I have to say that nothing in my life compared to having children. I have a 15 and a 17-year-old, today.

I think the biggest factor was the shift in self-preservation instinct. Before my son was born, I had "believed" that I'd be the kind of guy who -- barring alternatives -- would jump in front of a bullet, sacrificing my own life to save my child.

But I'd been on Earth for 29 years at that point and during that time, one of the things that's sort of wired into you is "avoid, at all costs, the path of projectiles fired from guns." Though I recognized that this sort of thing doesn't happen to the vast majority of people in my position, I'd wondered whether or not that instinct might kick in should that occasion ever occur.

Shortly after my son was born, after the haze of sleepless nights ended, I realized something -- really, everything -- had changed. Replaying that scenario in my head, I no longer worried at all about how I'd react. I knew that there would be no scenario, ever again, where my safety would take precedence over that of my son (and later, my daughter). It wasn't the complexity of knowing I would have an impossible time living with myself if I survived and my son had died; it was like my brain had rewired a new instinct.

And as any parent with children of sufficient age has probably experienced, it was tested time and again, though thankfully in much less serious ways. I remember teaching my daughter to ice skate at age 5 and upon watching her lose her balance, watching as my body lurched forward and dove under her, clumsily catching her and breaking her fall.

"Watching" is the way I describe it because I don't remember ever having a thought in advance of doing it nor any control over my body once it had made the inevitable choice. There was no planning, no strategy, no honest understanding that a guy who'd never slid into first base, dove to catch a football or been skilled in any way when it came to sports along with not being particularly good in a pair of hockey skates[0] had a greater chance of injuring myself in the fall than my daughter had of injuring herself in five layers of padded cloth falling a couple of feet to the ground. I remember the moment I'd "saved her" in triumph and the subsequent feeling of defeat during the hours spent in the ER diagnosing my fracture rib.

I often compare the kind of parent I thought I would be against the kind of parent I ultimately became. I had put off having kids mostly due to my sister-in-law's 4-year-old terror (who turned out just fine). I would be the strong, stern Dad who didn't let their child misbehave. I would temper this by being the loving, affectionate Dad that my own was. And while I became the latter, I quickly realized how much more effective it is to call out and encourage the good behavior. I learned to have "sit downs" and discuss the bad behavior but to be gracious with it. I understood how poorly I reacted to negativity as a child and how discouraging that was to my success when I saw my son respond like I did.

Somehow, through a divorce and ensuing turmoil in my own life, I managed to end up with two teenage children who love nothing more than to spend time with Dad. We have a less-than-perfect parenting time schedule that the laws in my state make impossible for me to change (despite my flexible schedule and my children's desires) but my kids would rather schedule friend time on Mom's clock and invite friends out with us on my time. My kids both call me every day after school and we talk, sometimes for hours. We play Fortnite five out of seven nights an evening -- a game I'd be unlikely to touch without them[1] but one I'm thankful that we "play on the same team" and use mostly for talking to one another over twelve miles.

I realized that up until about age 12, I could read their minds and understood them better than they knew themselves. Sometime in their teen years, I discovered that -- in some ways -- they are more brave, more honest and better children than I ever was at my best.

I remember thinking "I'm not going to push programming on them" because I really respected the fact that my Dad didn't push what he did on me -- he wasn't a programmer, but he supported my second love as if it were his own. And I remember how proud I was when my daughter signed up for programming class in 8th grade and yelled at me when I suggested she might enjoy "art" (her passion and offered at the same time) more "I'm NOT doing this for YOU, Dad!" That's my girl.

I think the biggest adjustment, though, is realizing that they are the entire reason I'm here. Every single thing I do comes with the question: "How does this affect them?" I might have looked at a man who behaved that way and thought "that's the kind of Dad I want to be" but I know there's nothing special about that with me -- it was a re-wiring. I fear my own death only in that I know how it would affect them were it to come suddenly in their young lives.

I, like most boys raised by stereo-typical "Family Ties" or "The Cosby Show" parents learned "men don't cry" and rarely had the temptation to do so until after they were born. Last month, "The Remarkable Life of Ibelin" was released and I made it a point to get through it alone before watching it with my kids. I sobbed -- and I mean ugly cried -- through the whole thing sitting alone in my bedroom. I didn't do much better the second time with my kids[2]. I'm blessed that I've never lost my composure over my own life and its struggles but I can imagine how devastating and permanent losing one of my children would be.

I thought I had a pretty good idea of what it would be like to have kids, I thought I had a lot figured out before I had them. There are few things I had more wrong in my life. Maybe it's possible for some to accurately imagine/prepare for the experience but I had absolutely no idea. I didn't have the arrogance to pray for the kind of teenagers I raised. My son and daughter both share so much of my brain, the way I process things and the like but they use it differently. When people say "your kids teach you as much as you teach them", that's what they mean. You watch your own struggles get adapted to differently, quite often better, than you did. My son processes things with deep empathy. My daughter errs toward logic and reasoned argument. More than a few occasions, I'm stuck thinking "dammit, they're right" and find myself demonstrating the act of apologizing. That's a humbling experience.

[0] This was a wet indoor rink and though I could handle myself OK on outdoor lake ice and was very proficient with inlines on cement or gravel.

[1] My gaming days are behind me, frankly.

[2] My Dad, who was -- in every way -- a stereotypical "He-Man" is exactly the same way.