It’s the last week of summer. Technically, there’s next week. But my alone time with my son lasts through the end of this week (7/20 – 7/24). Soon, his Mom will come down and get him. School back in Indiana will start the first week of August. Then, summer 2026 will be a wrap.
It’s a funny thing how time works in a kid’s mind. All summer long I’ve been hounding him to put away his clothes. Pick up his toys. Throw away trash. And pick up his shoes. You’d think after two months of hounding that the message would sink in. But I walked by the shoe area just now and saw these in the middle of the floor – a fact notable only in that this is NOT where shoes belong. I reckon a couple of months is just a blink to a kid, no matter how we adults might think otherwise.
It’s true that my son really isn’t a kid anymore. My son is now a fully-fledged member of the teenagers’ cohort. His ASD diagnosis notwithstanding, I don’t think there are many teens lurking about who have mastered the art of picking up after themselves. He may not run the tidiest of ships, but if my nephews and friends’ kids are any metric, his general lack of comportment is hardly due to being on the autism spectrum.
Of course, not all of the summer has been like this. There have been the usual summer pitfalls that are absolutely attributable to the autism spectrum. His sleep has been dysregulated since he got to town. Also, they’re less frequent now, but the meltdowns seem to have gotten more intense. Yelling and screaming are usually the pièce de résistance of his outbursts. And then there are those moments late at night, long after he’s drifted off to sleep, where this Dad just feels like he’s flailing about and not entirely sure what to do to fix any of it.
But then there are the wins. My kid has read two chapter books this summer (the first two of The Olympians series). We took a trip to Colorado and deftly navigated the chaos and noise of the airports. He has gotten into a new video game in his own right (Ark: Survival Ascended). We’ve even graduated to noise cancelling headphones, adult shampoo/conditioner and grown-up toothpaste. When you add in that he’s never missed a meal, and learned how to use the air fryer to boot – well, it’s nearly enough to counter-balance the challenges.
The summer is surely drawing to a close. And it’s fair to say that things have been far from perfect. There’s still shoes on the floor. But I suspect that in a few weeks when the house is quiet and everything is tucked away in its proper place, I’ll miss those shoes on the floor and will see more of the wins from this summer than the challenges.
It’s been a minute. Half a year nearly. My plan coming into 2026 was to write more – and I have to an extent. Just not here. My journal is full. I’ve also unexpectedly written job applications and cover letters aplenty. But this space has surely been neglected.
I think like many people who started blogging around the early aughts, the point was simply to share what was on the mind – whether it be about politics, faith or just what happened during the day. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. I remember an embarrassing amount of two paragraph posts about nothing at all in the early days of Pax Plena. I also posted way more than I should have about politics (a quaint bygone era compared to the rough and tumble dissension we seem to have in the public conversation today). I even managed to continue posting through law school, my doctoral work and the early days of my academic career.
Then things just gradually went off the rails. I started to self-censor. I was careful to the point of being paranoid about sharing thoughts or content related to my field. I felt the need to keep up a certain facade regarding my personal life. Eventually, all of the things that make a person interesting were out of bounds at least in terms of sharing and my own writing.
Today, that notion of blogging is almost completely gone. There are TONS of platforms for sharing content. Pictures. Music. Videos. Memes. Things that are silly. Things that are sad. Sites for personal interests abound – fishing, gaming. watches, fountain pens, sports are a few personal favorites. There are also multiple sites for accessing content. It really doesn’t matter – if there is an interest in the content, whatever the stripe, it can be found in abundance.
Which makes my whole exercise here at Pax Plena ripe for a revisit.
Now that I lack institutional affiliation, I find myself wondering about the kind of content that I’d like to share. I wonder what folks would find interesting. I don’t feel the same shackles constraining me any longer. It’s almost like I can write about and say whatever I want again. It’s exciting but also strange. I suppose liberty can be that way.
Most of my friends and colleagues don’t have this luxury. I know that some former colleagues do not write freely because professional obligations require them to self-censor. The first amendment may be alive and well as we approach America’s 250th Anniversary. But both the public and private sectors have a way of stifling speech that is far more nefarious than a lot of us think about. In the public sector, otherwise interesting writers are constrained to share or “publish” only the content that their bosses approve. If you are a federal worker, the authority of the President to fire simply doesn’t cut in your favor. In the private sector, thanks to the bastardization of at will employment, may workers find their speech rights limited by company policy, lest they find themselves axed for expressing an opinion that isn’t company friendly. It’s enough to make one wonder if the first amendment right to free speech is worth it. And for many it’s easier to self-censor rather than take the risk. Democracy truly does seem to die by a thousand cuts.
So, I think it’s fair to say that I need to pause a bit and think more about what kind of content I’d like to share now that I have the luxury of freedom. I also need to think about what my stamina and pace of life will find manageable. I think I’m up for regular posts. A weekly essay would be interesting and doable – though it’s admittedly not very frequent. But I also don’t want to write just to write. So, I wonder what kind of value I can add to any reader’s life by my scribblings. The old adage is to write about what you know. These days, parenting and fatherhood, faith, doubt, job transitions, and relationships are all at the forefront of my mind. Maybe it’s just the general ennui of one’s mid-40s that keeps my focus so narrow. But it’s also good manners to stay in one’s lane so to speak. Lot’s to think about.
For now, it’s Fourth of July Eve here in the USA. My nephew’s birthday will kickoff soon. He turns 12 this year. Hard to imagine really. It’s a funny thing with these kiddos: the time seems to pass so quickly.
I can recall being 13 and the summers seemed endless. Back then I could while away an afternoon inside my grandparents’ house, parked in front of the AC reading the latest volume I’d slipped from the Library in town. Grandma would fix us lunch. There was the hope of fishing in the late afternoon still to come. The future then seemed so bright and exciting. There were no worries. No debts to pay. No utilities to cover or careers to maintain. No people to please. I had an unshakable, blind faith and confidence in the world and the people around me. I knew that they would take care of me and that all would be well.
It never entered into my mind (not with any sort of fulsome reckoning), that one day, the people I love and trusted, the real grown ups in my life, would no longer be around.
Seven years ago on July 4th, 2019, we all popped fireworks out at my Grandpa’s house. We did the same on July 6th at a relative’s place. I had no idea that less than a month later my Grandpa would be gone; that seven years later, Grandpa, the dogs in the picture, and even my relative’s partner – and a whole host of others – would all be gone. Such things do not really cross the mind of a grown man, not really. Let alone the mind of a child.
This year, the Nation is 250 years old. I’m 43. My son is 13. And it feels like the entire world has changed.
Summers, now, seem so quick. The future seems dark – like the best of days are all behind us. I find that I trust people less. And it’s a sad, thing to trust others less, particularly when I know how garbage of a person I am.
On this 250th Anniversary of America, I feel most for the kiddos. It’s like the current generation of kids got all of the fake adults. I think that most of us Millennials really know don’t know how to adult. We all just woke up one day, and all of a sudden we found ourselves here with kids, jobs, relationships, regrets and none of the fun we were having back when we were 13. It’s not true but the whole thing doesn’t seem fair. Some days it doesn’t even seem real. Life is but a dream. It feels like maybe one day we will wake up and none of this will have happened. The world won’t be so chaotic. Mistakes won’t have been made. We won’t have elected a crazy orange dictator to leader our country. And I’ll be young, safe and happy once again.
Maybe in the distance, my Grandpa will be lighting fireworks while the dogs trot behind him ready to sit back down when the nonsense is over.
This past week marked the seventh anniversary of my divorce. It’s a topic that I’ve alluded to on these pages before, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever directly addressed it.
I don’t think the details are very interesting, although they are, admittedly, what most folks fixate on. In some ways I get this. We humans are a curious lot. As a culture, we tend to gravitate towards the details of other peoples lives in a way that almost seems baked into our DNA. Consider the prevalence of reality TV. Our society revels in the details of other peoples lives – from how they date, to the homes they buy, and even to how obese they are. Why we care, I’m not sure. But we damn sure love the details.
For my life, I think the details of a relationship matter less than one or two critical moments along the way. While it’s true that the little things tend to add up and drive the vicissitudes of life forward, I think that at the end of every relationship there’s a bit of a time wound that leads to the relationship’s end. This wound boils down to a single, decisive moment. A personal rubicon. Where going forward, the relationship is no more. And looking back, it is all that the relationship ever was. A wound in time for the aggrieved, and perhaps a moment of celebration for those making a break. Or some combination of the two.
For me, this moment is forever etched in my mind. I recall the hurt. It wasn’t my choice. It sent me spiraling into frenzy of depression and drinking (something I’ve only recently addressed). I also recall the loneliness and the fear. It was paralyzing. Would I see my son? Would I be a part of his life? Would he grow up calling my ex’s new husband Dad? (The very thought of this made me wretch.) At my age, would I ever find love again? How would I recover from the financial damage done after seven years of life lived together?
I have answers to some of these questions now. Some I don’t. I still haven’t found love and I just hit 40, so the odds aren’t necessarily in my favor to borrow from the Hunger Games. But if I could go back and chat with the me of seven years ago, I would sit down and tell him, “Dude. Calm the eff down. It gets better.” Not necessarily right away. But it does.
As a part of my own reflection, and mindfulness, I have lately opted to read a chapter of the Bible each day. I made it up to the book of Joshua before I gave up on reading the Bible in a year. But I figure I can at least read a chapter of the Bible a day. For some, I know that religion is anachronistic and passé. I’ve never felt that way. I find great comfort in faith but I get that your mileage may vary.
Anyway, I read Joshua chapter one the other day. There, God reaffirms the promise to guide Moses, and strikes it afresh with Joshua. As Israel stands poised on the banks of the Jordan to enter the “promised land,” God once again states his intent to remain a bulwark to Joshua and Israel.
Therefore shall not any man be able to stand before thee all the days of thy life: As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee: I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.”
– Joshua 1.5
God further exhorts Joshua to be strong and have courage. An important bit of advice, seeing as Joshua was essentially taking the helm of leadership over the entire Nation of Israel.
Be not dismayed: for the Lord they God is with thee withersoever thou goest.
– Joshua 1.9
The link I make between the words of God to Joshua and my own experience with my divorce is that the message could easily have been given by God to me – but for the fact that, at the time, I had no truck for hearing anything from God – let alone actually believing the sentiment of the message itself.
But it was true. What came to pass, ultimately “did not stand.” These many years later, I have not reconciled with my ex-wife. Yet, I live in her house and we co-parent in a way that most people do not understand. All of this is borne out of necessity. Our son has ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) and requires intense guidance and direction. From the time he gets up, to the time he gets on the bus for school, to the time he gets home, and throughout the evening, our lives are all about a routine that revolves around him. Given his disability, this is what he needs. We will never be a couple again. There’s no desire for this on either of our parts. But in the love we both have for our son, there is no daylight between us.
So, despite the spirals and darkness that followed my marriage’s end, I find that God was steadfast. I felt his presence even when I chose to ignore it. The Lord was with me throughout.
He was there as I sat on the bridge in Laramie, WY drinking whiskey. He knew my thoughts as I considered ending my life with a quick leap to the train tracks below me. He guided me to a new job in another state. He led me here to Indiana, in the midst of the pandemic, to care for my son. He allowed my work position to become permanently remote. And he facilitated this entire transition.
So, the end result is that what God promised to Joshua (and Moses before him), he promises to us today. I was foolish and afraid seven years ago. I was “dismayed.” But God’s grace exceeds my own failings. He is steadfast. I can look back on the past years and see grace made manifest in my life at every turn. I can look ahead, now, and see the opportunity to live a life without fear. After all, there isn’t much more to fear in life that exceeds what I have already endured.
The thought is a liberating one.
I’ve already gone through the fire. I’ve traveled to the dark places. I’ve stared down my demons. What was intended for harm, did not stand – all thanks to the steadfastness of God. Like the above rock in the desert, the oceans can fall away. The land can erode around me. The trees and vegetation can wither and die, just like the life I once knew. Yet, my own experience leads me to conclude that in the end, God will remain at my side even if the landscape around me is charred and barren.
This is all good.
But it presents an entirely different and exciting question as a result: How would you live your life, if you knew that there was nothing to be afraid of?
And once you have your answer, go do it. I’m still working on mine.
It has been a long while since I’ve graced the pages of Pax Plena with a new post. Given a quiet Father’s Day Sunday here in the U.S., I couldn’t think of a better time to resurrect our ailing blog once again. Like Lazarus rising from the dead, this disease of blogging silence never quite seems to lead to death. Our blog has merely fallen asleep.
What prompted me to write this afternoon was an opinion column by the Washington Post’s Megan McArdle that shared some personal reflections on why fathers matter.
Truth be told, I don’t really know of any camps that are ardently claiming that fathers do not matter. Granted, an article in the Atlantic, circa 2010, made the case that “there’s nothing objectively essential” about the contribution of a father to the well-being of a child. The point seems a bit weak. The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Indeed, other sources cite a wide body of literature that assess the importance of fathers and their role in fostering the well-being of their kiddos.
Then again, it is the Atlantic, so one would do well to consider the source…
By contrast, McArdle notes of her own family life that “my mother was usually the one who dressed wounds if you fell off the jungle gym; my father was the one who encouraged you to climb a little higher than felt strictly safe.”
Sure, the point is anecdotal, but I think it’s about right. In our family, Mother was always the one who set the rules, bedtimes, and made sure that we went to church. My Father seldom went to church, and had zero inhibitions about letting me ride in the open bed of a pickup truck while we drove around dusty county roads picking up cans to take to the recycling center. Note: This wasn’t something we did for the sheer virtue of a good deed, or environmentalism. There were no such bourgeois luxuries in the Fodder family of the 1980s. We just needed the money.
Such parenting today would immediately draw the ire of the nearly every child advocacy group in America, and quite possibly one’s local Department of Child Welfare. Suffice it to say, times were different in the 80s. And, to be fair, if Dad had insisted that I sit next to him inside the cab of the truck, I probably would have pitched a royal fit, and left him wishing that I had just rode in the back of the damn truck to begin with. We poor kids could be a precocious lot.
But there was something that was actually quite important that I learned from those dusty drives with dear old Dad. I gained a sense of independence, and self-sufficiency that I never would have gotten had either of my parents been the “helicopter parent” that’s en vogue today. From Dad, I learned to search within myself, and try to solve problems instead of complaining about them. I learned that you can’t always have what you want, but that you can obtain what you want if you’re willing to work for it. And I learned that there are literally millions of ways one can perish by eating a Twinkie.
(Family Joke: Whenever someone passes away, and one is foolish enough to inquire as to their cause of death within earshot of my Father, Dad’s glib response is always that they “choked on a Twinkie.” We usually groan and laugh, but I suppose normal folks might think this is morbid. Tomāto/Tomăto.)
And really, that’s why Dad’s are important: they show love to kids in a fundamentally different way from that of a Mom. And the difference is accounted for in that each parent brings their own lived experiences to the child rearing table, and kids are better for it. After all, what kid doesn’t need more love in their life?
So, to all of the Dads out there, take heart: you matter. And don’t let the Atlantic tell you otherwise.
Pax Plena 