A FATHER IS BORN.

I know who I was before I was a farmer. I know who I was before I was a writer. But I have no idea who I was before I was a father. That person is a stranger to me.And I remember the moment it happened, the moment I changed. All of the time I now spend staring at my son in awe, all of the intense and overwhelming love (for lack of a more piercingly accurate word) that I heap upon his very existence - that didn’t start when I found out I was going to be a father. Not fully. Fatherhood was still too abstract of an idea. It started when, after several days of intense labor in the cabin with my amazing wife, I caught his tiny frame in my hands. I probably hadn’t cried in ten years, but I bawled that morning. Some of the happiest tears in all of Bugtussle.However, something changed that day. Something profound and visceral. Whether it was oxytocin––a contact high from the love hormone that mothers create to bond with their children––or overwhelming relief after a long week, I became a new person, forever leaving behind whoever I was before I was papa.I knew it then, but I’m writing about this now because it still exists in the exact same capacity. Nothing has changed about this change in me. It doesn’t dissipate, it doesn’t go away. When I look at my son running through the sweet corn, or jumping on the couch, or reading a book with his mama, or sleeping––which I spend several minutes a day watching him do––I see him with eyes that are exactly his age. He asked me the other day, “Are you two and a half years old, too, papa?” And I laughed, but I guess I am.I am two and a half, too, baby boy. Same age as you.- Jesse.

FATHER-TASKING.

My son caught me talking to myself the other day. This isn't unusual. I've accepted talking to myself as a requisite part of being a writer. I talk to myself in order to work through ideas that sound reasonable in my head, though may not, and often don't, aloud. But bemused and a little curious, holding his large bouncy ball with both hands, Further just stared at me. Suddenly embarrassed, I stopped talking and stared back.You see, Hannah needed a chance to do some work around the house without Further undoing it, so he and I went on a little walk down the road. Further was throwing the ball, mostly at Wendell or Charlie, and I was taking the opportunity to work out ideas for an article, absently chasing the ball down when it got away. So out loud, pacing back and forth, I was conducting an interview with a professor I was planning to call the next day. In other words, though technically walking with my son, I was somewhere else entirely.Because the reality is, I can't just do one thing. I am a chronic, borderline obsessive multi-tasker, physically uncomfortable doing just one thing, even when it's taking a walk with my son. And though I used to think this was a positive trait, one that would get me ahead in the world, I now as a father wish I could turn it on and off, that I could be fully with my son when I'm with him, not just as a guardian, but a participant in his life.He's growing fast. He's developing his speech, constructing sentences, having opinions, running, jumping, dancing, singing. It's a lot of fun. Hannah pointed out the other day that I couldn't wait for him to be old enough to play with. Yet here we were, our chance to play together, and I couldn't see anything but my work.The phrase "to live in the moment" has always bothered me a little. I don't know why. Perhaps something about it felt evocative of new-agey privilege, that I can be so fulfilled in my needs as to be able to remove myself from the world and just bask in my riches. But I get it now. It isn't about being with yourself. Living in the moment is about finding the things that are important to you and those around you then being with them when they're there. It's a different kind of multi-tasking. It's the kind that instead of doing two different things at once, one part of you deletes your distractions while the other part bends down, holds out his arms in the shape of a basketball hoop, and says the words he should have been saying aloud since he started this walk with his son, "Further, you wanna dunk it?

FURTHER AND FATHER ALONG.

I'm looking forward to the summer. Wholeheartedly. I'm excited about fresh veggies, about sunshine, about dirt (as opposed to mud, about which I cannot even feign excitement). But I have to say that I'm going to miss seeing Further as much as I have been. We spend a lot of time together, and it's been a wonderful thing. I've watched him progress, fatten, smile. Though with these tastes of the busy season, days worth of soil blocks and working around the farm, I've been worrying that in the summer I'm going to be too occupied for us to get much time together.Then, as soon as I have this thought, I throw it out. I am, to be clear, a very lucky father. My job, our lifestyle, makes it so. I will get to see my son often during the busy season––in the cabin, in the garden, all around the farm––even when I'm literally running around to finish projects, but especially when I'm not.Farm life is an ally of parenthood. Our home is near the garden. The garden is close to home. Work and life are neighbors here. And sure, farming may not always be completely in sync with parenthood––especially for how demanding the job can be––but they certainly seem to look out for one another, as good neighbors tend to do. Hannah gets to be around full-time with our child and I get the next best thing. And when Further is older, he will begin to work with us in the gardens, joining the family business, but also allowing his poor old pop to spend a little extra time with his son.If time is indeed money, well, farming may not always make us much of the latter. But time, it can offer a little of that in exchange. Time with my wife. Time with my son. Time as a family. And right now, I'm happy to get paid a little bit in time. As my child changes with almost blinding speed, there are few things more valuable.- Jesse.

THE FATHERHOOD CRAFT.

When I first started applying for farming internships in 2009, I had Further in mind. I mean, I didn't know he would be a boy, when he would arrive or his name, but I knew that when I did have a child, I wanted to be ready. I wanted to be in a place where I could teach him about things he could use––about growing food, and foraging and living off the land.Because at that time, here is what I knew: I knew a fair bit about wine. I knew a superbly useless amount about Prohibition. I knew Kentucky Basketball, books, and the bars of NYC. What I didn't know was how beets grew. Or how to keep that stupid basil plant I bought every year alive. I didn't know how to build anything, fix anything, or anything about engines––small or large. And I was vividly aware of this.So in deciding to become a farmer, I was hoping to remedy some of that. Then with the help of our mentors, Eric and Cher, I definitely did. I am a much more capable human today than I was six years ago. I can grow food, build things, fix others, and what I can't, I now know how to find the people who can.But still, for Further's sake I can't help but wish I knew more. I wish I had started earlier. I was telling Hannah the other night, I want to be the best father I can be, but I will always be painfully aware of my limitations as a carpenter, as a mechanic, as a woodworker, a musician, or you name it. With that said, I've come to realize that being a good father may require me to accept my faults or deficiencies and, like it is when I need something fixed, turn to knowledgeable people to help teach Further what I can't. He will have to grow up knowing Papa doesn't have all the answers, and I will have to be okay with that. Maybe it's culture, or maybe it's nature, but I'm finding the ego is strong in parenthood. But perhaps letting that go is the first step to being a good father. The second step, well, maybe the second step is just caring this much.- Jesse.