So what’s your number?A Call to Action

Part I

My child arrived just the other dayHe came to the world in the usual way

But there were planes to catch and bills to payHe learned to walk while I was awayAnd he was talking before I knew it,

and as he grewHe'd say, “I'm gonna be like you dad.

You know I'm gonna be like you."

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoonLittle boy blue and the man on the moon

When you comin' home dad?I don't know when

But we'll get together then sonYou know we'll have a good time then.

My son turned ten just the other dayHe said, "Thanks for the ball, Dad, come on let's play.”

Can you teach me to throw?"I said, "Not today, I got a lot to do."

He said, "That's ok"

And he walked away his smile never dimmedHe said, “I'm gonna be like him, yeah.

You know I'm gonna be like him.”

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoonLittle boy blue and the man on the moon

When you comin' home son?I don't know when,

But we'll get together then sonYou know we'll have a good time then.

Well, he came home from college just the other daySo much like a man I just had to say

“Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?”He shook his head and said with a smile

“What I'd really like, Dad, is to borrow the car keys.See you later, can I have them please?”

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoonLittle boy blue and the man on the moon

When you comin' home son?I don't know when

But we'll get together then sonYou know we'll have a good time then

I've long since retired, my son's moved away

I called him up just the other dayI said, “I'd like to see you if you don't mind.”

He said, "I'd love to, Dad, if I can find the time.You see my new job's a hassle and kids have the flu

But it's sure nice talking to you, Dad.It's been sure nice talking to you."

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to meHe'd grown up just like me.

My boy was just like me.

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoonLittle boy blue and the man on the moon

When you comin' home son?I don't know when,

But we'll get together then sonYou know we'll have a good time then.

The Cat’s in the CradleHarry Chapin

(1974)

PA R T I

T H E S E C R E T

Do you want to know a secret?

I have the answer to a question that has vexed and befuddled since the dawn of modern civilization.

No joke....I really do.

Here’s the question.

What is it that drives men today?

What do you think it is?

Is it sex?

Nope.

Is it power?

I don’t think so.

What about things? Is it the desire for stuff?

No. The desire for things is a consequence—a result—result of what drives us, not the root.

So what is it? What’s the secret?

What is it that drives men today?

Drumroll please....here’s the answer.

Men today are driven primarily by one thing. And this one thing cuts across ethnicity, class, religion, race or culture. It drives men from Bel Air to the South Bronx. It’s drives men both rich and poor. It’s in our blood. It sits at our core.

Men today are driven by this—

Numbers.

Numbers have become our truth, our rock, our religion, our God.

We are vilified or vindicated by them.

We are crowned or crucified by them.

By numbers.

ii

I walked through the doors of St. Vincent’s Hospital exhausted and jet-legged. I had been flying for nearly 24 hours, including an unplanned overnight layover in Phoenix, in order to get back to Portland, Oregon in time for the birth of my first child. The date? 8.12.2000. Three numbers that would forever change my life. Because in just a few hours, I would be responsible for a living, breathing human being.

Oh God.

Though I exuded a quiet confidence, inwardly I was terrified.

Because my track record with living things—

Was not good.

Exhibit A.Speedy and the Goldfish

Once upon a time when I was just a wee little lad, I owned a snapping turtle named Speedy. Odd name for a turtle you say? Ordinarily, yes. But Speedy was fast. Whenever I took Speedy out of his tank to let him stretch his legs or dry his shell, Speedy would bolt. I mean BANG, ZOOM...Speedy was gone! Usually right out of the back door which we often kept open in order to enjoy the late afternoon breeze.

After a few months, I decided Speedy was lonely. Swimming in the tank all by himself just wasn’t fair. Everybody needs somebody, my wee little brain reasoned. Even Richard Nixon has a wife and Speedy is much cuter than Richard Nixon. So I plead with my Mom for a companion for Speedy.

A girl turtle was simply out of the question. My mother did not want little Spawns of Speedy milling about our house. One Speedy was quite enough. So we settled on goldfish. I was happy. Mom was happy. We bought a little bowl, some coral and six goldfish. The plan—at least the plan I discussed with my mother—was to place the bowl next to Speedy’s tank.

But I secretly had other ideas.

We set the bowl up; and placed it right next to Speedy’s tank. When my mother was satisfied that everything was just so, off to bed we went. But later that evening, I crept out of bed with the stealth of the cat burglar, tip-toed to the goldfish tank, and quietly removed the goldfish from their bowl and put them into Speedy’s tank. I didn’t want the fish to be by Speedy. I wanted the fish to be with Speedy. I wanted Speedy to have friends.

And interestingly, Speedy did poke his cute little turtle head out of his cute little turtle shell as I placed each goldfish into the tank one by one. Splish. One goldfish in. Speedy’s head emerged from the recesses of his shell just a bit. Splish. Second fish in. Speedy’s head poked out a bit further. By the time all six goldfish were in the tank, Speedy’s head was barely connected to his body. I had no idea that Speedy’s neck was so long. Speedy’s eyes were so BIG! I thought, Speedy sure is happy!

I crept back to bed convinced I had done a good thing. A very good thing. Mom might be a tad irritated by the waste of a perfectly good fish bowl, but I had created something meaningful. Something beautiful. I had created an underwater commune. Fish and turtle, living together, as one. I was no longer just a boy. I had evolved. I was John Lennon.

Imagine all the people. Living life vas one. Woo hoo woo hoo hoo.......

The next morning, I got up really early to check in on my commune.

And to my horror, the unspeakable had happened....

Speedy had eaten the golfdfish!

Not all of the goldfish. Speedy had just eaten one-half of each goldfish. I guess Speedy was saving the remaining half of each goldfish for breakfast.

No no no no no! I knew turtles ate fish. But I thought they only ate dead fish...like the frozen shrimp we had been feeding Speedy. Not living fish. Not my goldfish!

I was a murderer.

I was going to HELL!

After pleading for forgiveness, from my mother, from God, I was fairly certain (though not entirely convinced) that I was not going to burn in hell for my transgressions. (Parents...this is why you should think very carefully about sending very young children to Catholic school as my parents did. I spent the better part of my youth convinced I was going to hell (or at minimum would rot in purgatory for at least 100 years) because I broke at least one commandment each day. Some days, two. I was also absolutely convinced that the devil had taken up residence in my bedroom closet, just behind my clothes, pitchfork in hand, waiting patiently to reclaim my evil, sinful soul. I could hear him breathing at night.....long, deep, heavy breaths. Folks, I know the sight and sounds of terror. I really do. It is the sight of a closed closet door in a darkened bedroom at 3:00am in the morning and the sound of the Beelzebub breathing rapidly behind that door, just waiting...waiting...waiting....)

I’m sorry. I digress.

I tend to do that.

In any event, a few weeks later, after I’d sufficiently healed from the horror of having to dispose of six half eaten goldfish (which, shockingly, were not replaced by my mother), I decided to let Speedy out of his tank to stretch his now lonely little turtle legs. For reasons that I cannot begin to fathom, I also decided at that point to go and watch my after school cartoon block. The problem? I’d left the back door wide open. So while I sat transfixed by the power, the passion and the profound wisdom of the Great Gazoo, Speedy saw his chance for freedom and bolted right out of the back door.

We never saw Speedy again.

First I had killed the goldfish.

Now I had lost my turtle.

I was a murderer.

Twice over.

My mother was not pleased.

Beelzbub was waiting. For me. With glee.

And I spent the next several months staring at my closet door wondering if you burned all at once when you went to hell or just a little bit at a time.

Exhibit BPlants

As a recent law school graduate, I didn’t do furniture. I had no need for furniture. I had my very own apartment baby. I had a queen-sized mattress (note—I did not say bed, I said mattress; I didn’t do box springs and bed frames until much later in life), a color television, cable, a boom box, a stack of CDs and a lava lamp. I was good. I was sexy.

I was the man.

But the love den was not complete.

I also needed something that said I was mature.

That I was was responsible.

That I was refined.

I needed plants.

Because ladies love the plants.

And so it began. I would buy a plant. Usually a big plant. Like a majestic palm. I would forget to water the plant. The plant would die. I would replace the dead ugly plant with a new plant. I would remember to water the plant. Once. Maybe twice. Then the plant would die. I would wonder why.

Finally, I just gave up.

I couldn’t do plants, because they kept dying. (On the “cool/you are so not cool” scale, a dead plant is so much worse than no plant). I would NOT do pets (See, Exhibit A). So I finally settled on TV’s. The bigger the better. TVs were good. TV’s were sexy. Ladies love a big....TV. TV’s had ESPN.

You could not kill a TV.

At least not easily.

And that worked quite nicely for me.

iii

The walk to the delivery room was endless.

Walk down Corridor A to Section B then take Elevator Bank C to Level D, walk down Corridor E—E not G—turn at the double doors on your right at the end of the hall, go 200 feet and you’ll find some stairs, go up the stairs to Level F, make a left, right, then another left, walk 50 yards and on your right you’ll see Room 203. Here’s a color-coded map. New baby, huh? Your first? Well congrats! Nothing to it. I thought, Um...yeah. Right. Nothing to it.

I was nervous; really nervous, and with each step I felt as though I was walking towards some unknown abyss. Screw space. For a man, this is the final frontier. Sure, I’d gone to those mind-numbingly bad pre-natal classes where they show you videos of babies being born and then hand you a pillow and a plastic doll, but I had no idea what to truly expect from the day. This having a baby business had me unnerved.

But I was determined to be strong. To be brave.

I was ready to step up, man up and do my part.

Damn right.

I brought CDs.

*********

I made it to the delivery several hours and several wrong turns later. (I refused to look at the map—I don’t need no stinkin’ map!—’cause maps are for wimps). As soon as I arrived, I unpacked my CDs and discussed my plan for the birth of our baby. With great dramatic flourish, I explained that just as our baby was being born, into the world, into the light, we would play Moby’s “God Moving Over The Face of Waters” from the movie Heat. (Do not laugh, I am not making this up). I really thought this would be thew coolest thing since, since...since the invention of time.

I got a gracious thumbs up to my plan. (Of course, with the benefit of age, wisdom and hindsight, I now realize how very fortunate I was not to be hit on the head with a large blunt object and thrown out of the delivery room—along with my CDs—right on the spot). So we waited for our little bundle of joy. And every time I thought—This is it! The final contraction! The final push!—I ran over to the CD player, pressed play and the music of Moby blared through the room:

Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do.....Da.......Da......DA.......DAHHHHHHHH........

But no baby.

We kept waiting, waiting, waiting, but our little bundle was not cooperating. I was getting frustrated. I had a plan—cue music, music hits dramatic crescendo, baby is born—but my plan was being shot to shreds because the baby was taking her own sweet time.

Catch that?

Her own sweet time.

Yep. That’s right. My first born? A girl. And it was at this point that I learned a very, very valuable lesson. Guys, listen up. If you want to keep your blood pressure down, don’t EEEEEEEEEEVER expect a woman to do ANYTHING on time. If you do, you will die. From a massive heart attack. Trust me.

And if you don’t believe me, I have one word of advice for you.

Aspirin.

Buy lots and lots of aspirin.

It will help with the headaches. It will also keep you alive.

Sorry.

I digressed again.

I do that a lot.

Anyway....

After too many false starts to count, my daughter, the lovely lady Sophia, was finally born with one very big push. (Ladies...how do you do THAT?? Good gosh all mighty. If men had to have babies, there would be no babies. Seriously. In fact, there would be no sex. Because sex makes babies and it wouldn’t be worth the risk).

Suddenly, I was no longer Mike the goldfish-slaughtering-turtle-losing-destroyer of plants.

I was a daddy.

Yeah baby.

But here’s one thing I discovered almost immediately about girls. (I do not have a sister; that’s why this epiphany occurred so late in life). Girls are born old souls who regress and become categorically more insane as they get older. Boys, in contrast, are born insane, remain insane through childhood and, like fine wine, become wiser and smarter with age. So by the time we’re about Larry King’s age we’ve finally got it figured out. Of course, by that point we are about to die. Or we are already dead.

Or worse yet, we’re divorced.

Maybe twice.

But we are wise.

Anyway....

Time seemed to stand still when Sophia was born. Everything was silent. Very silent. And I will never forget this moment as long as I live. There she was in the doctor’s hands covered in goop. (I know “goop” isn’t technically the right word, but it’s descriptive). Her eyes were open. Wide open. She did not cry. She looked to her left. Then to her right. Then down. She saw that she was naked and covered in goop. Only THEN did her face contort into a deep scowl of unmitigated fury (guys...you know that look), she turned BEET red and howled in outrage. It’s almost as if she were thinking—

A few minutes ago, I was happy, warm, well-fed and content. Floating around in my own happy little place.

Just floating...floating...floating.

Do you KNOW what just happened to me? Do you KNOW what I just went through?

I have just been pushed—yes PUSHED—through...through...well, I don’t know what that was, but it was not a happy place! Now I’m cold, naked and covered in goop. My head looks like Mt. Hood, my hair is NOT cute and some MAN I do not know is TOUCHING me. What IS this goop anyway?? Why am I naked?? Why is this person just staring at me?? Could someone PLEASE get me a towel??

I am so...

...very...

NOT HAPPY!!

NOT HAPPY!!!!!

NOT HAPPY!!!!!!!!

WAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

Sophia’s mother, of course, began to cry as well. The birth of a baby is a profoundly emotional experience after all. I held her hand, smiled and whispered words of assurance. I told her, “You did great.”

But I kept thinking of Sophia’s expression.

She looked left....

She looked right....

She looked down...

And it took every ounce of self-control not to laugh.

T H E N U M B E R S G A M E

PA R T I I

Men are not born consumed by numbers.

Quite the opposite.

We are born insane. We are born wild. We are born with an insatiable desire to explore, fueled by a brazen, almost foolhardy courage. Can we jump off of it? Cool. Height irrelevant. Can we run to it? Awesome. Can we run through it? Even better. Can we put it in our mouth? Great. The fact that it could kills us; only mildly relevant.

No. As little boys, could care less about something so mundane—so very ordinary—as numbers. Little boys don’t want to think. They just want to do. (Often to the horror of their mothers). Why? Because while our little boys certainly have fears, they are not driven by a fear of failure. To paraphrase Sir Ken Robinson, even if they don’t know, they’ll give it a go. Because a little boy’s greatest joy? That’s easy. It’s showing mommy and daddy what they’re doing. The process, the doing, is far more important than the result.

But that changes very quickly.

We have vilified, debased and demeaned so much of what it means to be a boy. Slow down honey. Please be careful honey. Don’t climb that hill honey. You’re too small to do that honey.

Stop fidgeting honey.

Our boys want to journey to the edges of the earth. They want adventure. But we keep reigning them in, telling them no, no, no and to please be still. They want to be Leonidas. We tell them to be more like their sisters.

We’ve turned the glorious, maddening, instinctive, God-given hyperactivity of youth into a disability.

And labeled it a disorder.

What we have done to our boys is nothing short of a criminal act.

But human nature is nothing if not resilient. Our children, our boys, do not simply wither and die; they adapt, adjust, overcome.

They learn, all too quickly, that there is little validation in the joy of just doing.

No.

Our little boys learn all too quickly that it’s all about what you can get done.

ii.

We’d done it.

Really done it.

We’d had a baby.

Ok......technically, she had the baby. I watched. But I had lots of important stuff to do. I played the CDs. I held mommy’s hand (that’s VERY important). And I, uh, managed not to totally get in the way. That counts.

In all seriousness, I did have an important job.

Possibly the most important job.

I had the checkbook.

Because those little bundles of joy aren’t cheap.

So while mommy was cooing, snuggling, and basking in the blessing of bringing a new life into the world; I stopped thinking with stunning speed about the blessing and started thinking about the bills.

About the numbers.

Can we really afford a baby?

What about a house?

What about a yard?

Do I make enough?

What about college? That’s 40 large, net, per year. Where is THAT going to come from?

Will I have to buy a mini-van? Please, please, please God, no mini-van. But if she wants one, it’s cool.

Because she just had a baby.

I’ve got to make sure the numbers add up.

Of course, this dialogue did not begin at birth. It began long before. For me, it began the day I found out I was going to be a father. But this dialogue, analytical and restrained at first, roared through the recesses of my mind as soon as the lovely lady Sophia was born.

WHAT ABOUT THE NUMBERS?

It roared as I shook the doctor’s hand and said, “Good job.”

WHAT ABOUT THE NUMBERS?

It roared the first time I held Sophia close, so close that I could feel the beating of her heart against my chest, and whispered into ears far too young to understand—

Don’t worry about a thing.

Every little thing—

Is gonna be all right.

BUT...WHAT...ABOUT...THE...NUMBERS?

The lunatic was in my head. It seized the moment and demanded the floor. It refused to remain silent; it would let me forget.

About the numbers.

Because that’s your job.

Daddy’s job.

To make sure that everything is going to be all right.

iii.

Make no mistake.

Our boys may be covered from head to toe in mud.

They may wear as much food as they eat.

They may be categorically unable to grasp why putting the toilet seat down is necessary.

But our boys are remarkably perceptive.

Forget about what we say. They respond as much, if not more, to what we do.

They understand, implicitly, silently, often without comment, exactly what justifies and brings validation.

It begins informally...

It begins in our backyards and playgrounds...

Look at how far my boy can throw a ball!

Look at how fast my boy can run!

Did you see how many baskets my boy scored?

Did you see how many goals my boy made?

Great catch son!

Great kick son!

Look at him.

Just look at him.

My boy is a natural.

Our boys begin to understand that it’s not about the process—but the result. It’s the numbers that matter. It’s about getting it done. And the best number?

The number 1.

Number 1 means you’re the biggest. Number 1 means you’re the strongest. The toughest. The fastest. The best.

Oh sure, as parents we say the right things. We don’t intend to damage our children in any way.

But they see the gleam in our eyes.

They hear the affirmation in our voices.

Our boys know, instinctively, that the bigger or better the number, the more meaningful they are.

Because aren’t boys supposed to lead? To take charge?

That’s what everybody says.

And you can’t lead if you’re in last place.

Then the bell rings...

And the informal education of our boys continues formally in our schools, where the worst thing you can do is get it wrong. Where learning is broken up into increments of time. Where your ability to sit still and pay attention for the requisite number of minutes, where your ability to read the requisite number of books, recognize the requisite number of words or write the requisite number of sentences, where your ability to get the biggest number of right answers, is what counts.

Parents desperately need to understand what modern education has become; especially in the aftermath of No Child Left Behind. Every school in every district will label itself as a “place of learning.” On the first day of school, parents will be inundated with slogans like, “our focus is learning” or “we believe every child can learn.” I don’t take issue with the slogans or the intent. I believe that most educators care deeply about the quality of learning and the well-being of their students. That’s the promise. But the reality? The reality is that student learning is increasingly being sacrificed at the altar of what could most kindly be described as a conveyor belt curriculum. A curriculum that rewards repetition and recall over comprehension and focuses on process (here’s how you do it) over principles (here’s why you do it) and application (here’s what you can you do with it).

Why do you think our students get so stupid over the summer? Is it because of the heat? No. It’s because many of our students haven’t really learned the material in the first place.

They recall a process or a discreet set of facts.

They repeat that process or those facts for a test.

They promptly forget what they never really learned or understood in the first place.

Modern education (through no fault of the educators we too often—and unfairly—fault) has become a product. The merit of the product is judged quantitatively, by test scores and how much material you can cover, rather than qualitatively (how good is it?). One unfortunate consequence is that depth of understanding has become a casualty of our zeal to get through the curriculum in order to prep for a seemingly unending succession of standardized tests. In some states, these standardized tests begin as early as 1st grade. Art? Gym? Music? There’s no time (or money) because it’s not a priority. It’s education...by the numbers.

And we are all guilty.

Teaching my son to read has been a fascinating, befuddling, sometimes maddening experience. First, I have to slow him down enough to want to read. Once we get beyond that hurdle (sometimes no small task), he will read one sentence, stop, look at me and and say something like, “Dad that’s stupid. Why would so-and-so do so-and-so?”

He will do this line by line, paragraph by paragraph, so that after 30 minutes we’ve only gotten through a few pages. Maybe. Everything is why, why, why? I’m going nuts. Finally, I’ll say something like, “Michael stop asking questions every five minutes or we’ll never get through this. We’ve got to get through 5 pages today. At this pace, we’ll never get it done.”

Mission accomplished.

Now he’s no longer thinking about what he’s reading.

Good job.

He’s no longer asking, why.

He’s just thinking about a number.

The number 5.

The number of pages he has to get through in order to get it done.

And we do this, day after day, year after year, to our children.

We define, categorize, track and advance based on numbers.

The funny thing is...our kids get it.

They figure it out.

School isn’t fun.

It’s not supposed to be fun.

Learning isn’t fun.

It’s not supposed to be fun.

Growing up isn’t fun.

It’s not supposed to be fun.

Because it’s about about the numbers.

Baby.

iv.

Sophia was a revelation. To hold her, to look into her face, to touch her little round nose brought an unimaginable peace and joy. But I knew from the beginning that the numbers were working against me. I was an attorney licensed in another state. I had a job to do in Chicago; a job that paid well, far more than I could make in places like—What were they called?—“Tigard” and “Beaverton.” Besides, what was I supposed to do? Just quit? Just leave my job because all of a sudden I was a daddy? I couldn’t do that. That would be the height or irresponsibility. If I did that, if I just left my job and relocated thousands of miles to the north, the numbers would not add up.

I could not do that to my daughter. I could not do that to her mother. They depended on me.

So I stayed as long as I could. I really did.

Then one day, I had to go back.

I packed my bags, said goodbye to my daughter, and returned to Chicago.

Sophia did not cry. I kept our parting loose and light. I told her that I would be back soon. I told her that I would call her every day.

I told her that I loved her.

But as I drove away, as I watched my daughter grow smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror, as I returned back to my home, to Chicago, to my life as a lawyer, I felt as though someone had taken out a very large hunting knife...

And plunged it directly into my chest.

But I was doing what I was supposed to do...

Right?

v.

The next eight years were a blur. One day my daughter was a bald little baby wearing clothes a size too large. The next thing I knew she was eight years old. She was so tall! She had hair! Lots and lots of hair!

Heaven help me....she was wearing lip gloss!

What happened to my little girl?

Where did the years go?

I had been so busy.

So very busy...

I had missed so much.

But the numbers?

They looked good.

I lived in a house of polished concrete and glass just a sand dune away from Lake Michigan. I had income property. I was in the 39% tax bracket. Sophia and her mother lived in a lovely home in Beaverton that my income helped support. I enjoyed a measure of security. My family was safe and happy.

But I’d missed birthdays. I’d missed parent-teacher conferences. I’d never attended a PTO meeting. I’d never attended a girl scout meeting. I’d never seen my daughter compete in a community sports event.

There was always something to do. A client, a case, a meeting...something.

I’d missed watching Sophia grow up.

In theory, Sophia’s mother and I were co-parenting successfully. There was no drama....no rancor. But in practice? She parented. She did the heavy lifting. She took our little girl to church, she took her to girl scout meetings and she took her to swimming practice. She got up each and every morning and made sure Sophia got to school on time and she helped Sophia with her homework each and every night. She stood outside in the rain when Sophia sold girl scout cookies. She was there to pick Sophia up when she fell down; she was there to hold Sophia close when the world became confusing and cold.

Where was I?

Working.

Paying bills.

Building a portfolio.

Getting it done.

Oh sure, Sophia and I enjoyed wonderful telephone conversations. Our time together, whenever she was able to travel back east or whenever I was able to stay in Oregon, was good. Really good. There was no weirdness. We had a good relationship.

But by the time Sophia was 10 years old, I had, for the most part, become a voice on the phone or a card in the mail.

There would be time, I reasoned. Time to visit, time to be still, time for us to just be together.

In the meantime, I had a number.

A number to make, a number to send, a number to accomplish.

That’s man’s work.

That’s what good daddies do.

Going to PTO meetings and art literacy meetings and selling girl scouts cookies outside of grocery stores...

That was mommy’s job.

Right?

vii.

As boys become men, we are defined almost exclusively by our numbers.

I was a smart boy. So for me, it was all about the grade point average, my class rank and my standardized test scores. The ultimate validation? Getting into Northwestern University. Then being accepted to Northwestern University School of Law. Then being recruited by a large law firm in a top market.

My brother was an athletic boy. For him, it was all about the stats. How fast you can run, what’s your batting average, how many points did you score or yards did you gain? The ultimate validation? Who recruits you.

For the cool boys, it’s still about a number. I’ve got more friends than you. I’ve got more phone numbers than you. I’ve kissed more girls than you. I’ve had more sex than you. Your girl is a 7. Maybe. Mine is a 10.

Trust me, as vacuous, amoral and empty as it might sound, everything is about a number.

The bigger, the better.

Because the better your numbers, the more of a man you are.

Numbers become our badge of honor; our shield and our sword. I went to church. I knew all about about being a nice guy, about character, about godliness, about charity. That was all fine and good. But real men produce big numbers. Like Jordan. Like Buffet. Like Jobs. Like Gates.

Want a BMW?

It’s gotta be at least a 5-series. A 3-series is for the wife.

The house?

At least 2500 square feet.

The Am Ex?

Platinum.

But if you’re really bringing it...

Black.

That’s no limit baby.

Because that’s where the respect comes from.

That’s Lake Oswego instead of Long Beach. That Mont Blanc instead of Bic. That’s David Yurman on your wrist, Jimmy Choo on your feet and Kate Spade on your shoulder. That’s the best school districts, the best health care, the best shot at success for your kids.

That’s getting the woman you want.

That’s keeping the woman you’ve got.

Sure, the meek might one day inherent the earth.

But right now...

It’s the folks with bank that are running the show.

viii.

2009.

A number that will live in infamy for many of us. After a decade of economic growth defined by rampant consumption, our economy had a massive heat stroke and simply collapsed. One by one, industry after industry was brought to it’s knees. Banking. Housing. Retail. IT. No one, nothing, was spared. I hoped I might be safe but I was also realistic. I was working for a Chicago-based IT firm whose biggest client was Chicago Public Schools—not exactly a recipe for long term financial security. State budgets were being slashed, money was drying up, and services that were formerly being outsourced were being cut or brought back in house. So I was not particularly surprised when grim reaper came for me. A ten year professional relationship ended suddenly, awkwardly, during a halting five minute conversation.

Suddenly everything I knew was thrown in chaos.

I did not panic. I was not angry. I had been an attorney long enough to understand how the corporate game was played. During my first year as an attorney, my managing partner told me something I will never forget. He said, “Mike, associates are fungible billing units.” He was not trying to be cruel or mean-spirited. He was just being candid.

But I never forgot it.

I was a billing unit.

No.

Strike that. Not just a billing unit.

I was a fungible billing unit.

Alrighty now.....

But you know what? That may have been the single most honest thing anyone ever said to me in 20 years of practicing law.

So there I stood, at a crossroad of my life. I had a critical decision to make. Path #1. Continue practicing law in Chicago. That made sense. Path #2. Relocate to Atlanta. We have a big house down there. My family is there. I have an extensive support network there. I could regroup, rebuild and do so in relative comfort in Atlanta. Yes...Atlanta would be a good choice.

But far to north...

In Oregon.

There was a little girl.

Oregon?

That made no sense. The economy in Oregon was terrible. The weather in Oregon was terrible. There were more people, more businesses, more industry in the northern suburbs of Chicago than in the entire State of Oregon.

What the heck was I going to do in Oregon?

No, no, no, no, no. The numbers just didn’t add up.

But....

Far to the north...

In Beaverton.

There was a little girl.

I dropped to my knees and prayed and prayed and prayed.

God help me. Please.

What am I supposed to do?

What is a good daddy supposed to do?

ix.

I was exhausted.

I had just driven over 2500 miles in 3 days, trying desperately to get to Portland before Saturday. Because I promised Sophia that she had a big surprise coming on Saturday.

I was in California when she called me.

“Daddy where are you? What are you doing?”

Oh...just driving around.

“So Daddy, are you still coming to Portland? You said you thought you might be coming here and would know today if you were coming.”

I know baby. I’m sorry. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come.

“When will you know?”

Can I call you back?

“Ok Daddy.”

I called back several hours later. She got right to the point.

“Hi Daddy. Do you know yet if you’re coming to Portland?”

I do.

“So when are you coming?”

I’m here honey.

“Here where?”

I’m in Oregon. In a place called Grants Pass. I’m about 3 or 4 hours away.

“You ARE? You’re in Oregon??” She slammed the phone down. I could hear her voice, muted, breathless and excited in the background. “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what? Daddy is in Oregon! He’s someplace called Grant’s Pass. He says he’ll be here in a few hours!”

She picked the phone back up.

“Daddy, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you!”

I can’t wait to see you too baby. And guess what?

“Yes Daddy?”

If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stick around for a while.

PA R T I I I

W H AT ’ S YO U R N U M B E R ?

I hope you know that I don’t really believe that women grow categorically more insane as they grow older. That was tongue in cheek. I also know for a fact that women are capable of doing things on time. I don’t happen to know any of those women. But I know they exist.

Somewhere.

I don’t think it should require bank to get the woman you want or keep the woman you’ve got. If it does, you should seriously ask yourself if you have a relationship or an arrangement.

I don’t personally have a black card or a BWM 5-Series. I had a long-time client/employer who had a black card who took great pride in showing it to me.

He told me, “Mike, I can buy a boat with this.”

He seemed enormously pleased by that fact.

But I do believe, categorically and without reservation, that men today are driven by numbers. I do believe that we have hopelessly confused worth with value.

I do believe that we are poor little lambs who have lost our way.

We are little black sheep who have gone astray.

And that’s sad.

ii.

Some time ago, more as an intellectual exercise than anything, I tried to calculate the amount of money I’d spent directly on my daughter. I excluded soft costs like food and clothes. I was just thinking about checks written directly for support. The number was...significant. Enough to import a Benz. Enough to live well for a period of time without working.

But you know what? Those numbers don’t matter at all to my daughter.

She could care less.

The only number that matters?

The only number that she’s ever specifically mentioned to me?

The number 3.

That’s the number of birthdays I missed because I was sooooooo busy.

Daddy....please don’t miss my birthday. Again.

But God bless our children.

They don’t condemn.

It’s okay Daddy. I know you have to work. I love you Daddy.

I was so busy being busy, so focused on making my number, that I lost sight of the numbers that really matter.

And what numbers are those?

Numbers measured in moments, not amounts.

Numbers measured in days, hours and minutes.

Numbers measured by time.

The amount of time I was physically present.

The amount of time I was actively engaged with my daughter.

The number of times I actually showed up.

The number of times my daughter could point at me, turn to her friends and say, “Look. That’s my daddy.”

I’ve been a dad for 10 years. I think a good dad.

But I’m finally just beginning to see it.

To get it.

The cruel irony.

The numbers that are so important to us, to fathers, to men, the numbers we use as our mantra and measuring stick, the numbers they write about when they tell our story...

Tom Jones built several successful businesses before the age of 30. He had a net worth of $10 million by 40, growing to $150 million by 50.

Tom Jones died of pancreatic cancer on September 25, 2010.

Tom Jones leaves behind a wife and two children.

Don’t really matter at all.

iii.

Do you want to know a secret?

Numbers measured in amounts are like reflections in a window.

These numbers may reflect what you do.

But these numbers—

Numbers that constrict...

Numbers that control...

Numbers that consume...

Will never be you.

iv.

So I’m asking—

Right here. Right now.

Fathers.

Daddies.

Men.

What’s your number?

Be honest with yourself.

What is it?

What is the number that drives you, fuels you, fills you and shapes you? What is the number that characterizes you to your children?

To your wife?

To the world?

Is it the amount in your portfolio? Is it the amount in your bank account?

Is it your salary?

Your credit limit?

Is it the number of billable hours you produce each month?

Is it your zip code?

Can it be measured in square feet?

Or in moments?

Gentlemen, I want to know.

What’s your number?

Because we’ve all got a number.

What’s yours?

T H E W O R K O F M I K E S U M M E R S

T H E W O R K O F M I K E S U M M E R S