"You Came in 14th, Dad...How Great Is That?"

(Photo by Jarrett Baker/Getty Images)

Many of you know my tired little story. I was laid off in November along with 150 of my closest friends. I'm told it's part of life. "Not my life," I frequently think. Nothing bad ever happens to me.

My wife, Katie, reminds me, however, of my days spent as a single parent in the mid '90s, after my divorce. Days of "situational depression" where I laid, huddled in a corner, too depressed to get out of bed, thinking of the hand life had dealt me.

My son, Corey, who was nine at the time, had chosen to live with "Todd, I mean Dad" instead of with Mom and our daughters, Erika and Julia. Corey would come into my room and say. "Hey Todd...I mean, Dad...we need to worry about us. Not about Mom and the girls. Get up. We need to go live."

I'd get up, and go shave and drag a comb through my hair. I'd shove some tooth paste in my mouth and "go live."

From "living" I struggled to find a new job, as my "wife" and I had gone into business together publishing a monthly "feel good" magazine. When I stopped feeling good, the magazine stopped too. When my marriage died, we put the magazine down.

I started a new job making "$6.93 an hour," a number that is forever etched in my brain. It was about 20 percent of what I had made previously, but I was working again. I was out of bed and I had started to "live."

At lunch, I'd go outside and take a walk around the building. I would wear big steel-toed work boots and jeans. Hardly exercise apparel. But I'd walk. And think. And think. And walk. When the 12:30 bell rang, I'd go back inside. And work. And think.

I'd think about my kids. My man, Corey, who was thrust into adulthood at the age of nine. My daughters, Erika and Jules, excited to go live with "Mom in her new house." I'd think about not being able to tuck them in. Or wake them up by throwing their shades open wide. I could still hear them sing "Butterfly Kisses" to me. Only now I couldn't feel their eye lashes brush against my cheek.

The bell would ring again. It was 5:00. Time to leave, pick up Cor at the babysitter, make him supper and go outside and play some ball with him.

"Hey, Todd...I mean, Dad...watch my curve. Did it curve, Dad? Did it curve?"

"About this much, buddy," I'd say to the little man, motioning. "How was school?" I'd ask as I turned and twisted, a la El Tiante.

"Have you heard from Mom?" he'd ask, totally unaware I had ever asked him a question. "Does this curve?" Corey would ask, totally unaware he had asked a question.

On weekends, I'd drive to Worcester to pick up the girls. As I got closer and closer to their "house," I'd get nervous in the pit of my of gut. Not sure if it was excitement to see my "Big girls" or the anxiety that comes with meeting "Mommy's new friend."

The girls would look absolutely beautiful as Mom sent them out of the house, dressed like little princesses. Erika was six and Jules was three.

We'd drive up to New Hampshire and the girls would sing to me. "Every breath you take, I'll be missing you," they'd sing, a la Puff Daddy's tribute to Notorious B.I.G. While they were rapping, I was fighting back tears. I still cry a bit, 15 years later, when I hear that song.

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