Why This Blog?

In 1974, Harry Chapin released a song called ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’.  It was Chapin’s only #1 song, and it quickly became an iconic folk rock tune.  I was a kid when the song came out, 17 years old, so I’ve listened to it my entire adult life.  The song tells the story of a father and son relationship, and how their roles relative to each other change over the course of their lives. 

The story’s told by the father of a new baby boy, who’s too busy with the demands of his work and the stresses of his life to spend time with his son, despite the fact that his son looks up to his Dad, wants to do everyday things like play catch, and says that when he grows up, ‘I’m gonna be like you Dad.  You know I’m gonna be like you.’ Later, and predictably, when the son graduates from college, he declines his Dad's offer to hang out, and instead asks for the car keys because he has other things he’d rather do.  By the end of the song, the now retired father calls his adult son and asks to spend some time together, but the son is too busy with his own work and family to spend time with his Dad, and the father realizes his son has indeed grown up to be just like him. 

It’s impossible for me to listen to ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ without choking up.  I prepare myself for this whenever the song comes on the radio or to the top of my playlist.

Naturally, as a young man, my interpretation of the song was through the eyes of the son, and it was simple.  The father had allowed his misplaced priorities to rob his son of the everyday moments that he craved, and in so doing, he modeled behavior for his son who grew up to be just like him.

But, oh, how perspectives can change.  After becoming a father myself, I started to relate to the father in the song.  I had my own ‘planes to catch and bills to pay’.  For two years in our infant sons’ lives, I traveled every week, from early Monday morning, before they arose, until late Thursday evening, after they were asleep.  Sadly, my work was the primary focus in my life.  I was good at what I did, was challenged and well respected, and very well paid.  But also during that period, unbeknownst to me, there were cracks in the foundation of my family life.  Beyond the obvious of missing out on innumerable everyday moments with our boys, there was also tension that built in my relationship with my wife.  Though I looked forward to coming home on Thursday nights, ready for a long weekend with my family, my wife informed me that it was actually quite stressful for her when I came home, because it disrupted the routine she had with our boys.  Ouch.  After that two year assignment, I was offered an opportunity to take on even more responsibility at work.  My wife and I wrestled with the decision.  A downside was that it meant moving away from our families, but at the same time no more travel, a bigger job and more money, so what was not to like?  Ultimately, a still small voice whispered to me, perhaps in a voice from my future, that the path was wrong.  Try as I might, I couldn’t envision our boys playing in the yard of a neighborhood so far from their grandparents, aunts and uncles, and I turned down the promotion.  That began an extended period of introspection, questioning how I got to that point in my life, what I was doing and where I was going.  Ultimately, several years later, I left that career path entirely, not sure of what I’d do next, but confident that I needed to make a change.  I was 42 years old and rudderless, other than knowing that I wanted to be as present as possible in our children’s lives.  

And now, at 66 years old, with children turning 30, I look back, stunned to have arrived at this place.  Is this a dream?  Who is this person I see in the mirror, and who are these adults who call me ‘Dad’?  Of course, ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ still plays, and though the song hasn’t changed, I have, and I find myself with yet another perspective on Chapin’s song, in particular the last stanza, the one that I could never relate to, until now, and I find it to be haunting.  The ‘long since retired’ Dad calls his son and says, ‘I’d like to see you if you don’t mind’, to which the reply is ‘I’d love to Dad, if I can find the time.’  

I’m not affected by this stanza out of any regret for choices I’ve made or things I wish had been different.   Of course, I look back at how quickly the years have passed, and wish for anything to be able to relive any of the countless simple times.  If only.  Nor am I troubled by the thought that my sons may have grown up to be just like me.  Actually, I’d be honored.  Instead, what I find most difficult is something that I never could have felt until now, and that is that I think the old man wanted to see his son because he had things to say, and his son wasn’t available to listen.  Of course, that’s me projecting into the song what I feel, because now I’m the old man and I have things I want to say.

Maybe the things I have to say are simple or self-evident.  No doubt I’ve shared some of them with my children before, or they know them already, from observing me over time.  Nonetheless, they reflect who I am, how I think, and what I value and believe.  They’re my mental maps, a product of my upbringing, influences from my parents, my wife, mentors and close friends.  They’re a reflection of lessons learned from defining moments, decisions good and bad, and choices made over 50 years of adulthood.  And important to me as well is that I want to share them in one place.  I don’t want them left unsaid or taken for granted.   This may be because I lost my own father shortly after my 15th birthday, and have longed for a lifetime to know him better, and to have known of him what I have the opportunity to share with my children now.  

So now, at a point in my life when things have slowed down a bit, and I seem to have a clearer perspective on my life’s many chapters, and while I’m still sharp enough to remember and to write, and relevant enough in the eyes of my children to be heard, I put to digital paper, in one place, a compilation of things I'd like to say. I call it Passing the Baton.