Get paid, get plucked (Counting my chickens, Part II)

Lately, I've felt so plucked, I've felt like chicken feed.

OK, now that I've got your attention....

But, yes, sure...these are both exciting and stressful times for me. I'm writing for The Huffington Post, I have my own blog called "Coping with Life," I'm going to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, I teach at Rutgers University.

Oh, yes, and I have full-time job, too: I work full-time for The Record of Bergen County, N.J., covering transportation issues...I'm a married father of three.. I coach Little League...I serve on my college newspaper's board of trustees....I pull tractors with my teeth. (Quick quiz: which of the three is more stressful?)

And, despite having a workload that may send me to an early grave, everything was moving along fabulously for a while - that is, until I started screwing up (didn't Yogi Berra say that?).
Lately, I've been a little unprepared for things - on my teaching job, for example, I sometimes attract more laughs than listeners. That's what happens when you show up at 8:10 a.m. wearing the same smelly clothes you wore the night before, with a face showing overgrown whiskers and eyes as red as fire.

I've thought, geez, maybe I deserve some punishment way because I've taken on so much. I deserve having a bunch of Little Leaguers snicker at me, and try to hide their giddiness as they watched me struggle to keep my eyes open while teaching them the importance of catching with two hands.

Over the past year, I've lost hours upon hours of sleep - and not just to get work done. Sometimes I spend hours just worrying and fussing about everything - not seeing my family, meeting deadlines, feeling the pressure of school.

I drive when I'm too tired. I stay up and watch T.V. when I should be working.

Sometimes I wish it were still the 1990s, when I accomplished very little of anything other than writing stories on council meetings for small, substandard suburban newspapers in New Jersey.

Times like these remind me of what Malcolm X once said. Perhaps the chickens have come home to roost.

Yet, somehow, I manage to get through each crazy week, with my reputation seemingly in tact. Somehow, I manage to summon up the strength to get all my papers done, write all the stories for The Record I need to write by deadline and father three kids who don't appear to be on a track toward drugs and jail.

Over and over, I hear the same thing from people: "I don't know how you do it."

Well, the easy answer would be therapy. I've had a lot of that and, yes, it's helped. That, and willpower, determination - you know, the cliche stuff you hear about on T.V. or read on the back of a cereal box.

But, you know what's really helped? More than anything? More than anything you'll read in a book or seen in an informercial?

Fear.

Yes, fear.

Yes, the very thing that seminar talkers try to disassociate ourselves from. The very thing that FDR declared war on when he became president in 2003.

I fear the future. I fear that these could be the very last words I write. I fear my family growing up in a world where our leaders can't get along, can't keep us safe and can't balance a checkbook.
This fear doesn't cause me to run and hide to run and hide, however. In fact, I embrace this fear, and use it as a motivator.

Fear has kept me youthful and healthy. I live each day much like I did 10, 20 years ago. I run. I eat right. And I do as much as I possibly can to improve my standing in a world that's become so incredibly competitive - especially in age with a roller coaster economy and corporations downsizing by the thousands every month.

Perhaps this started with my mother, who suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and eating disorders.

As I watched her struggle to survive before her death in 2003, I could see my own future. I saw the potential for failure that could haunt me once I reach the age of 65, when my brains, arms, legs and, in particular, stomach won't work as well as they did when I were 25.

After her death, I became a mental health journalist, writing a column that addresses the various issues facing people with schizophrenia, anxiety, OCD and other disorders.

I was also one of only six people to receive a Rosalynn Carter Mental Health fellowship n 2004, and I received $10,000 to travel the country and write about mental health treatment in the prison system.

The experience was therapeutic, too, because it taught more about what each mental illness means, and what kind of treatment options are available.

But it also told me that there is a world out there that's passing me by. I need to be involved in my children's future. I need to have control over my own future - whatever the cost.

This past spring, I buried myself in work - and went three to four days at a time without sleep - as I finished a final project at school, finished my teaching semester at work and worked my ass off as I met deadline after deadline at work.

I came to a point, in midst of all this, where I started to lose confidence and ask my wife, Is this all worth it?

That month, however, it was my youthful spirit that saved me. It came with with my appearance at the Metuchen Third and Fourth Grade Talent Show.

In the days leading up to it, my fear of failure hit an all-time high because I knew I would appear sleep-deprived, ego-blown and pale before 1,000 people. But, as it turned out, I determined it was one of those times when you gotta crawl out of your egg shell and find your inner kid.

This month, it was the joy of watching my 10-year-old son winning his town's Little League championship (see below).

This article was originally published in The Huffington Post on Friday, June 20, 2008.

Counting my chickens after they hatched

The chickens came home to roost last week.

The perils of doing grad school and two jobs at the same time came crumbling down on me like a Colorado avalanche.

There wasn't any long-term damage to report, actually. But there were several embarrassing episodes that made me question: Is this all worth it?

I am doing the classic journalism juggling act: I work full-time at The Record of Bergen County, N.J. I'm a part-time adjunct professor at Rutgers University. I am a part-time graduate school student at Columbia University. I am a dad full- and part-time.

And that's only half my workload.

On Thursday, I showed up at my Rutgers teaching job 10 minutes late, wearing the same clothes I wore the day before (and they weren't very professor-like) and smelling like Andy Dufresne after he crawled through that sewer pipe in "The Shawshank Redemption." I had just spent much of the previous 48 hours working on a final project at Columbia, with no sleep.

My class chuckled intermittently as I tried to explain away the previous 48 hours. The crowning blow came when I asked one student, "What do you plan to write about for your final assignment?"

"I don't have any idea," he said.

"I don't have any idea" was what I wrote on the board. Then came another laugh. It was a lighthearted moment, and I tried to play along.

But, inside, I felt empty. I felt like I just wasted a whole semester teaching 19 people how to write. Is this how they all feel? I thought.

Luckily, the next student I called on had an answer, and we moved on. But when they left at the end of the period, I felt sick and ready to collapse. All the adrenaline left my body, and left me feeling lifeless and bloodless.

I recovered soon enough, so I could go to work. Once I got there, however, my boss had some unpleasant news: I missed a story that appeared on the web involving a PATH accident near Newark.

My ever-supportive boss was not happy. And rightly so. What's interesting is that I was harder on myself than he was on me. "Don't worry about it," he said, over and over. But the sick feeling just got worse. I knew I could do better, and I didn't.

Then came Sunday. Place: Metuchen Little League field. Event: My 6-year-old's game at the town's elite field. Their names would be announced on the P.A. system. They would be given the complete major league treatment: National Anthem, dugouts, nicknames, a snack bar.

I was the manager, and I wasn't prepared for any of it. I scrambled throughout the game, carrying a piece of paper from my pocket. I wrote down the names of my players, accompanied by their favorite foods ("pizza" was the overwelming choice) and their favorite players. I continually forgot the line-up, and repeatedly sent players to the batter's box even though they were out-of-order.

I could hear one of the other coaches snicker. "He's gotta be better prepared for these games..." At the end of the game, my legs again felt lifeless.

This weekend, You Tube saved me.

Out of the ashes was my below appearance at the Metuchen Third and Fourth Grade Talent Show. It was an event that had me worried the least. But after the embarrassing of the events of the weekend, my fear-level hit an all-time high as I thought of appearing sleep-deprived, ego-blown and pale before 1,000 people.

Somehow, however, everything came together. When stressed, crawl out of your egg shell and remember your inner kid.

That video game may not be hazardous to your health

Perhaps it wasn't the repeated playing of Karate Champ and Pac-Man that drove people to drugs and crime after all.

"Grand Theft Childhood: The Surprising Truth About Violent Video Games and What Parents Can Do," which will be released soon, turns that notion of violent T.V. causing violent behavior on its head.

The book, written by Lawrence Kutner, is based on a $1.5 million research project funded by the U. S. Department of Justice.

Kutner said society is beginning to see a more widespread "backlash" against the notion that violent media cause violent behavior in the real world.

"It’s not just our research. A few days ago, Stephen King wrote an essay about this for Entertainment Weekly," he said. "At the opposite end of the publishing food chain, yesterday the 180-year-old British medical journal The Lancet ran an editorial calling the link into question and challenging the previous research."

Kutner, who is a co-director of the Center for Mental Health and Media Department of Psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital, called the issue "a hot topic in the areas of mental and behavioral health."

Areas of dispute range from public policy, he said. What, if any, are the links between violence in video games and violence in society?

"There are also the very practical issues faced by parents daily," he said.

Adults need parents, too

By DARCIE BORDEN
Featured Blogger

I want my mommy!

That’s how I feel sometimes. Not often, but in times of crisis, for sure. When you’re a grown-up and you fall, sometimes you need more than a Band-Aid. Lately I’ve been wondering, do we ever stop needing our parents?

I’ve been a mother for 15 years now, applying Band-Aids to my own kids’ scrapes and cuts and soothing their worries and fears. The ironic thing is that as we get older, we’re supposed to need our parents less, but our cuts are sometimes deeper and our worries get bigger.

My son Julian is in middle school, that time when he is no longer a little kid, but not yet a teenager. I feel like I’m in a middle stage too. I have all of the responsibilities of an adult and mother, but sometimes I want my parents to take care of me and tell me everything will be OK.

As long as you can still feel like a child, there’s a feeling of security. Thankfully, I haven’t lost a parent yet, but I’ve read that when you do, you realize your separateness all over again.

Our ultimate fear is that we really are alone. That realization of being separate from our parents happens at other ages too, like when a baby discovers his hands or feet for the first time and is surprised that he is actually separate from his mother’s body. Or like when a toddler or preschooler has separation anxiety when she is dropped off at daycare of preschool for the first time.

I think I went through adult separation anxiety this past year. You see, my parents moved from New Jersey to Texas two years ago following my older brother’s move out there. If that wasn’t enough to unhinge me, my last living grandparent, and the one I was always closest to, moved to Texas. Then, my younger brother moved to Miami.

This big change in our family forced me into that middle stage, perhaps a little younger than some people experience it. I felt my separateness from my parents, because even though my parents are still alive and well, they are at least 3,000 miles away and cannot be here to provide any sort of safety net or support. They aren’t here to attend my kids’ concerts or birthday parties. They aren’t here to help me if I’m sick. They aren’t here to babysit or pick me up if my car breaks down. I can’t just drop by to have a cup of tea with my dad or go for a manicure with my mom.

The miles between us have cut the apron strings. I am not leaving this middle stage without some kicking and screaming, I admit. I am screaming “I want my Mommy!” just like a toddler being dropped off at a babysitter, but my screaming is silent and deep down in my gut where it takes the form of anxiety.

Luckily, in a father’s eyes, his daughter is always his little girl. This is why every little girl needs a daddy, to make her feel like a daughter again. Like when my dad knew I was depressed and anxious, and he said, “I will stay on the phone with you for two hours every day if it’ll make you better.” Or when he said, “I will come and stay with you for as long as it takes.”

Of course I never made my dad do those things, but just knowing that I was still his little girl and that he would take care of me was all I needed. That kind of fatherly love, the kind that says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” is the kind that makes you feel stronger. It’s the kind that gives you a gentle shove to get out there and play again.

I know my dad is on the sidelines cheering me on to the next stage. I will arrive at the beginning of the second half of my life a more mature, compassionate and wise person, with a wider view of the world, a view that only those of us who are willing to take off the training wheels have the privilege to see.

Our young boys are coming of age - at an early age

Now that he's 9, my son comes up with questions I have trouble answering.

"Daddy, why do people smoke pot?"

"Daddy, why do people get divorced?"

More than half-way through fourth grade, he's seeing things happen to his friends that he's never had to face in his own life. Like any smart child, he wants to explore.

One family, in particular, has had its share of problems. The 17-year-old son has had legal troubles. The father has had substance-abuse issues. The parents are divorcing. The mother is overwhelmed. The 10-year-old boy — my son's friend — is often confused and sad.

We've tried to help, giving the 10-year-old a place to stay for two weeks while the family sorted things out. We signed him up for karate and soccer.

But the boy came to resent our help. He wants his mother, his father. He wants no more of us. Now you can add my son to the list of people suffering.

My son is a sensitive child who absorbs the pain of others, forcing us to expand our role from supportive parent to patient psychologist. The older he gets, the more complicated and abstract the child-rearing decisions become.

Like many children in their prepubescent years, he's getting a sense of a world that can be unforgiving and ugly. His sense of innocence is fading. Now it's our job to guide him through it, so he doesn't fall victim to the same pressures and pitfalls that his 10-year-old friend — as well as his 17-year-old brother — are facing.

In the PBS documentary "Raising Cain," Michael Thompson, a nationally renowned psychologist who co-hosted the film, talked about how the most challenging years for boys are between the ages of 9 and 13. It is during this time that their perspectives on life are shaped, he says.

They begin to discover things about themselves and their world that they find interesting, puzzling and even embarrassing. But their ways of dealing with these issues often differ. Many reject the negative influences and become independent — or completely isolated.

In my son's case, we have our fears. The more he deals with reality, the more he's become more isolated in his thoughts. His listening skills have diminished. The Wii game system has become his oasis.

At the same time, he's gotten angrier and more disrespectful. He's modeling the behavior of other boys from whom he used to keep some distance.

Many boys, like my son, often give in to the outside pressures — either because they're exciting, or because they feel they have no choice. They're raised to be society's leaders, but many of them are too insecure to accept the role.

Thompson says that American boys are 15 times more likely than girls to abuse drugs and alcohol, and twice as likely to die in a car crash. Boys are 30 percent more likely than girls to drop out of high school.

"All of these statistics suggest that a significant percentage of American boys are troubled psychologically," Thompson said. "They are not finding either success or peace of mind."

For many parents — including myself and my wife — the prevailing wisdom has been to shelter them from this ugliness. We've limited his exposure to news events — such as Sept. 11, 2001. We've tried to steer him away from friends who might be trouble.

Thompson, however, suggests that too much limiting of exposure to reality could have the reverse effect.

He says that boys become more interested and intrigued by things that are beyond their reach. They tend to copy the behavior of people they can't have access to, or they simulate exciting and even scary events that happen well beyond the confines of home.

On PBS' website for the documentary, Thompson cited the words of a kindergarten teacher who said, in her class, kids played Hurricane Katrina by hanging from the monkey bars and pretending the water was getting higher.

He viewed this as a positive activity. "They were reassuring themselves, saying 'What I saw on the news won't happen to me. I can protect myself.' "

Thompson, who also co-wrote the book "Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys," suggests a list of strategies for dealing with a boy's transition from innocence to reality.

* Give boys permission to have an internal life, approval for the full range of human emotions and help in developing an emotional vocabulary so that they may better understand themselves and communicate more effectively with others.

* Recognize and accept the high activity level of boys and give them safe boy places to express it.

* Teach boys that emotional courage is a form of courage, and that courage and empathy are the sources of real strength in life.

* Model a manhood of emotional attachment. "Boys imitate what they see," Thompson said. "If what they see is emotional distance, guardedness and coldness between men, they grow up to emulate that behavior."

* Teach boys that there are many ways to be a man.

"We have to teach boys that there are many ways to become a man; that there are many ways to be brave, to be a good father, to be loving and strong and successful," he said. "We need to celebrate the natural creativity and risk-taking of boys, their energy, their boldness."

This Coping column was originally published in The Record of Bergen County, N.J.

In the cold city streets, Wii can work together

As the hours passed, our toes went numb. We shook our legs from time to time, just to keep the blood flowing. Some of us wondered who'd be the first to suffer frostbite.

For nearly four hours, this New York City street felt like Fargo, N.D. In front of me was a line of 160 shivering people, each of them tired, disgusted and hungry. There was barely any semblance of Christmas spirit. Indeed, with the cold wind hitting my back -- making my coat feel as thin as paper -- I was feeling more of a sense of "I hope they appreciate this."

We were waiting for the Wii, the interactive video game system that comes in a white box, with a slender white controller that will make my two boys go "ooh" and "aah" on Christmas Day. Its special effects and other appealing devices have caused a Beatlemania-like frenzy at stores.

This crowd of shoppers outside Rockefeller Center's Nintendo World on a crisp, cold December morning consisted of fathers, mothers, grandmothers and grandfathers waiting patiently for something they couldn't get anywhere else.

Trying to purchase a Wii has been a turn-off this holiday season for many parents who have grown weary of such holiday-shopping gymnastics every year. When I told some parents my story, they struggled to hide their bewilderment, and some looked at me as if to say, "Are you crazy?"

Even the most rational people, however, have fallen for the hype. My mother-in-law, who has more self-discipline than I'll ever know, once chased after a FedEx delivery person who pulled up to a game store, thinking he possessed the much-coveted toy. He didn't.

But the fact that we're behaving this way over a toy has made us question our sanity, as well as our consciences. Our rationalization -- and many may agree -- is that we're doing this for the kids. My two sons have been asking for a Wii since it was first released more than a year ago. We want them to be as cool as every other kid on the block.

We're also spending a lot of money that could go toward something more important. We're caving to our children's every need and desire, we're telling ourselves -- and I froze my butt off in the process.

When I was a kid, Star Trek walkie-talkies were the rage. My siblings and I begged for them for Christmas (and never got them). Then, when we were older, we asked for Atari.

We never got that, either. But some friend always had it, so we ended up spending more time at our friend's house than anywhere else. We enjoyed the simple designs of the games, like Pac-Man and Asteroids.

Since then, the newer versions of Nintendo as well as Xbox and the various knockoffs have gotten more complicated. Paul Eng, Web senior editor for ConsumerReports.org, said they're more for the "frequent player" who cares more about high-definition graphics and the other technical nuances of Super-Smash Mario Brothers than the casual Pac-Man chomper.

The Wii, however, brings us back to the way things were, Eng said. It's not just for kids, but also for parents who are approaching 40 and appreciate the simplicity and interactive qualities the system has to offer.

It harks back to the days when a video game had a simple joystick that moved a boxer's fist or shot balls of fire that fell from the air.

"You look at PlayStation and Xbox -- those are really good systems, but they appeal to those who have a background in video games," said Eng, who got a Wii system for his 40th birthday this year.

"But with the Wii, you can pick up a controller and say, 'Hey, I swing this like a bat [in the system's baseball game] and it hits the ball."

Next year, the Wii is supposed to get even more adult-oriented, Eng said. Nintendo is introducing a fitness package that could include a scale, a workout regimen and yoga.

"We were always told [when we were younger] that we shouldn't play video games," Eng said. "But there is nothing wrong with having fun."

Still, we ultimately purchased this system with a mixture of glee and guilt. Often, my wife and I find ourselves doing the opposite of what our parents did. We don't want our boys to go to a friend's house to have fun.

But then we look at what we've gone through just to complete a whimsical wish list from a couple of young boys, and we think: Maybe our parents were right.

But it's certainly better to feel good than bad, isn't it?

This column was originally published in The Record of Bergen County on Tuesday, Dec. 18, 2007.

Kids need support, even when they don't deserve it

When I was a kid, my parents seemed to come to my rescue just at the right time - even when I didn't deserve it.

Once, my parents stormed into the principal's office to complain after my seventh-grade music teacher grabbed my hair and dragged me to the hallway.

They were defending the indefensible, really. The teacher had grown tired of my wisecracks and other misdeeds, and my parents knew it. But it made me feel good, so that's why they did it.

Two months ago, I came full circle. My wife and I tangled with the principal of my 9-year-old son's school over his placement in math.

Initially, we thought we were getting the brushoff, and I didn't let it go. I wrote an e-mail to the principal that was full of venom. I got a response - it wasn't nice, but it was a response - that spurred a meeting with the superintendent.

In the days leading up to our meeting, debate raged in our household - especially because the school produced evidence that, in some ways, supported the principal's decision. We asked ourselves: Was this the right plan of attack? Or should we have been more patient and waited to see if our concerns would be addressed?

After much discussion, we're convinced we did the right thing. Indeed, professionals say it's best to show support for the child - even if his performance has been disappointing or behavior inappropriate.

"I don't think there's anything more important for a kid than to know - and to feel - that their parents are going to be there for them," said Tom Kersting, a student assistance counselor for the Ramapo-Indian Hills Regional High School District in New Jersey.

Sticking up for him shouldn't necessarily be interpreted as an endorsement of the child's actions, Kersting acknowledged.

Parents shouldn't refrain from disciplining a child, lecturing him or, at the very least, having him consider what could have been done differently. Children crave structure - even if it comes as discipline.

Kersting, who has written books that deal with children's self-esteem and diet, said some school districts have policies that allow parents to occasionally override the decisions made by administrators and teachers.

Those districts may go too far. But Kersting said parental input is vital, because mothers and fathers may see things in their children that administrators may miss.

"If you see some important variables that the school district doesn't see, then it's very important to stick up for your kids," said Kersting.

And in times of crisis, a child's self-esteem is at risk. Older children tend to have a better grasp of the difference between right and wrong. If they've done something inappropriate, most likely they know it - even if they don't show it.

In my case, I learned my lesson before my parents got to the principal. There was something about standing in the hallway that made that hot-and-stuffy middle school building feel cold and lonely.

My son was angry about not getting into the higher-level math, where he was placed last year. We didn't even know about it until the school year was several weeks old.

Two months ago, I told him about my angry e-mail to the principal. At first, he showed no reaction. Then, later that day, we got word from others that my son was bragging at school about how his dad was sticking up for him.

That night, he just couldn't stop smiling. Every time he looked at me, he'd give me his gapped-tooth grin.

And, oh, by the way - he's back in high math.

This column was originally published in The Record of Bergen County on Dec. 4, 2007.

On Halloween, don't ever underestimate the power of Elmo

His laugh sounds like a broken car horn. He could use a haircut - all over his body. And he has this habit of talking in the third person.

I'm speaking of Elmo, of "Sesame Street." But to my 1-year-old daughter, there was something about this big, red hairball that was sweeter than a gummy bear.

Anna's crying? Pop in an Elmo DVD.

Anna's hungry? Well, Elmo to the rescue.

Anna hurt herself? Well ... yes, him, again.

Shockingly, after 20-some months of this, the furry monster seems to have lost his magic touch -- in our household, at least. And it happened just when we needed Elmo the most.

You see, Elmo's a gas when he's dancing and singing behind a 21-inch glass screen, banging on an imaginary piano and talking to a goldfish that doesn't talk back. But to Anna, he isn't so cuddly when Mom and Dad - in the Halloween spirit - try to fit her in his three-foot-long body suit.

In fact, the thing makes her scream and shriek. His big red mouth covers her head like he's swallowed her whole. Now she and Elmo are on the outs.

Something like this happens every year, and it's part of what I call "Halloween gymnastics." It's an annual ritual that can be frustrating, tiresome, complicated but, ultimately, rewarding -- once it's all over.

It doesn't matter how "cool" the costume is, or how cute. If it isn't the right fit, or if it's too itchy, or if it's scarier than Darth Vader, it's a bust.

We're not the only ones experiencing this frustration, of course. There are Internet blogs devoted to such stress. For instance, writers on holyshnikes .com talked recently about how finding the right costume is a problem for adults, too - especially for parties.

Nicole Grace, a therapist from Englewood,, N.J., said the situation could be worse depending on what the individual, family or parent is going through at the time.

"They're reminded of their own family history, or if there is a problem in the current family or if they're feeling isolated, that could be an issue," she said.

Indeed, the gymnastics ritual doesn't end with our daughter. Our 9-year-old has aged out of "Star Wars" -- or so he told us initially.

We then suggested that he should make his own costume. We had dreams of saving ourselves $50. But, now, he says, maybe he hasn't had enough of Luke, Darth and Han. He can't decide. Aaargh.

Right: Anna

Then we ask the 5-year-old to go through the costume catalog and circle what he wants. He circles 10 costumes that would cost us $500, if we bought them all. And he wants them all.

Our final costume decisions won't be made until a few days before Halloween, probably, which adds to the stress of planning and preparing for this holiday. We often look at how the kids get big bags of candy and say, "Where's our reward?"

Reuben Gross, a Teaneck, N.J. psychologist, says if people are struggling to find peace on such holidays, they should "team up" with others who can provide some support.

That could involve a friend or a family member they feel comfortable with, or somebody who is experiencing the same issues and can share in the joy -- or pain.

Every year, my family always finds someone to share the day with. There's always another mother or father who is willing to accompany us as we watch our kids as they run from house to house.

"A lot of it [the stress] is accepting it as a short-term issue, and keeping things in perspective, and knowing there is a light at the end of the tunnel," Grace said.

Overall, we've learned to find balance, and routine.

We don't let the kids go by themselves, or with other people, for example. We go with them -- but not just to provide them security. We remind ourselves of what it was like 25 years ago when we wore our homemade costumes and grabbed little chocolate bars from complete strangers.

Later that evening, we'll check our candy inventory, and share.

The last act of the night is the picture. Since he was 1, my 9-year-old has known just what to do when he sees the camera. He gives my wife a kiss on the cheek.

That's the best reward of all.

Originally published in The Record of Bergen County, N.J.