Thats right, I have two fathers. Well, a father and a dad.

My biological father, Robbie, and my mother, Dafna, were divorced when I was about a year and a half old. My mother soon left Colorado, intent on moving to Oregon. She stopped in California to visit some friends, and never left.

My adoptive father, Rich, moved across the street from my mother and I after moving out to California from Albion, Michigan, and the story I was always told was that after a couple of weeks, Rich and my mother started dating, moved in together soon there after, and when I was 5 (3 years after they first met), they married.

At least that was the story I was told. It turns out it was a bit more juicy than that.

My mom was dating my dad’s roommate, who apparently was still married (but separated), when she met Rich and they started dating. I told you it was juicy…

So, there it is. Two dads, two very different people.

My biological father battled drug addiction for a long time which really shaped his interaction (or lack thereof) with me. When I was eight years old, Robbie decided that it was time to stop taking to me, and that lasted until I was 18 years old. in the 18 years since then, we have connected (really connected) maybe a dozen times or so.

Rich, on the other hand, was someone I saw daily. We battled as fathers and sons do, and there were many things he did (he was a yeller), that I refuse to do. There are also many things he does, that I tried to emulate. He is one of the most responsible, trustworthy, dependable people I know.

So the question becomes: nature or nurture?

Last night, my friend Pete over at Mashable, put up a post asking people to link to tweets or posts they had written about Fathers Day. So, last night, right before bed, I tweeted:

I have 2 fathers. One who reminds me of how good I can be; and one that reminds of what I could have been. To both Happy Fathers Day.

I thought a lot about that as I went to sleep. I have tried to have a relationship with my biological father, but every time we interact (he is my vet for example), I am disappointed and scared that the man I see before me is what I could become if I dont watch out. Dont get me wrong, he is not a bad guy, but he is many things I wish never to be. He is selfish, he is self-centered, he is unreliable, he is pig headed and he has difficulty connecting with people.

At the same time, he is many things I hope to be: brilliant, caring, an expert at what he does, and respected.

When I think of Rich, he has so many characteristics I wish I could emulate. He is dependable, intelligent, selfless, unassuming, practical and pragmatic.

So, whats the answer? Nature or Nurture?

For me, I have decided that my nature is something I am inherently. I have all the bad habits and some of the positive characteristics of Robbie. Thats who I am, but its not who I am required to become. With Rich, I see what he has taught me, both directly and indirectly, and realize those things I could become.

At the end of the day the truth lies somewhere in between.

I have 2 fathers. One who reminds me of how good I can be; and one that reminds of what I could have been.

And thats what makes me uniquely me.

Happy Fathers Day.

Subscribe to this blog's RSS feed

Over the past month or so, I have struck up a “twitter”-ship with the Queen of Spain, Erin Kotecki Vest, who along with being a highly read mommy blogger, an evangelist for PhoTrade–a photo sharing site, an active leader with BlogHer, and the Huffington Post (whew!), Erin is also a rabid Michigan sports fan. Specifically, a Detroit Red Wings fan.

So, with the budding rivalry between my home town team of the San Jose Sharks being put to the test last night, I bet Erin on the game. The prize? The loser had to write a blog post about how great the opposing team is. The final? Well, perhaps this might be a hint: RedWings 6 - Sharks 3.

What Erin may not have remembered is that my father grew up in the town of Albion, MI, playing pond hockey and attending Albion College, where there is still a Baldwin Hall named after some relative (at least thats what my grandfather told me, but he also told me we were descended from one of the Knights of the Round Table).

Erin, I will be writing about the greatness of Steve Yzerman and the Detriot RedWings, but I am not sure if it will be quite what you expected…which, most anyone can call you, might be the only consistent thing about me…but I think you will appreciate this, because its about moms and family.

I was born September 25, 1971, in Fort Collins, CO, to a 21 year old recent transplant from Israel and a 23 year old Philadelphia man. Both were children of the ’60s, and had their own beliefs about life and raising a child. Unfortunately, those didnt mesh, and when I was about a year and half, my mom, newly divorced, decided to move to Oregon by way of California. When stopping in California to visit friends, my mom realized that she had found a good place to raise me, and we settled in East Palo Alto.

As my mom started back into the dating scene, she began dating a neighbor, who had a roommate who had recently moved out to California from Albion, MI with his grandfather. One thing lead to another, and at the age of 5, after about 2 years of dating, Richard Baldwin asked me at our tiny wooden dining room table in our dimly lit kitchen if he could marry my mom, Dafna. Given that all the positive memories I have prior to age of 5, and that my parents have now been married for more than 30 years, Im guessing I said it was ok with me.

After a quick weekend trip to Reno–where the story is that my mom lost everything at the slots and my dad won everything back at the blackjack table (this would be their pattern for the next 30 years)–I had a complete family. What I didnt know, what that Rich was the second oldest of five kids, and there was an entire family to meet in Albion. So, we took a trip.

My first memories of Michigan were standing in the foyer of this gigantic 100 year old house holding my mom’s hand, standing next to my father and seeing my new grandmother (Rich’s mother) smiling at me. Soon, as I was to learn later was also the norm, it seemed like a million new relatives came pouring out of the kitchen area to greet us.

My grandfather was (is) a gregarious man, World War II Vet, and still practices law in Albion (of course he doesnt have a website. He still communicates via fax). A good midwestern guy, Grandpa Baldwin has a quick wit and smile I have always admired, and as a University of Michigan Law alum, he taught me a healthy respect for the Maize and Blue and a friendly hatred for MSU (and of course, Da Ohio State).

My grandmother, who was beginning her fight against breast cancer that she would lose when I was in high school, was one of the most loving and genuine people I have ever met. She never considered me anything other than her grandson, and treated me as such.

Its no surprise that her father, Grandpa Hub would be as loving and accepting. And, it was from Grandpa Hub, that my love for Michigan sports (and cherry cordials) began. We would sit in his room and watch the Tiger and Lions lose, or the RedWings win (often enough). We talked about players I had never heard of like Bobby Layne and Gordie Howe. I remember getting him a book about baseball pitchers, and when we turned to a page on pitchers from 1906, he remarked about the first game he saw that year.

Over the years as I grew older and began to move around the country, I became more and more of a “homer,” following my home town San Francisco Giants (they had a minor league team in San Jose, which was my actual home town), the Golden State Warriors, and in 1991, the only real professional team in my home town, the San Jose Sharks.

It took a long time for the Sharks to become a decent team, and during that time the Red Wings have won 3 Stanley Cups and 8 Division Titles. The Sharks? 2 Division Titles and ZERO Stanley Cups. The Red Wings have won 708 games during the Sharks existence, the Sharks themselves have won 467.

Erin’s love for the Red Wings is well placed, having also seen its roots in family, and the Red Wings are clearly the better team. But, quietly, and without much fanfare, I will continue to honor the memory of Grandpa Hub and Grandma Baldwin, with a smile and a twinkle after every Tigers, Lions, Big Blue, Red Wing, and Pistons win.

Every couple of months, my sister and I decide that it would be fun to get together in Denver. For the last couple of years, when I was in the depths of my drug addiction, the visits always kinda sucked. I tried to get her to party, she tried to get me to stop, and it just ended up in yelling and crying, mostly at the same time.

You see, I have known my sister for 25 (I mean 26) years. I was the first person she smiled at (it wasnt gas), and crawled to (I kicked her, but what else are big brothers supposed to do?). For some reason, she and I connected (perhaps at birth, she was at the same mental level I was at 9 years old). My middle sister, Marissa, while I do love her, never seemed to connect with me the same way. It wasnt for lack of trying on either of our parts, we just grew to be different people. I respect her greatly, but also understand that she has a different set of priorities than me. She is living a life I am proud to see her live, and I know nothing but the best will happen to her, but Natalia, for better or worse, has been my family connection.

Ted (Natalia’s boyfriend) please stop reading now:

So, last week or so, she called me and told me that her boyfriend and his friends had a crew and they called themselves the RP boys or something equally retarded. The girlfriends had decided to get together and get t-shirts proclaiming themselves as the RP Bitches. Natalia calls me and tells me this story, ending with “I am no Bitch!” Needless to say, I give her an out. A free plane ticket to Denver.

Ted, you can start reading again.

So, Thursday night she flew in.

Friday, we went to the gym in the am (I ran 1.75 miles), and then got massages from my friend Kristi Castle at Rhythmic Touch. After that, we had lunch with an old friend, Matt Hessler, and then went and saw the movie about the rat. Ratatouille. It was pretty good.

Saturday, we took my dogs, Billie and Taylor, up to Maxwell Falls (Total hike just over 3.5 miles).

Grabbed dinner at Hapa. Had a good laugh when Danny Newman came in with his girlfriend.

Sunday, we walked the dogs around Washington Park (1.5 miles), and I put her on her plane back to San Jose around 10am.

The best thing about her visit, other than the time we spent with each other, is that she tried to kill me. In a good way. She forced me to stick to my new healthier way of living, and got me moving. The time we spent showed me a sliver of what I will be able to do once I get back into shape. It so completely motivated me, that I worked out again Monday morning (2.4 miles). Four days in a row. Stupid sisters.