How I Got Here

I’ll never forget the day I received the text, “I’m pregnant.”

I was a Superintendent of Schools in Western Massachusetts, the youngest in the state.

When I looked in the mirror, that's who I saw. After this text, would I be someone else?

On my way to becoming Superintendent, I considered 12 hours of work a “half-day.”

Whether I said it or not, I expected everyone I worked with to put these hours in, with little or no regard for their commitments to their loved ones or their responsibilities outside the workspace.

I was a command-and-control leader; my only point of reference for leadership was other command-and-control leaders. To me, work came first, and I could not understand or comprehend anything different. 

I remember my father in the 1980’s. What will my child remember of me in the 2010’s?

I knew immediately, though, that absentee fatherhood wasn’t for me. Having spent my career as a voice for children and young adults who needed a voice, I knew too well the effects of unstable upbringings, household dysfunction, diminished safety, and a lack of love and support. 

I considered my own childhood in Niagara Falls: my memories.

One kid who lived around the corner from my family and I was shot and killed in the living room just four houses away. I was playing with the boy who had shot him just days before. When I was in 10th grade, the Valedictorian of our school’s senior class killed his mother the night before graduation. Just two weeks before, I was shooting hoops with him. In the same year, I lost a wrestling teammate to gun violence. Decades later, these memories still haunt me.

A series of executive decisions had to be made, and I knew it. This would be the most defining moment in my life.

What would it take for me to be the dad I believe a dad should be?

Would I put him first - before work?

I thought about his living space and his diet, the air he’d breathe, his comfort, and even his shampoo.

I decided I’d do whatever it took to be a part of his life, every-single-day.

I’d put work second, for the first time since washing dishes at the Pine Plaza Restaurant when I was 14 years old.

On the night of April 18, 2011, Luca was born. It was Marathon Monday – and he waited until the race was finished to come into the world. I was the first one to hold him. I had on my green and white Oregon dri-fit Nike hat. Van Halen played in the background. It was one hell of an unforgettable moment. He didn’t say much, but I didn’t need him to.  

Luca’s mother and I developed a joint (50/50) parenting plan. And while this was being worked out, it seemed like it could work.

Then, after returning home from a business trip, everything was gone one Sunday. The closet in my son’s room was empty, with only a baseball uniform hanging in the closet. All that was left were this one piece of clothing, an unsigned agreement on the kitchen table, and his smell.

The next day, there was an emergency hearing in the Worcester Family Court where I was given temporary full custody of Luca. He had to be delivered to me at a police station via a court order. After a long night and the involvement of two separate police departments, Luca was brought to me nearly a full day after the order was signed by the judge.

Now what?

I had a baby, a car seat, a plastic bag with a few diapers, a binky, and an empty bottle.

When I got home, the seriousness of this situation grew. I was on my third consecutive day out of work and would likely not go in for a while. I navigated between calls from my office and calls to anyone who knew anything about babies. I needed to find “baby people” fast.

I called my friend Karen.

“Hey, do you know anything about babies?” I asked.

She laughed, reminding me that, yes, she had two of them – no longer babies, though.