My dad job is my favorite

Of all the things I've been up to now, the best has been being a dad.

I'm now in the middle ages of being a Baby Boomer and, with more yesterdays behind me than tomorrows ahead of me, I've built up a healthy resume of the things I've been:

Newspaper report, editor, director of operations, project manager. Ski racer, runner, surfer. Son, brother, cousin, uncle. Pain in the ass, curmudgeon. Singer, guitar player, piano player. Traveler, cook, photographer. Retiree, web surfer, data miner, blogger.

The best, by far, has been dad to Elizabeth and David.

In fact, I started writing these weekly musings about middle aged, Baby Boomer angst at the time Elizabeth was born, some 26 years ago. Her birth was the kick in the head wake up of the responsibilities of being a grown up started.

And then David was born three years later, and the notion of being a dad with a daughter and a son fully set in, both barrels, fully loaded.

You worry about your kids, you want to do the best for them, be the best you can for them. You make decisions you think will do them good and hope for the best. You hope to teach them by what you say and what you do, both the smart things you do and the bonehead things you do.

My biggest worry over the years was what kind of divorced dad I'd be.

A Pew Research Center study about Millennials -- the children of Baby Boomers -- said six-in-ten were raised by both parents, which means that 40 percent were raised by divorced parents.

I did what I could, took some of the examples of my own dad and mom and re-tailored them to my needs, trying not to lose sight that it wasn't about me so much as it was about the kids.

I'd been accused over the years of over-parenting, perhaps as an overcompensation, an over-adjustment, an over-correction for the divorce. But I know married moms and dads who over-parented too, so I can't blame it on the divorce, I just blame in on wanting to do everything as possible for my kids.

The kids are neither spoiled or lazy. They don't expect life to pave Easy Street for them just because their parents overparented.

They work hard at what they do. They're independent and engaging, as much fun to be with as adults as they ever were as infants, toddlers, tweens, and teens.

And today, as a result of a second marriage, I have the role as step-dad to add to the resume. It's been one of those bonuses that life can offer ... you know, lemonade out of lemons.

I'll be more things in the years ahead. I plan to hang in there for as long as possible to pad my resume as thickly as possible.

Along the way, Father's Day will remain one of my favorite days of the year. Not because of the attention that comes my way, but because it reminds me of the best thing that ever happened to me.

Vietnam remembered: A generation of Baby Boomers still grapples

Baby Boomers still haven't come to terms with their war in Vietnam.

All these years later, Boomers are a little schizoid about overplaying their role in it, underplaying their role, or just ignoring the era altogether as some bad dream or bad trip best forgotten.

Here's my Vietnam War story:

I opposed it and marched against it. I didn't burn my draft card, and in fact was drafted.

I was a University of New Hampshire sophomore in 1972 and was included in the draft lottery for men born in 1953. Student deferments were no longer given.

My number was 52. The government drafted everyone up to number 95.

I was taking a journalism course at the time of the lottery and one of our class requirements was to read the New York Times every day. It published the numbers assigned to those of us in that year's lottery. I posted it on my dorm room door and remember being woken early the next morning by voices outside the door; those numbers were quite the topic of conversation. I should have been a little smarter and posted it on the bathroom door instead of the door to my room.

I drove home to upstate New York at some point and boarded a bus to Syracuse for my physical at a Military Entrance Processing Station. I came out as a 4F -- unsuitable to serve because of health reasons. My allergies -- a pain in the ass for my entire life -- finally did me some good.

My sense is that many of us from that era are having issues being honest about our stories.

I'm thinking in particular of Richard Blumenthal, Connecticut attorney general running for the U.S. senate. He said he served in Vietnam when, in fact, he was stateside in the Marine reserves.

“In Vietnam,” Blumenthal was quoted as saying, “we had to endure taunts and insults, and no one said, ‘Welcome home.’ I say welcome home.”

He told the lie as a way to show support for current veterans whose decision to serve is theirs, as volunteers, not as conscripts.

We shouldn't be ashamed that we made decisions about the war.

Blumenthal was stateside at the time, out of harm's way.

It's sad he felt the need to overstate his involvement in a war that history has harshly judged as misdirected. Does the fact that he served statewide make him less electable? No. Would a 4F classification make him less electable? I'd like to think no.

I brought my medical records with me to the processing station and made sure the guys who poked and prodded me were well aware of my medical history.

I used my medical history to my advantage. If that made me a draft dodger then so be it.

Like others, I'm not sorry or ashamed that I didn't fight the Vietnam War.

I'm not going to be made to feel guilty about that. Neither should those who served in Vietnam. Neither should those who served stateside.

Management by walking around

When I worked in an office, part of what I did was management by walking around.

Now that I work in a home office, my management by walking around is a little different.

Back then , I'd walk through the departments I managed to see and be seen. I probably learned more by walking around than I ever did in the endless meetings.

Now, I walk through the halls of the house to put a load of clothes into the dryer, or through the kitchen for no other reason than to go through the kitchen.

Back then, I'd chat with the department personnel.

Now, I yell at the squirrels as they try to make their way from the roof to the bird feeder hanging in front of my home office window.

If squirrels were the only stress then I could argue that, at the end of my second year of retirement, I'm as laid back as laid back could be.

But I'd be lying.

Certainly it's less stressful than the office job with the corporate responsibilities of budgets, deadlines and personnel matters.

But retirement -- especially a retirement of part-time self-employment as a web content provider -- has its moments.

I still deal with budgets -- two in fact, the personal budget and the business budget. I let my accountant sort it out to keep Uncle Sam happy. Funny how Uncle Sam always ends up being happier than me come Tax Day.

I still deal with deadlines, imposed by the people I write for. Back then, I worked a day job, Monday through Friday, for years. What deadlines I had I could usually meet within those parameters those days and those hours. These days I work every day of the week -- it's a piecemeal schedule of a couple of hours here and there during the morning, afternoon and evenings. It's enough to keep me busy, but not so busy that I can't find enough hours to do those things that being retired offer.

It's all good.

I don't deal with personnel who work for me but I deal with the people for whom I work. Generally, we deal with each other by email, occasionally by phone, almost never in person.

The only living things I see during my walk throughs are the birds that come to the bird feeder. They are my office pets. I provide them with seed; they provide me with a distraction of flight, color and behavior that is often amusing, particularly when the male goldfinches are trying to establish territory. I make them happy; they make me happy.

My nemeses are the squirrels. They're like that poorly performing employee you know you have to deal with by trying to change their behavior ... or by getting rid of them.

Maybe the character of work hasn't changed so much after all.