, and a couple of my buddies.

As I sat in the airport, I thought about the whirlwind of changes. I’d lived in a University city, living in a small apartment with Morgan, working in a lumber yard, playing guitar. I was returning with a new job, in a new city, in a new house that I’d never seen, and a baby that I’d never met. It was a lot, to say the least.

The flight got delayed a couple of times as tornado warnings were delaying and cancelling flights all over the country. And I felt that urge to cry again. I just wanted to go home, why was it so hard to just get back home? After hours, we hopped on a flight to Montreal, and then I got on a small plane from Montreal to Bathurst.

As the plane approached the tarmac in Bathurst, my new home, I felt an unbelievable zest for life. And as we landed, I could have planted my lips on the asphalt and held them there for the world’s longest kiss. I was home, and that part of my life was finished. A friend of mine named Ryan drove me to my place, and I had no idea where it was. I didn’t know the city that well, and I just gave him the address. Once we reached the house, Morgan waited outside for me, holding my son and I thanked Ryan and his wife for driving me, then I grabbed my suitcase in the trunk and walked down the driveway and held them both, right outside on a warm August afternoon. Tired and depleted, I just held them. I remember Ryan telling me that his wife cried as she watched us, thinking the moment was so beautiful. Once we went inside, I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Do you want to hold him?” Morgan asked. And I’d realized that I’d never held a baby before in my life.

“I do. But I’m nervous.” I answered.

“You don’t have to be nervous.” And she handed him to me. I picked him up and held him in the palms of my hand. I kissed his forehead and told him that that was it. No more long trips away from him, that I was going to be around. I was going to be around. My hands shook nervously, and everything around me was foreign, but at the same time, I smiled. It was all perfect too.

I had a few days to rest, and then it was time to head back home, into the fog.

Then one morning, I woke up and grabbed my work clothes that were piled in front of my closet. Lukas was sleeping in a bassinet next to Morgan and I walked over and kissed him on his forehead. It was dark. Too early, and as I went downstairs to brew some coffee, I realized that the course was just the beginning. This was where the work actually started.

I hopped in my car, turned on the radio, and drank my coffee as I drove an hour north on Highway 11. The summer was slowly turning into the fall, and a fog was rising over the lakes as I drove towards the God of steel.

I was just a kid, I thought. A room filled with posters. A mind with no more depth than basketball and girls, movies, and music. I was just a kid, strumming my guitar, and sitting with my friends along a thin stretch of grass between the asphalt and the fence. We were spinning basketballs on our fingers and imagining a basketball scout taking us away from the smokestacks and the grinding, screeching sounds of steel on steel as the railroaders shunted freight cars in the yard along the riverside. I was just a kid who’d run away from that world. Who went to a liberal world of free love and music, and hope and dreams, and here I was. The fog enveloped me. It was time to see what was on the other side.

I was going home.

Nothing

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

Maps

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 Sound cloud 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.)

Sociopath

“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?

Motorcycle

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.

Magic

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.

Larries

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?)

Relics

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.

Moments

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 damn good. 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.

Heart

“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.

Confusion

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.

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Title: Snapshots

Genre: Nonfiction/Memoir

Age Range: All ages, with a particular focus on young parents and fathers.

Word Count: 20,000

Author Name: Eric Johnson

Why It’s a Good Fit

Snapshots offers a unique and deeply personal perspective on parenting through the eyes of a young father raising two children. It delivers a heartfelt, relatable, and unfiltered look at the everyday moments that make family life both challenging and extraordinary.

Hook

A deeply personal and heartfelt exploration of parenting, Snapshots doesn’t shy away from the raw, unvarnished truths of fatherhood while celebrating its beauty and humor.

Synopsis

Snapshots is a heartfelt and candid journey through the joys and challenges of parenthood, marriage, and self-discovery. Told as a love letter to his children, the author shares a series of deeply personal vignettes that blend humor, vulnerability, and wisdom into a touching tapestry of family life. Through his honest storytelling, Eric Johnson captures the magic in ordinary moments and offers readers a glimpse into the transformative power of love and resilience.

Target Audience

Fathers seeking relatable parenting narratives.

Readers who enjoy memoirs or vignette-style storytelling.

Mothers and families looking for heartfelt, humorous reflections on family life.

Millennials and young adults navigating parenthood and personal growth.

Bio

Eric Johnson is the author of There’s Gold In Those Hills. Based in Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada, he lives with his wife and two children. A former reporter, Eric now works in Marketing, drawing inspiration from both careers to fuel his storytelling. His writing is marked by honesty, relatability, and a passion for capturing the small yet meaningful moments of life.

Platform

As a young father actively raising two children, Eric offers a fresh and relatable voice. While he is in the process of building a website and author page, he plans to promote his work through local events and social media, focusing on connecting with parenting communities and memoir enthusiasts.

Education

Eric holds a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in Communications and English.

Personality/Writing Style

Eric’s writing is honest, down-to-earth, and unembellished, capturing the beauty and messiness of life with humor and warmth.

Interests and Hobbies

When not writing, Eric enjoys playing guitar, reading, watching movies, and spending time with his children.

Hometown

Campbellton, New Brunswick, Canada

Age: 31

At the end of the day, this is about love. I love both of you more than you’ll ever truly understand. My hope is that by reading these stories, you laughed, reflected, and maybe came to a different understanding of who I am as a person—maybe even a better one, a closer one.

From the moment you came into my life, I knew that you both had to be at the center of my writing. For years, I wasn’t sure how to do that. I wove parenting into some of my fiction, and it was fine, but I always felt like I was hiding behind characters, putting on a mask to tell the story. Eventually, I knew I had to stop hiding. I had to write directly about us—me and you—without the filter of fiction. (Though don’t be surprised if I do that again someday. Old habits die hard.)

These stories are imperfect, just like life. They’re snapshots through my eyes, a personalized view of events. So often, the world wants to lump people into groups—into generations, stereotypes, and labels. “These people are tough.” “Those people are soft.” “Everyone born between this year and that year acts this way.” It drives me crazy. Life is never that simple.

I don’t want you to live by anyone else’s definitions. I want you both to be your own people. More than that, I want you to be good people.

Right now, you’re sitting in your pajamas, watching your iPads on a rainy Sunday, and I know that someday, I’ll miss this so much it’ll hurt. I hope that on those days, even when you’re grown and out of the house, we’ll still have a strong foundation. I hope that you’ll always feel you can come to me, and I hope there isn’t a single moment in your life when you doubt how much I love you.

I love you. Every second of my life.

Earlier this year, I was in a state of disrepair. Your mom and I had been arguing a lot, and things felt dismal—like there might not be a light at the end of the tunnel.

On Boxing Day, I found myself staring at the pictures you both had drawn for me that I’d hung on the wall. Lukas, there was the picture of you in a rocket ship with the words, I love you to the moon, and a little drawing of your face in the rocket. Zoey, there was your list of favorite things about me written on Popsicle sticks.

You were both on the floor playing with Lego, and after some time, I mustered the strength to get down there with you and play.

Your mom was upstairs. We’d just had a heavyweight bout, and for the first time, I was sure this was it—she was going to leave. As I watched you two play, I pictured the house empty, just me in it, with the unbearable silence. I thought I’d go mad.

But your mom stayed. And while the wounds didn’t heal instantly, we’re still here, still together. Still trying.

There was a day around that time when I was home alone. I don’t remember where everyone was, but the house was quiet, and I was alone with my thoughts. I knew I had to call my father. He and I hadn’t had many serious conversations about marriage or life, but I knew he’d gone through similar struggles with my mom. If anyone would understand, it would be him.

I paced around the house, the phone in my hand, weighing the decision. Finally, I dialed his number. He was at work, and at first, we joked around as we always did. But eventually, I just came out and said it:

“I don’t know what to do. We can’t stop fighting, and I feel like I’m going to lose her.”

We talked for an hour. He listened, shared, and reassured me. When I hung up, I felt better. The problems weren’t solved, but the weight was lighter.

I want you both to know that talking to your parents doesn’t have to be hard. I’ve made it hard for myself at times, and I don’t entirely know why. Maybe it’s pride, maybe its fear. But every single time I’ve swallowed that fear and reached out, the world felt greener, and calmer. I want that for you, too.

The trouble with living inside our own heads is that we convince ourselves no one understands. We think our burdens are ours alone. But the truth is, most people do understand—maybe not the exact situation, but the feelings are often the same.

One evening, we were getting you two ready for bed, and your mom said, “Zoey, don’t forget your unicorn and your iPad.” You answered, with that sweet, matter-of-fact voice: “Unicorn and iPad.” Just like that, I had an idea.

I think it works not just because you said it, and the way you said it was adorable, but also because it captures something about this moment in time—about parenting at a crossroads. We’re navigating the tension between the newest technology and the timeless charm of simpler toys and traditions.

Lukas and Zoey, you’re both growing up in the golden age of technology and to be honest, I don’t entirely know how I feel about it. I’m not the kind of parent who screams, “THAT’S ENOUGH SCREEN TIME!”—though maybe I should be at times. Instead, I find myself swinging like a pendulum between the positives and negatives of it all.

Not all screen time is equal. Lukas, for a while, your screen time revolved around Kids Learning Tube. For an entire year, you were obsessed. You learned about the solar system, countries, continents, the bones of the human body, and even how diseases work. You’d come to me with tidbits of information I didn’t know, and then you’d draw maps, quiz yourself on geography, and nail it every single time.

I’d tell your mom as we did dishes, “That kind of screen time can’t be bad. He’s learning more from YouTube than he is from me.” We’d laugh, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. The way information was presented on those channels sparked something in you—interest, excitement, and the joy of discovery. That’s a rare magic, and I’ll take it wherever I can find it.

Of course, there’s the flip side. Some videos are pure nonsense, and when I hear those, I tell you to turn them off. These days, you’re both into Minecraft, and from what I’ve seen, it’s a positive thing. It teaches creativity, problem-solving, and even math. But sometimes, especially on lazy weekends, I feel like it consumes you. That’s on me too—I can hear the judgmental parents saying, “Take them outside!” And we do. Parks, swimming, fishing, arcade trips, and just sitting by the water with coffee and hot chocolate. Zoey, you have your dance classes, and Lukas, you’ve tried art classes and martial arts. We try to give you experiences.

But sometimes, I just want a Saturday to sit and read, write, or be lazy. On those days, when I see you glued to your iPads, I’ll say, “Who wants to do a craft?” You both usually shout, “YAY! Let’s do a craft!” And then we make an absolute mess of the house for five minutes of painting before you’re over it and back to the iPads. That’s parenting too.

For Zoey’s fifth birthday, your mom and I got you a massive Barbie Dream house. It had over 80 pieces and took me an entire evening to assemble. The morning of your birthday, you ran downstairs and were ecstatic. For a while, it was everything. But like most toys, the excitement faded. That’s part of it too.

Lukas, sometimes I miss when you were into Pokémon. I understood it better than Minecraft, and it felt like we were bonding—organizing cards, watching the series, and even writing Pokémon books together. The same was true with Star Wars. We’d read books, put up posters, and have our little rituals. But your interests change, and that’s okay. It’s part of growing up.

When I was a kid, technology was there, but not like now. We had GameCube, Xbox, and the internet. Then I moved to the sticks, where there was no high-speed internet, and it felt like going back in time. I can’t say technology consumed my life, but if it had been more accessible, I’m sure it would have.

That’s why I struggle with parents who claim, “My kids were always outside!” Of course, they were—it wasn’t an option to be glued to a screen back then. And those same parents are now online, sharing their wisdom from behind their own screens. We’re in a strange world.

Here’s the truth: as adults, we don’t know as much as we pretend to. We hope to seem convincing, but your mom and I were just kids ourselves when we had you. Lukas, when I held you for the first time, it was only the second time I’d ever held a baby. I was so nervous my hands were shaking, but I was also in awe. You were everything.

By the time Zoey was born, I was more ready. I had a couple of years of parenting under my belt, and I even cut your umbilical cord, Zoey. But the dynamic had shifted. Two kids meant a whole new learning curve, and we made plenty of mistakes along the way.

I think of a quote I heard in the movie Only the Brave: “We don’t see the world as it is, but as we are.” That feels profoundly true. I don’t know what’s universally right or wrong; I only know what I believe to be right and wrong. I hope I can pass the good parts of me on to you and leave out the bad, though I’m sure some of both will come through.

Above all, know that your mom and I love you. There’s not a single day where we’d choose a different life. Even through the headaches, the screaming matches, and the moments when work and finances feel like quicksand, I know I was meant to be your father.

If you take one thing from this book, let it be this: I love you. Always. Come to me when you need something. Come to me when you’re in pain. Come to me when you’re excited or nervous. Come to me with recommendations for movies, music, or books. Come to me when you need to talk. Because sometimes, kids just need to talk to their dad.

Zoey, you had your own frightening experience that led to a trip to the hospital. You were just a baby at the time, crawling but not yet walking. I still don’t know how it happened, but much like the carrot incident, your mom and I must have taken our eyes off you for three seconds, and in that time, you managed to get a little piece of plastic into your mouth. I think you found it underneath the fridge.

It wasn’t a big piece, and it didn’t block your breathing or anything, but it triggered a massive gag reflex we’d never seen before. That day, during lunch, every time we put food near your mouth, you started gagging uncontrollably. It was terrifying.

We rushed you to the hospital, where they ran a series of tests. But no one could figure out what was wrong. To make things even more confusing, you weren’t gagging at the hospital. It got to the point where it seemed like the doctors and nurses were starting to think we were imagining the whole thing.

But then, the strangest part happened: you figured it out.

Sitting there in the hospital, you calmly stuck your little fingers down your throat and pulled out the piece of plastic that had been lodged there.

What a relief. You even outsmarted the doctors and nurses, who had no idea what was going on.

It was another one of those experiences that reminds you just how fast things can happen.

You blink or turn your head for a second, and kids will find ways to get into things you didn’t even know were there.

If either of you ends up having kids someday, it’s something to keep in mind. Things happen in the blink of an eye. Stay as alert as you can.

Lukas, when we first moved into our house on Munro Street, you got violently ill. It started with gastro, but when you threw up, some of it got into your lungs, and the gastro turned into pneumonia.

I remember how you wouldn’t eat or drink. We’d try giving you water, crackers, or plain bread, and you’d try, but you just couldn’t keep anything down. You were so weak you couldn’t even walk. Your mom and I thought maybe some fresh air would help, so we put you in the sandbox outside. But even then, you just sat there, pale and listless, and it became painfully clear that something was seriously wrong. You’d grown so skinny your arms looked like twigs.

We rushed you to the hospital, where they told us what was happening. Because you weren’t drinking any liquids, they had to put you on an IV. When they inserted it, you completely lost it. You screamed and cried, thrashing so much that by the time it was done, stress marks had appeared all over your face, back, and legs like acne. Your little body was drenched in sweat, and the whole ordeal left you exhausted.

The nurses told us you’d need to stay overnight.

At the time, I was working the graveyard shift at the mill, and your mom offered to stay with you. But I told her no—I’d do it. I was already on a night schedule, so I thought it made the most sense. More than that, I just wanted to be there for you.

I packed a bag with books, a little portable DVD player loaded with some of your favorite shows, and a few snacks. That night, I stayed by your side. When you finally fell asleep, I climbed into the tiny hospital bed with you, wrapping my arms around you. I hated seeing you like that—so frail, so unlike yourself—but I was glad to be there. It felt important to hold you close, to let you know you weren’t alone.

By the next day, you were strong enough to go home, and the nightmare was over.

It was one of the scariest moments of my life, and something I hope we never have to go through again.

I was about twelve years old when, somehow, I managed to get “in” with a group of older kids. We hung out all the time, watching Jackass, CKY, and Viva La Bam—shows that felt edgy and rebellious, the kind of stuff that made me feel like I was doing something just a little dangerous.

We had fun. Sometimes, we’d prank call random people and laugh until our sides hurt at the stupidity of it all.

But then there was that one sweltering July afternoon at Minnie’s Field.

Minnie’s Field was this big, open stretch of land overlooking the water and the bridge. It was a favorite hangout spot—usually harmless. That day, though, we decided to light single blades of grass and stomp them out.

It started as a stupid little game. We’d light a blade, watch it burn for a second, and stomp it out, laughing like idiots.

But then I lit one that didn’t stop.

Instead, it shot through the field like the entire place was drenched in gasoline. Within seconds, the dry grass was an inferno. Flames tore across the field so fast that I barely had time to process what was happening.

Panic set in. I ripped off my brand-new shirt and started slapping at the fire, desperate to put it out. I had a Gatorade bottle filled with water, and I squeezed it out over the flames, accomplishing absolutely nothing.

One of my buddies lived just down the street from the field. I sprinted to his house in a full panic and told him, “Minnie’s Field is on fire—and it’s my fault!”

He laughed, waved it off, and said it’d be fine. His calmness helped me catch my breath.

But when we walked back to the field and he saw the size of the flames, his calm disappeared. He started freaking out too. It was a nightmare.

His mom ended up driving me home. We ate supper that night—chicken and salad. I remember every detail of that meal because the tension at the table was unbearable. My dad’s face said it all, and eventually, he lost it.

The firefighters showed up and got the fire under control. Thankfully, no one was hurt.

But even now, I can still picture those flames. I can still see how quickly fire races through dry grass, how it feeds off the smallest spark.

Lesson of the Day Don’t play with fire.