Few phrases my kids say break me down quite like, “Dad, I’m scared.” 

Most times, they say this about trivial things: the dark, their first soccer match, or an impending exam. My response comes easy in these cases. Usually, it’s nothing more than a pat on the head, a quick boost of confidence, and encouragement to keep trucking. 

When situations become more serious – like those my family experienced recently during Hurricanes Helene and Milton in Florida – parents have a massive responsibility.  The expectations for us to protect and serve our families rachets up immediately whether it’s a tornado warning, blizzard, a derecho, or, I suppose, a global pandemic. This is what I call “Disaster Daddin’.”

Disaster Daddin’ combines preparation and recovery. It boils down to one goal: to be the impenetrable force of stability for our loved ones. That does not mean we are not frightened or able to show vulnerability. No, this means that we embrace the family’s attention to get through the predicament together.

From our home in a suburb of Tampa, Fla., this month had me in Disaster Dad Mode far too often for my liking. 

While we were incredibly fortunate compared to others, helping my family get through a natural disaster taught me several important lessons in preparation and crisis parenting. 

1. Hurry causes worry

Every aspect of parenting through a disaster comes down to planning and preparation. A plan should not be hatched as all hell is breaking loose around you. If you have time to prepare, take it seriously. Work on it with your kids. This will not only distract them from the escalated concerns but also will help them when it’s time to execute it. Waiting until the last minute will stress the entire household out – especially the kids. Children are emotional sponges, easily sensing our stress and nervousness. 

Our disaster preparation before Hurricane Milton included my kids helping board windows on the house two days before the forecasted landfall.  At this point, this was more of a project than an emergency. My 12-year-old enjoyed the manual labor. This experience would have been far worse for everyone if done as a last-minute, “We need to do this NOW!”  situation. 

If the disaster does not provide adequate time to prepare, parents must step up. Your kids will pick up on the urgency and feel increased anxiety as a result.  Be aware that making unpredictable, last-minute decisions dials up household stress levels as go time draws nearer. 

2. Reinforce your responsibility to keep everyone safe

Whether you’re facing a hurricane or a blizzard, before the storm starts you should tell each family member this: “I would NEVER intentionally jeopardize your safety. Never.” 

When my family recently evacuated for Milton, I sensed my kids were nervous (if not fully freaking out) as we drove for hours to a spot my wife and I had determined to be safer. I acknowledged their fears while en route by telling them I was frightened, too. It became clear to everyone in the family minivan that we were in this together and that my wife and I would never take them toward anything deemed dangerous. 

3. Embrace spending time together in “old school” style

Disaster Daddin’ provides a great (if limited) way to do things with your children that have disappeared for many families. These include playing board games, coloring/drawing together or just talking. When we initially lost power, there was a 12-hour or so period where my teens were desperate to charge their phones. When it became clear that it might be a while before normalcy (i.e., electricity) would be restored, their priorities changed. 

From our powerless-but-safe hurricane crash pad, we played Uno, Sequence, charades, Pictionary and Scrabble together. Amazingly, even the teens were not constantly clamoring for TikTok or Snapchat (at least for a while). 

Disaster Daddin’ can provide the ultimate “back when I was your age” moment for parents. Assuming you remain safe, do not waste that unplugged time!

4. Celebrate your safety by helping others

For families that are relatively fortunate after a disaster, there is a tendency to return to normal as quickly as possible. My kids wanted to return to soccer practice and hanging with friends right away after Helene and Milton. While returning to our pre-disaster life was a priority, I did not want our kids to forget that some of our neighbors might not have such a luxury. 

As our area rebuilds, I’m encouraging my family to help in a way that suits them. For example, we had our kids reach out to their circle of friends to make sure they had (at least) what we did – food, water, clothes, etc. 

With our kids’ sense of community being mostly online now, the aftermath of a disaster allows us to reframe “us” to mean the people around us, not a YouTuber we connect to half a world away. 

Hearing “I’m scared, Dad” is the worst. I hope you never do. But, if you do (and you likely will), Disaster Daddin’ will help make your family stronger.

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Juan Pablo Serrano via Pexels.

The end of summer vacation is looming for us parents and our kids. And, as the start of the school year draws closer, I have begun my annual tradition: the daily nagging of my children to complete the summer homework mandated by their schools. 

I am sure that I am annoying them.

And, of course, they are annoying me. 

Their procrastination and “ho-hum” attitude when thinking about picking up their books and laptops again is driving me nuts. Just as it does every summer. 

To help quell some of the household friction resulting from the impending assignments – from my 8-year-old reading a book and drawing a picture of the setting, to my 10-year-old’s storyboard of a book he’s read, to my high schoolers having two 300-page books each to read in the next 10 days – I started to devise a schedule to get the work completed by the first week of school. 

As I worked on this, I realized why my kids don’t care about this mandated summer school work. This feels like A LOT of work for little (or no) return. For both of us.

I cannot blame them. Most of their friends don’t bother with it. Why? Because they’ve never had a teacher ask them to turn in their summer homework. The simple nature of this work indicates its lack of importance.

From my teenagers’ point of view, we are the only parents who give a crap about completing summer homework. While I’ll discount their claim of being the “only kids that have to do this,” their lethargy has been taught by past years of little or no value credit given by teachers for students who had completed their summer assignments by the first day of class. If there’s no reward for the work, why do it? 

Summer homework or busy work?

For my younger kids, they see the “read a book and draw a picture” nature of their summer homework assignments and laugh at their simplicity. They feel intellectually patronized by a garbage assignment that wastes their time. Unlike my teens, though, their friends are participating (and complaining about the same BS work being asked). 

What do parents do? 

Do we stand with the schools and demand our kids complete the remedial work they have been assigned? 

Do we ignore these inconsequential assignments that only seem to increase our household tension over these next few weeks? 

I have decided to do the latter. 

There will be no more laying out study schedules. No more checking daily reading logs. No more demanding that my teens prove they have been reading through selfies sent during my working hours. And, mercifully, no more watching my kids scramble at the last minute to complete an assignment that has awarded them little more than a pat on the head. 

Enough. 

Drawing the line on summer reading assignments

It is time, I think, to stop the practice of piling homework on kids during the few months of the year they have time to decompress. Summer homework is not only meaningless, but it also unnecessarily cuts into a remarkedly short few months away from the classroom. 

What is wrong with kids (and parents) just chilling out?

Nothing.

Will reading that book and drawing its setting help my rising third grader springboard into a new school year?

No. 

Is summer homework a function of needy parents who need the credibility associated with “your school requires this” behind them to get their kids off their phones?

I think so.

Unlike past years, my kids’ summer school work will not be done when they charge into their next classroom in a few weeks.

Maybe that puts them a bit behind but maybe it doesn’t. 

No matter, it ensures that I will be spending the next few weeks helping them enjoy their fleeting freedom instead of annoying them with the structure that can certainly wait until the attendance bell rings. 

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Oleksandr P via Pexels.

Tax Day has now come and gone. Once again, NONE of my working teens filed their taxes because I told them not to bother. With the standard deduction for single dependents nearing $1,300, I told my kids to save the time and sit this filing year out.  

Since each has started working, I have given this same advice. And, honestly, I’ve never been 100% sure that I/they are doing the right thing.

From my point of view, if my kids ultimately have $0 of tax viability (we live in Florida, so no state income tax, either) then filing to get the $20 lost does not make much sense. 

Whenever I encourage my kids to take the easy way out, I feel like I’ve short-changed a learning opportunity. 

But have I?   

Learn from the “act” of filing taxes

My father’s rule was simple: once you made $1, you filed taxes. I remember loving the time my dad spent sitting me down with the manual 1040EZ form we’d picked up from the Cedar Rapids, Iowa Public Library. I’d dutifully dice up my $500 annual earnings W2-box-by-W2-box. And, in the end, I’d get back the money I’d paid in on. It felt like a surprise bonus.    

That nostalgia had me itching to teach the same lessons to my working teens. That is until they told me filing taxes can be as simple as a few simple clicks on their phone. 

Nostalgic feeling – gone.    

Yeah, the efficiency of the internet has yielded the “act” of insisting your kids file taxes, well, meaningless and devoid of the father/kid interaction I am after.

More importantly, though, than my desire to spend more time with my teens, I began to wonder about their legal obligations for filing with the government by Tax Day.     

Do teens have to file taxes?

I was relieved to learn it is fine NOT to file a tax return if a teen’s earnings do not exceed the standard, single deduction for a dependent. In tax year 2023 (returns that are due in April 2024), that amount is around $1,300.

So, no, a teen not filing taxes is, as they’d say, “not that deep.” 

While your teen may not be required to file taxes, they can without any downside. The only possible outcome of filing at lower incomes (like those of my teens) is the opportunity to, potentially, get a refund. This would occur if they paid federal taxes in excess of their liability.  These amounts are typically small and should be weighed against the time (and possible software fees) it might take to file.

I do like the idea of enforcing the discipline of filing taxes for teens. I regret I did not have them each go through the process. It would have opened them up to conversations that may be important down the road, such as concepts like “dependents,” “standard deductions,” and “tax credits.” Through these types of chats, it may become clear how meaningful it may be to a family’s taxes to claim teens as dependents until they age out. (As of 2024, a teen can be claimed as a dependent until age 19 or 24 if a full-time student).

Filing taxes is also an opportunity to explain the importance of filing status on tax liability – and not only for them! I’ll leave those lessons until next year, I guess. 

What if my teen has only been paid in cash?

My 14-year-old daughter was only paid in cash for babysitting in 2023. It was only a small amount of money made babysitting for a select few friends. She assumed, then, that taxes did not pertain to her. To me, it was also a no-brainer to avoid filing a tax return.

Upon further review, I may have messed up.  

The IRS guidance mentions $400 cash income as the line where a teen can be characterized as “self-employed” and, therefore, subject to paying taxes. Take note: the “self-employed” designation does allow for write-offs that would reduce or eliminate their tax liability. 

So, while she could have filed, given the amounts, I’m OK with her skipping out with her brothers. 

I feel better now. We haven’t skirted the taxing authorities. My kids would say they’ve saved time and that’s a win. I would contend we delayed a lesson they will need and should understand. 

We’ll all have to pick up that lesson next Tax Day.

Teens and taxes photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich via Pexels.

Lynden’s dad always told him he was special in a very unique way.  

Each February, in fact, his dad would always remind him, “You’re my Lynden ‘Leapling’ — my special little boy born on Leap Day.”

Lynden knew that his real birthday, February 29, was unusual. But, why?      

As a little kid, he never thought to ask what he meant. But, now turning 10 years old, Lynden decided it was time to figure out why being born on “Leap Day” was a big deal. 

So many unanswered questions swirled in Lynden’s head:

Why did his actual birth date only come around once every four years?

Why did his family act like he was born on February 28 for the last three years? 

Determined to do some “Leap Year” learning of his own, Lynden asked his dad everything he’d been wondering. In his typical funny-yet-informative way, his dad stepped him through the ins and outs of this extra special day of the year.

“Well, son, Leap Day – your birthday, February 29 – is, indeed, special. This date only comes around once every four years. That doesn’t mean that we only celebrate your birthday every fourth year, though. Imagine having only two parties after 10 years. That wouldn’t be fair!” 

Lynden and his dad laughed, “Yep, Leap Day seems weird and obscure, but it happens for a very scientific reason. How many days are in a year, Lynden?” 

“Duh, Dad – 365 days! How do you NOT know that?” Lynden snickered at his father’s ignorance. 

“Nope. There are actually 365.25 days in a year. There is an extra one-fourth of a day each year,” Dad smirked back. 

“Really?”  Lynden was dumbfounded. 

“Yep, the fourth one-fourth day is Leap Day – an entire day created by fractions of days from the three years before. In 2024, and every four years for the rest of your life, there will be 366 days during each Leap Year.”

Lynden was not fully satisfied, “But, Dad, why does it matter? So, there are 365.25 days each year. Why can’t we just have the extra fourth of a day added at the end of each year?”

“Great question,” Dad perked up, ready to dive deeper into his reservoir of generally useless information. “It doesn’t really matter – until it does. If you add days to every year, after lots and lots of years, the calendar gets out of sync with the seasons. After 100 years of doing this, the months and seasons would be about a month off.  After 200 years, when I’m really old, February’s snow could be falling in June, and we’d enjoy the fall foliage during Christmas time. Sledding in August – that just isn’t right!”

Lynden finally understood. Well, except for one thing. 

“Dad, why do you call me your ‘Leapling’?” 

“That’s what a person born on February 29^th is called. You belong to an exclusive club.  You’re one of about five million people alive today.”

Finally, Lynden got it. 

He knows what Leap Day is.

He knows why Leap Year exists.

Indeed, Lynden felt special.    

Armed with all this new Leap Year information, Lynden couldn’t wait to get to school and tell his buddies all about being a ‘Leapling’. 

He was sure his friends would be impressed. 

To them, Lynden would be the smartest person in the world. 

Just like his dad was to him. 

Your child swearing is funny and cute when it starts. 

When your 4-year-old repeats an errant “What the hell?” or “Holy crap!” in the perfect context, it is hard not to laugh. Even funnier — a full-blown “f-bomb” in front of other kids at the playground or daycare.

I’m joking.

But, come on, it’s adorable. 

Until it isn’t. 

I am beginning to pass the discretionary line of cute-to-cringy when it comes to curse words being used by my elementary schoolers right now. And I’m unsure how to handle it. 

My two youngest children, ages 7 and 10, are not really swearing. They are just “soft swearing.” Using words like “crap,” “pissed,” “BS,” “shh,” and “freaking.” Their usage of these marginal curse words started with a few fleeting, innocent uses to emphasize a feeling. Now, they are thrown around casually and far too frequently for my tastes. During a recent week at church summer camp, my daughter was reprimanded for yelling “Oh, my God” to exude excitement.    

Who is to blame for the swearing tendencies in my youngest kids? I want to mostly blame my teens for gradually getting loose with their cursing around their younger siblings, but, honestly, I am also to blame. I am far too frequently using an “f-bomb” or “BS” to illustrate emphatic points. 

My rules for my child swearing

Should I be concerned with my kids using foul language?

Can/should rules be black and white about children cursing and using bad words?

Should similar rules apply to their parents?

Denying your child is swearing, or ever will, is crazy. So, from that reality, I believe there to be three versions of kid-cursing:

1. Swears I choose to allow (or not allow) in my house.
2. Words not permissible to use in the presence of other adults.
3. Foul language used socially with friends, teammates and/or classmates. 

Each, I gather, requires different rules from me. And, if I can be clear about those differences with my kids, my innate hypocrisy is covered. They will, no doubt, try to call me out when they slip up in using a word they have been able to use at soccer games, but not around their grandparents.

The first two versions – about a child swearing in the house and in front of other adults – are easy to manage. To me, kids routinely cursing to make a point before the college years is a no-no. While not judging other houses for letting kids throw down an “MF’er” during a heated conversation, I would prefer my kids to get into the practice of emphasizing points without swearing. The words my kids use reflect the way I speak – which, too often for me, involves colorful language I should have left out. I especially need to watch my mouth as I interact with my friends in front of my kids more. Our adult-to-adult conversations can get gnarly. All that said, to me, my children should not be swearing to or in the presence of adults, in my house or outside.

Teaching kids about cursing that happens around them socially, with their friends or at school, is much more difficult.

Over the past year, I’ve heard children at my kids’ elementary school use every bad word in the book – from those I’d consider marginal to the soap-in-your-mouth ones. My kids have watched in horror when I’ve called these potty-mouthed kids out: “Hey, watch your mouth around the school!” I find younger kids to quickly apologize for their lapse in linguistic judgment. Teens, meanwhile, flash a condescending-but-mildly-embarrassed type of look in my direction before quickly scurrying off. 

Cursing in the heat of competition

When the competitive juices are flowing on the fields of play, holding kids accountable for using foul language is much tougher. If you have a teenager, they are either talking or taking “trash” consistently – on the field, court, track, backstage, everywhere. 

I attempt to hold the line in teaching my kids to take the high road using clean language. However, certain times require some escalated, even bad, words.  Disciplining a kid for swearing during competition is far more subjective. 

If a “sh*t” comes out as a natural reaction after my son makes a bone-headed turnover, so be it. There just cannot be a rule here. Kids must learn through experience or, in this case, by making mistakes in the presence of adults whose definition of appropriate times to swear is different than mine. 

And that’s what makes this issue drip with variability. Every parent not only handles their child cursing differently, but the treatment of each instance also varies wildly by context, not just the time and place but the child’s age and level of vulgarity. For example, some parents are okay with the “s” word, but the “f” word is worthy of punishment.

This stuff is hard. 

We’re all in this together, I guess. I find comfort in the shared hypocrisy of my scolding our 15-year-old for swearing from the passenger seat when a car rolls through a stop sign in front of us while I laugh at our toddler who repeats the same curse from his car seat a few moments later.     

The are no swearing rules, after all. 

So, f*ck it. I’ll do the best that I can.  

Child swearing photo: © nicoletaionescu / Adobe Stock.

At soccer games on Saturday, I’m the dad furthest down the sideline, away from any other parents. I am not chit-chatting with other parents typically, tending to slide in and out unnoticed. While I’m not anti-social, I’m not overly mingle-y during our weekly games. 

It’s not that I don’t like the parents I share virtually every weekend with, but with each passing season, I find myself being less “people-y.” Joining in with the friends-off-the-field type of comradery isn’t me. I guess I’m good with the friends I have and don’t feel a pressing need to make more.    

Most of the time, how friendly I am on the sidelines does not much matter. 

Other times, like on a recent Friday morning, it does. 

With no school because of spring break on Friday, Everett, my 10-year-old, agreed to play in a makeup game across town. My wife and I had work responsibilities that day so we sent our little guy with another trusted soccer parent, Kelly. 

The game began at 10:30 a.m. 

By 10:35, I had missed two calls from Kelly and one from my wife. When my phone rang for the fourth time, I broke from my conference call and picked up.

My wife’s frantic voice didn’t allow me to speak, “You have to get to the hospital now!”

I was confused but assumed whatever was going on centered on the kid outside of our care, Everett.    

“I just talked to Kelly,” she said. “Everett broke his arm and dislocated his wrist. She is taking him to E.R. now. He is in a lot of pain. You gotta go.” 

My minivan had never cut in and out of traffic like it did that morning. As I sped to meet my ailing little boy, my phone rang again, this time from a fellow sideline dad. 

I could tell my son was listening as the other dad began slowly. “Toby, I have Everett right here waiting for a ride to get his arm fixed up,” he said. “He is hurting and scared, so I wanted you to talk to him and tell him that you’ll be here soon, OK?”

For the next few minutes, while speeding down the interstate, this fellow dad and I calmed down my hurting little boy. Then, I heard Kelly’s voice.

“OK, let’s go get you better, Everett. Tell your dad you’ll see him soon!” 

I hung up. My mind raced. 

Mostly, I felt deep gratitude to those parents standing in for me – the same sideline parents I often shun in favor of a quiet patch of grass on the outskirts of the pitch on any given Saturday. These were parents I’d previously stopped short of calling friends. 

Until now. 

Suddenly, the importance of befriending other sideline parents mattered. It mattered A LOT. 

It mattered that the other parents at the field with Everett that day treated him as if he was their own. 

It mattered that they knew how to break the bad news to me and my wife without freaking us out completely. 

It mattered that my son, laying on the ground screaming in pain, could recognize being surrounded by adults he knew and could trust. 

It mattered that I knew he was in good, caring hands when I could not be there.   

This situation has forever changed the way I’ll think about my fellow parents on any team our kids play on. That day I learned any team he plays on needs to have a similar “I got your back” mentality among the parents watching the game. 

That type of sideline comradery does not mean everyone gets along all the time. It does not require getting together socially after the game for beers and wings. Hell, I can even have every parents’ back from my preferred position of solitude on the sideline. 

It does mean, though, that every time our kids take the field, we are there for each other and our children. 

I felt that sense of community after Everett was stable as I stood at the side of his hospital bed. He and I spent the downtime responding to kind texts about how he was doing from everyone on the team. We FaceTime’d with teammates who left the field scared to death at seeing Everett carried off the field crying. Everett reserved a special place on this new, bright red cast for only his teammates to autograph. I felt so proud as he thanked Kelly and that other dad for making him feel OK in my absence.

These are more than fellow sideline parents, each is an extension of us. Making friends with sideline parents doesn’t matter until it does – even for the most non-“people-y” of parents like me.

Photo: © athichoke.pim / Adobe Stock.   

February 2020:

It is 6:45 a.m. and, all still half asleep, I load my two youngest (Everett, 7, and Emersyn, 5) into the minivan. There are two other cars welcoming us as we wait for the “before school program” to open. I nervously check my watch and tap my foot, my impatience fueled by an impending 8 a.m. meeting at the office. 

Great news!  My meeting goes well. 

Bad news — it lasted an hour longer than expected. I am now late to pick up the kids from the same spot where I dropped them off nearly 10 hours earlier. Finally, whizzing into the school parking lot, I see my kids on the playground in the distance with their frowning teacher. 

They are the only children left at school. 

Both kids wave excitedly. I wave back, trying to find an excuse to soften the impact of causing the teacher to stay late. I tell her, “I’m sorry.”    

A feeling of failure washes over me.

February 2021:

Feeling fortunate to have been spared from the wrath of COVID-19, I finish a Microsoft Teams meeting, temporarily log off, and head to grab my two little ones from school.  Alongside a few other “remote” working dads and moms, we watch our children spill out of the school’s gates and into each other’s arms.

It is mid-afternoon, the perfect time for a quick recharge before an evening schedule full of Zoom calls on next year’s budget. I get to hear about Emersyn’s new student and Everett’s home run in P.E. class before sinking back into my home office as they finish schoolwork. 

A feeling of gratitude engulfs me. 

February 2023:

It is mid-morning, a normal Thursday of working from home when an email lights up my inbox. The subject line is ominous: “Return to Work Update.” 

I feared this day would come. Working remotely was no longer allowed by policy.  All employees were to return to the office and their assigned cubicles the following Monday.

A feeling of dread crushes this day’s motivation. 

Lethargy quickly turned into rage. How can anyone expect an employee to suddenly undo the two years of remote-working rhythm they’ve developed? How can “corporate” expect parents to find immediate childcare? What about the added household expenses associated with that care and transportation with a mandate to return to the office?  

My outrage, though, had to be checked – there were kids that expected to see their dad after school. As I walked toward the school this day, I started to notice fewer parents mulling around than before. It turns out that nearly half of us had jobs that were now requiring work to be done in the office. I should have felt like one of the lucky ones who lasted, I guess. Instead, I felt like I’d experienced a slow fall from a picturesque cliff.

I came clean with my kids (now ages 9 and 7) right away, saying, “Hey guys, looks like I have to start working at the office again. Not sure what that means for you, but I’m working on it. Picking you up is the favorite part of my day.” 

My kids looked crushed. 

“Dad, why?” my daughter probed.

“Man, that sucks!” said my son, Everett, who was less eloquent but equally as distraught. 

My stomach twisted. I hated that such an arbitrary rule would have an impact on my kids’ lives.

But we parents roll with the punches, right? That is what we must do – and that is what we teach our children to do in their lives. So, that evening, my wife and I talked and planned, got pissed off and cooled down, and, more than anything, just felt defeated.

I dutifully returned to work the following Monday, still searching for how to get Everett to his 6 p.m. soccer practice across town and wondering if my wife will have to quit her job given the prohibited price of childcare. I am heartbroken by this forced and unnecessary intrusion into our established new normal. 

For 10 years, I have worked for a company that, I thought, cherished its people, and celebrated an employee’s ability to do the job from anywhere, anytime. I feel cheated.

Mostly, though, I feel my version of being a “present dad” has been compromised. The return to office life means I cannot pick my kids up from school anymore. They are late to virtually every afterschool commitment now. The daily grind of “wake up, hurry, drop off, work, pick up, repeat” has yielded our quick game of driveway H.O.R.S.E a distance memory. 

I see my kids every day and, still, miss them all the same. 

Great news: I have a job. I am grateful.

Bad news: I am filled with daily regrets about things I’m missing (again). 

The return to the office, for me, is a return to regret. The kind of regret I thought had been permanently abandoned – like the idea of having to sit in a cubicle to be considered a productive employee.    

Photo: © M-Production / Adobe Stock.

Talk about your lazy holidays. The daily routine of my teens over their recent December school break from school was as uniform as it was non-eventful – wake up really late, eat, Snapchat, Instagram, repeat. 

Dad sighs.

The routine of my non-teens (ages 7 and 9) was a bit different – wake up a little late, eat, YouTube reels, go outside, play, come back in after 20 minutes, repeat.

Dad sighs. 

Is this normal? 

Everywhere I go, every fellow dad I speak with tells me that sleeping followed by endlessly gazing at a phone is the go-to teenage activity on these lazy holidays. On average, teens need eight to 10 hours of sleep and, with a nonexistent holiday break bedtime, I would expect them to awaken later. But noon? 

The phone coma, though, I cannot stand. When I’m only mildly frustrated, I simply encourage my teens to go to the gym, for a walk/jog or to clean their room. They typically shun my suggestions as “boring.” When I’m all-out pissed (by 3 p.m.), I force them out of the house, relegating them to chores I make up out of desperation. These each end similarly – my teenagers claiming boredom after feeble attempts and eventually sinking back into a video of a chiropractor cracking necks. 

My little ones, while prone to quicker shifts between activities, require the same daily prodding to get outside or to free play with non-connected things around them. I worry about them watching their zombie-like older siblings and deferring to a tablet versus knocking on the neighbor kids’ front door. 

These behaviors are, I gather, normal. Given how busy families are I do think some lazy days during breaks are just fine. But every day for two weeks? 

Dad sighs.

Should my kids’ lazy holidays worry me?

While I acknowledge holiday break lethargy is normal, I have three major worries as I watch my kids.

First, if any of them use their social channels to call friends out. For instance, there are times when my kids will say “XX is at the beach but he/she can’t go to bowling with me?” This blame-game excuse for why they are left at home is lame and unhealthy.  

Next, I see my kids using Snapchat or Instagram to judge the willingness (or availability) of friends to do anything. 

“Can you and Jimmy hang today, Lynden?” I might suggest.    

“Wait, let me check Snap to see if he’s around. Nope, looks like he’s with Jake,” scrolling continues. 

Huh? 

I worry none of our kids are reaching out to each other. I am convinced they are on their phones while laying around, claiming they are bored while secretly hoping someone else takes the initiative to reach out. Reaching out is easier now, right?!!?

My final worry spurned by my kids’ holiday laziness is that tired seems to beget tired.  Because of their day-long coma, the odd times when they are presented with decent social options, my kids might choose to pass.

What does/should/can this break tell me about my kids?

Under the backdrop of this inactivity during the holidays, should I re-evaluate the lengths I go to keep my children active throughout the year? If they are sooo exhausted, should we cut down on the soccer games, school plays, dance recitals, or music lessons? If they haven’t touched a soccer ball during the break, why should I shell out big money to have them travel the state for competitive tournaments? If no one reaches out for a playdate or to go to a movie, should I worry that my sons or daughters are the school nerds? 

These questions swirled in my head during our recent break as I watched my kids. I could have answered each differently every time, with varying levels of frustrated concern. 

As I reflect now, though, I come back to the idea that my job is to provide and support my kids. With that mindset, I need not try to answer these questions as much as I acknowledge they will not be answered today. Fueled by that awareness, I can ask the right questions of my kids instead of having them feel judged or scared to be themselves around me. Maybe the constant worry and over-analysis does nothing for my family in the long term.

So, as with most parenting conundrums, I am left looking in the mirror.

What might my holiday break routine say about me? Mine was not like my kids’. I would wake up, exercise, eat, then worry, judge, plan, get frustrated, and repeat. 

Just like my kids’ routines, though, mine might be as normal as, ultimately, meaningless.     

Dad sighs.

Photo: © DimaBerlin / Adobe Stock.

From Christmas lights to Christmas trees, from Santa and his reindeer to that (damn) Elf on the Shelf, December is synonymous with one holiday – Christmas. And, as much as I love to get into the Christmas spirit with my kids, I find that I know nothing about the other holidays that are happening around us without much less fanfare: Hanukkah and Kwanzaa.

If I know zero about Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, my kids will know even less. That changes this holiday season! This year I plan to add some inclusiveness, diversity, and sensitivity to our traditional red and green holiday cheer. 

How might I explain the basics of Hanukkah and Kwanzaa to my children? With a parody of a Christmas classic, of course –

Shine Your Light

‘Twas the weeks before Christmas,

And all over town,

Kids made wish lists,

Red and green lights and decor all around.

My friend, Ashley, she’s Jewish,

She does different stuff,

She tells me her menorahs are cool,

A “Festival of Lights,” to me, is interesting enough. 

Hanukkah lasts for eight days,

Is the Hebrew word for rededication,

Lit candles from the December 18^th through 26^th,

Makes quite a marvelous window decoration. 

During Hanukkah, Ashley spins a dreidel,

To me, it looks like a top,

Saying “nun,” “gimmel,” “hei,” or “shin”,

She gets a gift when her’s finally stops. 

Christmas and Hanukkah are both coming soon?

I’m excited to add more celebrations to December,

I’ll wish Ashley “Happy Hanukkah,”

The week before Christmas if I remember.

“There is another holiday,”

Said my friend, Jenna, “this time of year,”

“It’s called Kwanzaa,

Right after Santa leaves with his flying reindeer.”

“Kwanzaa starts on the 26^th,

It’s a celebration of community,

Bedded in seven guiding principles,

That, until last year, were all new to me.”

Umoja is “Unity,”

Kujichagulia is “Self-Determination,”

Ujima is “Responsibility,”

These principles are better than a new game on PlayStation!

Ujamaa is “Collective Economics,”

Nia means “Purpose,”

Kuumba is “Creativity,”

Imani is “Faith” and that’s all seven, Jenna’s certain. 

On day six of Kwanzaa Jenna even says,

It’s time to feast,

And after celebrating Hanukkah, Christmas, and this,

I may be the size of Disney’s Beast!

I thank Jenna and Ashley,

They have me here thinking,

There is more to December,

Than gift wrapping and Christmas carol singing.

So many of us celebrate differently,

In our own kind of way,

Whether Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, or all,

The feeling of joy and gratitude is the same.

So, to my friends in December,

As I wave them goodbye,

Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas,

Blessed Kwanzaa.

Good night.

Whether on a tree or a menorah,

Do our community a favor,

My friends,

And shine your light. 

+ + +

Maybe, after all, learning the basics of these other December holidays will allow my kids to better understand what the Christmas season is all about – collective good, family, and celebrating all the differences that make each of us, ourselves.  And, let’s be honest, aren’t those better lessons for our kids to understand than how the Elf on the Shelf made snow angels in the sugar?

Photo: © Ana / Adobe Stock.

I have virtually nothing in common with Tom Brady. He is rich and famous, I am not. He is unfairly good-looking, I am average (at best). As you read this, though, I have joined the otherwise impeccable Brady in one aspect of life – I am now 45 years old. 

Ugh.   

Before I start comparing my relative mediocrity to the NFL’s greatest quarterback, I think about something else we have alike – we are dads. And, as such, rather than depress myself with more comparisons between me and Brady, I asked my kids about turning 45. Three of my five, in fact, mentioned Tom Brady in their answers to my questions (we live in the Tampa Bay area, of course).   

I asked them a variety of questions about being 45. Their responses ranged from sweet to subtly cunning, from pragmatic to unrealistic. I am not sure if my children – ages 6 to 16 – softened my worries about advancing toward 50, but I do know that they each had me looking at mid-life differently. 

Question 1: Do you think 45 is old?

My older kids saw through this question right away – obviously attempting to provide comfort. Yosef, my oldest at 16 replied, “No! You seem like one of the younger dads of my friends.” 

Interesting. I pointed out that he recently described a co-worker as “an old guy at work” who, in my assessment, looked to be in his mid-30s. For now, I appreciated his hypocrisy. 

The younger the child, the more truly honest they will be. Each of my little ones – Everett, 9, and Emersyn, 6 – cut to the bone. They both referenced my age relative to that of their respective schoolteachers. 

Emersyn stated flatly, “Ms. V has three kids, Dad. But she’s only 33. I guess you are way older.”

Everett took a different spin. “I guess you are older than most of my friends’ dads,” he said.

The parenting lesson: teenagers lie (and, in this instance, that is OK).   

Question 2: What do you think you will be doing when you turn 45?

I had expected my kids to answer in a way that reflected their current passions currently lie. Only one did! Everett, my fourth grader, hopes to make a living hosting YouTube videos while fishing all over the world. All my other kids, though, were far more mundane.

Yosef says he will be a lawyer. Vivi might teach. Emersyn has her heart set on becoming a veterinarian. And Lynden made me shutter by telling me he would “probably end up doing something like you, Dad.”

So, after turning 45, would they be pursuing their passions or settling?

I could consider Lynden’s answer as a compliment – the idea that I have carved out an envious life. On the other hand, I came away disappointed my kids are not chasing lives that others might deem unattainable.  

Question 3: What innovations will have occurred by the time you are turning 45?

Yes, flying cars still dominated the predictions about the future for my little ones. Everett even impressed me with, “I hope all those flying vehicles are electric!” His conviction about sustainability made me proud. 

My older kids, though, offered other types of answers – mostly centered on the ability to never leave home. Everything to my teens MUST become virtual – from running errands to mowing the lawn to getting a haircut (huh?). Their answers caught me off guard. It made me think the next generation of innovators thinks about the world so, so differently than I did at their age. 

These conversations, particularly with my teenagers, had me thinking about the high school kid I was – relatively ignorant about the world outside of my Iowa town, certain that by middle age I would likely settle into a 9-to-5 life, and not be open to the idea that I could go (even literally) anywhere I wanted to. Comparing the teenage me to my kids had me thinking of my regrets while searching for parenting purpose in their answers. 

Do my kids believe they can truly do anything? 

What could they learn from the regrets I harbor?

Can my children be part of the team that innovates, not simply part of the masses that benefits from such innovations?

How does the way I age (ugh), the life I have, the man I am, help my kids become the people they will be when they are “old”? 

Yep, I am turning 45, just like Tom Brady. I cannot throw touchdown passes, or win Super Bowls (Go Bucs!), or have his flawless looks stare back at me in the mirror. I can, though, be the GOAT at helping my kids visualize the great things they can be doing during the era where cars will finally fly.

Photo: ©soupstock / Adobe Stock.