Previously Known As Chopperpapa.com

Our fathers sinned, and are no more; it is we who have borne their iniquities . Lamentations 5:7 “Dad? Am I a good person?”  “I think so, I know so, yes.”  “Will – will that help me when things get really rough?”  “It’ll help.”  “That’s not good enough, Dad.”  “Good is no guarantee for your body. It’s mainly peace of mind --- “But sometimes, Dad, aren’t you so scared that even --- “---the mind isn’t peaceful?” His father nodded, his face uneasy.  “Dad’, said Will, his voice uneasy. “Are you a good person?”  “To you and your mother, yes, I try. But no man’s a hero to himself. I’ve lived with me a lifetime. I know everything worth knowing about myself---” “And, adding it up…?   “The sum? As they come and go, and I mostly sit very still and tight, yes, I’m all right.”  “Then Dad,” asked Will, ‘why aren’t you happy?”  “The front lawn…let’s see… at one thirty in the morning…is no place to start a philosophical…”  “I just wanted to know is all.”  Something Wicked This Way Comes  I haven’t fo

A recent and passionate email from a reader reminded me of the enormous confusion that exists, predominately among men, about the definition of ‘daddy’. The email, too long for reciting here, is from a father, living in the US, who has two children abroad. He and the mother met in the states. Soon she became pregnant and not long after, for reasons unknown, moved back to her native country, only to discover after touching down that she was pregnant with their second child. Unsurprisingly, the relationship didn’t last, and the children have remained with her, on another continent, ever since. The father still resides here in the US. According to the email, he visits the children when he can but hasn’t seen them in two years.  This father’s anger, however, isn’t that he’s missing out on their childhood. It isn’t that he’s riddled with guilt a world away or that he doesn’t have the slightest knowledge of who his children really are. His frustration is far more involved, but ultimately und

Many years ago, in another life long before the Queen, I met a woman during a business conference. She was blessed with hazel eyes that could bring any man to his knees. Introduced through a mutual colleague, we got to know each other between breakout sessions and cocktail hours.  We stayed in touch and what started as two professional thirty something’s enjoying time as schedules permitted grew into a 300-mile long-distance relationship. Ignited by those first days in Memphis, our relationship was now fueled on long phone conversations and short weekend visits. From the beginning, things felt right. Divorced only six months, I already had a few failed ‘relationships’ in my rearview mirror, but this one, I believed, was different. She always said - and I always did -  the right things. We were made for each other, and both knew something more than coincidence had happened.     Everything seemed perfect when together. The conversation easy, the passion intense. I believed no one underst

In the aftershock of her announcement to end our marriage, one thought immediately pressed upon me; what is this going to do to our children? I wasn’t so interested in the why as I was the what. One child was six months the other just over 2.5 years. I knew they couldn’t grasp what was going on, even though she sat them down and comically explained that mommy and daddy were no longer going to live together.  Their reaction fell somewhere between Barney the Dinosaur distraction and drool.  The shame subsided only during happy hours and furniture shopping. I looked into their faces and saw my failure glaring back. I kept wondering how would I explain this to them in the years to come, and what does fatherhood look like when you are only doing it part-time? My therapist reminded me that kids were resilient and quality was more important than quantity. I wanted to believe him but knew it wasn’t that simple.  I was hurting, vulnerable, and it would have been easy to leave it all behind; the