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. 

A meme poking fun at parents who had to balance the holidays with throwing parties for their kids who had mid-to-late December birthdays recently floated around the internet. As soon as I saw it, I had to chuckle because, in the middle of trying to make sure everything was in order for Christmas, I had to think to myself, “What about Eden’s birthday?” Sure, the Amazon orders for my son’s gifts from Santa had already been placed, and my wife was taken care of, but what were we going to do on the 27th, my daughter’s birthday?

Back in mid-2021, my wife learned she was pregnant with Baby No. 2. At that time, we were finally finding our footing as parents of a 2-year-old. We were sleeping pretty well and were in that sweet spot before the “terrible twos” really started to show their ugly face. Nonetheless, it was exciting for us to soon grow from a family of three to four.

I did the math in my head and guessed we were likely looking at a December baby. When we went to the OBGYN for our first appointment, they confirmed that Baby Girl Hudson would be due on Christmas Day! Throughout that year, I was back and forth on where I stood on having a Christmas baby. On one hand, I thought it would be really cool. I have some friends and family who are Christmas babies and they love it. And besides, it would be the easiest birthday to remember. On the other hand, I thought about how difficult it could potentially be to try and balance a child’s birthday with everything that comes with Christmas. I thought about how my child would possibly never be able to have a “real” birthday party because her friends would always be with their families and loved ones on Christmas.

Fast forward to December 2021. Christmas eventually came and went with no baby. Our precious Eden ended up coming two days later on Dec. 27. Although it is still the holiday season, she’ll have a day just for her.

As we approached her first birthday a few weeks ago, it was a joy to be able to celebrate with our extended family who we were with for Christmas. It made me realize that balancing the holidays with your child’s birthday isn’t a bad thing at all. We ended up singing “Happy Birthday” and having cake the night of Christmas. It was the perfect end to a beautiful, albeit long, day. Just as I did when my son turned one, I took some time to reflect on my first year as a girl dad and father of two. Three things (among many others) have stood out:

Experience matters

When our son came along, I had no idea what I was doing. I’d never changed a diaper before he was born. It was trial by fire until we sort of figured out what we were doing. When Eden came along, I was three years in the game as a dad. A seasoned vet. I was a more confident dad this go-’round. There was really nothing that surprised me during her first year. From how to deal with the early sleepless nights, to going to the pediatrician, to being able to read and understand my wife in her postpartum state, having “been there before” made this past year much smoother.

Children can fill lifelong voids

As an only child, I’ve always wondered what it was like to grow up with a sibling. I never really dwelled on it because it was just the way life ended up for me. However, now as a dad of two, I catch myself in awe of their interactions on a daily basis. While things got off to a rocky start with Emory being jealous at first, now that we’re a year in, they are inseparable. They go to school together, play together, and show each other affection. It has allowed me to experience something as a dad, I didn’t know I needed. It’s amazing to watch – even when it gets a little testy between the two.

Little girls will melt your heart

My friends told me to get ready. Those guys who were already girl dads warned me that there would be nothing like it. That my little girl would have me wrapped around her finger. I didn’t believe it would be like that. Boy, was I wrong. I love my son unconditionally. We have a father-son bond that I pray lasts forever. But a daughter’s love is different. This past year, I’ve been softened by her presence. Her smile eases the pain of a rough day. She has given me another reason to be the best dad I can be, and even more of a reason to look forward to the holiday season each year.

Photo: © yanlev / 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.

Whenever one of my children receives a birthday party invitation, I have one question — and only one question — I want answered. I don’t care where the party is. I’m not particularly interested in what the activities or theme will be. Heck sometimes, I don’t even care who the party is for. The question I want to be answered is, “Is this a drop-off birthday party or one where the parent stays?”

Birthday parties where the parent of an invited kid has to stay are the worst.

The. Absolute. Worst.

These parties amount to a parent watching his child at a location beside his own house. It’s usually two hours with other parents, sitting in some uncomfortably small chair in a bounce house or other “kid centered” facility. What’s worse? Watching the host load your kid up with soda and cake before sending them back home with you. And to think, you bought a gift for someone to put you through this.

Of course, I guess it won’t be long before my kids won’t even want me to know about what they are doing with their friends, let alone want me to be there with them during parties.

I suppose there could be worse ways to spend your weekend besides attending a birthday party with your child. Sure the chairs are tiny and the conversations are awkward, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing to meet some of the parents of the friends your kid hangs out with. And who doesn’t love to watch their children play and have fun with a group of friends, even if they are scarfing cake and chugging soda while they do it.

Maybe the “parent stays” parties aren’t so bad after all.

What is your birthday party preference? Stay and hang out or get out of Dodge?

A version of this first appeared on Indy’s Child. Birthday invitation photo: © Prostock-studio / Adobe Stock.

Your son or daughter is having a birthday next week? Well, my twins are. I’ve been hesitant to mention it because a child’s birthday party amid a coronavirus “shelter in place” order would be frowned up by the governor and most of my neighbors.

Explaining the need to cancel or postpone a birthday party to a 5-year-old, let alone two, can be both difficult and fruitless. Your child may not understand the why, but if you’re in a situation like mine you owe it to him or her to try. Delaying such an event, even in the light of the current social isolation thing, actually may be harder than planning the shindig itself.

Here’s the skinny. Almost every moment, situation and occurrence in life is a teachable moment. These moments are ones ripe for learning, and should not be wasted. So, make sure that you don’t waste this one. Kids learn experientially and empirically, and they follow your lead. Give them a good lead to follow. If you love your kids, and want them to feel special on their birthday (of course you do), then you are at least half the way to success already, virus or not. You can control enough elements to still make these milestone events memorable.

So how do we find the happy compromise that will keep you sane and your child smiling?

First, be honest

Start with yourself. You love you kid and want what’s best for him or her which, at the moment, is not a grand event with lots of people. It’s OK to think this.

Now be honest with your child. Believe it or not, honesty is both cool and almost always a win-win. Look your child in the eye and explain the situation, whether you use the term “virus” or not. Be sure to regularly interject how much you love them and how you still want them to have a special day. And you can because you still can control some of the situation. With some effort, some creativity and some help, COVID-19 will not have the final say.

Get practical

Don’t focus on what you can’t do. Instead, make a list of things you can do for your child’s birthday. Luckily, in this digital age we find ourselves beholden to can help a lot.

• Skype, FaceTime and other video calling tools are a great way to be “face to face” without violating social distancing protocols.
• Here’s a shocking truth: your smart phone can actually make phone calls. Who knew?
• Postal workers have to eat, so keep them employed by asking lots of friends and family to send your child cards (homemade is fine — you’re child probably isn’t a Hallmark snob). Trust me, it’s old-fashioned but your kids will love it still.

If you sell it to your child with some extra positivity, there’s a good chance he or she will buy it.

“You may never have another birthday quite like this one!”

“We’re going to try it like this this year and, if you don’t like it, we’ll go back to a traditional party next year.”

“We’re trendsetters! Trust me, in three months everyone will be having ‘no people’ parties.”

Make it your child’s birthday week

Make the specialness last more than just one day by doing a little bit every day to spread the birthday love for your child out to seven days. Again, this creates more attention for your child and more chances to make memories.

If you can use video calling, have your birthday boy or girl open their presents “live,” so both the giver and receiver can enjoy the moment. This, of course, may require the giver sending the present via mail or leaving by your door.

Each day, have a few relatives or friends Skype/FaceTime/calls to sing Happy Birthday. Trust me, kids loving hearing it multiple times if they know it is for them.

And every day in the mail … more cards! Maybe some presents, too.

Don’t stress about it

At the very least, not in front of the kids. I’m not saying it’s not stressful, but your stress is not the gift you want to give them.

COVID-19 is not a final verdict. It’s simply an obstacle that will make you use your creative skills more to show your child how important he or she is. Quarantine? Pshaw, my kids are still getting cupcakes and balloons, and getting sung to for a week!

They will feel special because I make them feel special, and THAT, dear friends, is what they will remember.

About the author

Scott Mason is a married, 43-year-old sometimes stay-at-home dad of three — including a set of twins — who lives in Burbank, Ohio. When not entertaining his kids, he owns a house painting business, writes, directs and acts on stage with several local theater organizations, and helps lead the youth group at his church. His original version of this post first appeared on Families of Multiples.

Child’s birthday party photo: © Stasique / Adobe Stock.

Jerusalem’s snowstorm of the century began with a toast. My mother-in-law, Jean, was visiting us, and I had bought a bottle of her favorite local wine and a bouquet of flowers to mark the occasion.

As Jean and I partook a second glass of a delicious pinot noir, my wife, Debbie, was hit by a pint-sized rocket.

“It’s OK,” she said. “The contractions are far … ahh!”

Our unborn daughter’s hand had left a deep imprint on Debbie’s belly.

In the seconds following that monster contraction Jean moved with all the swiftness of a cheetah. She called for a taxi, packed up Debbie’s hospital bag, called her husband, e-mailed half of the Jewish population of her hometown, and watered the red cactus we had on our terrace.

Cut to Debbie and me in a fast-moving taxi, being driven by a sullen young man. “Just breathe, I said. “It took Tamar (our daughter) 26 hours to be born. Hold my hand.” Debbie and the taxi driver exchanged a glance that communicated miles: “This schmuck has no clue he’s gonna become a father before that traffic light turns red.”

The hyperventilating cabby blew into the ER entrance. “Get her a wheelchair!” he yelled. I leaped out of the taxi and returned in eight seconds flat with a wheelchair. The taxi driver floored it, racing off into the suddenly blustery night.

With the cab’s exhaust fumes still lingering in the chilly night air Debbie gave birth in her tights to our second daughter, Yarden Tilli Lotte.

Following the snowstorm birth

Elated, I walked all the way home to our four-story Jerusalem walk-up. I was sleeping the deep sleep of a happy, relieved father of a healthy newborn when my cell phone rang.

“If you don’t get me out of here now, I’ll go insane.”

It was Debbie. She was trapped in a room with an orthodox Jewish woman whose father-in-law had bellowed nonstop all day, calling everyone and his uncle, looking for a way to get his daughter-in-law, and latest grandchild transported out of the hospital back home to the city of Bnei Brak about 40 miles away. The fact that the Israeli Ministry of Transportation had announced that all roads in and out of Jerusalem were closed was little more than a detail to work around.

Now it was dusk, and this grandfather of 16 had shifted from yelling in English to whispering frantically in Yiddish about God knows what. Debbie had pleaded to be transferred to another room, but with Jerusalem about to reap the whirlwind, the entire city was in lock down, and every hospital bed taken.

I had to move, right quick. The roads were impassable, so I trudged through the snow-covered streets of our neighborhood, carrying an empty bassinet, sticking my thumb out for a lift to the hospital. The streets were empty, except for one intrepid, or seriously confused, traveler who had braved the elements, saw me, saw my bassinet, and gave me a ride all the way to the hospital.

I rushed into Debbie’s room, bundled her up, picked up our baby girl, and the three of us made tracks.

The arrival of our beautiful, round baby girl with the big brown eyes and forearms like a sailor ushered in the storm of the century. Yet Yarden Tilli Lotte’s entrance onto the world stage wasn’t completely chaotic: she was born 46 years to the day after her grandparents, my wife’s mom and dad, had created the beginnings of a storied love affair by swapping ‘I dos’ at the Highlands North Synagogue in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Sometimes, the line between chaos and creation can be blurry – but it sure is beautiful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Snowstorm birth photo: © v_sot / Adobe Stock.

On the day this piece will be published, I’ll turn 40. I have a 5-year-old, a 3-year-old, and, wait for it, a post-vasectomy 4-month-old.

Yeah, it’s been that kind of year.

Or maybe it’s just been that kind of life?

I have no career. I have published zero novels, and despite having spent tens of thousands of dollars on college, I have zero college degrees. As far as banks are concerned, I own nothing. As far as history is concerned, I’ve accomplished nothing.

By now I was sure I’d be a successful novelist blasting around in Porsches, spending summers on Lake Tahoe and winters on the Gulf Coast. As I gracefully slipped into 40, I was certain my kids would be nearly graduated high school, well adjusted, and proud of their successful father. Instead, they are just learning how to read and potty train and one is barely able to put her hands in her drooling, toothless mouth.

Life, man. It does what it wants.

If I measure my life by a standard others may impose upon me, the above list of failures would be crippling. If I were to surrender to societal norms, I’d approach this imposing age milestone with regret and an excess of emotional baggage I’d drag to the Chevy dealership, hoping it’d fit into the trunk of the newest mid-engine ‘Vette.

Alas, no crisis for me. No wild spending. No illicit tryst. I enter 40 triumphant, confident and emboldened to experience life in its rawest forms.

Why? Because I’m a dad.

Being a dad is life’s real challenge. It’s pretty easy to procreate. Hell, I did it after I had a vasectomy. I even had a post-procedure infection that stole nearly a year of my life, almost killed me (I think), and then, after all that, I got my wife pregnant. During those moments when I went to sleep uncertain I’d ever wake up, only one thing was on my mind: my kids.

I didn’t lament the lack of book deals. I wasn’t annoyed I was driving a VW instead of a Porsche (most of the time). I never, not once, pondered any of the things a “successful man” must’ve surely accomplished by age 40. I only longed to see the sun again, so I could see the light reflected in my children’s eyes.

Dramatic? Yeah, a little.

True? Completely.

So go find one of your kids. Give them one of those potentially annoying dad hugs (bonus points if this is in front of their friends), dig your nose deep down into their hair, breathe deep, and cling to the moments that matter most.

Society is filled with those eager to point out what you lack, eager to laugh at your failures, and desperate to prove you don’t measure up. As the years pile on, these judgments increase. The pressures increase. The ways to measure yourself against others become limitless, but I encourage you dads to remove yourself from the destructive narrative that we all must follow the same path. Instead, follow the path that leads you to conclude being a good dad is life’s greatest achievement.

While I’m deeply satisfied by the abundance of unconditional love swirling around my home, I’m still hoping for that Porsche. Maybe by 50?

Hmm. By then, I’ll have a 15-, 13-, and 10-year-old. Maybe at 60.

Fatherhood path photo: ©candy1812 / Adobe Stock.

Dye your hair, rid yourself of wrinkles, enhance your energy etc. Everywhere you turn, you see some sort of advertisement whose stated goal is to make you look or feel younger.

We live in a culture where there is a drive to be young. While I wish I had a full head of hair, when I wonder what it would be like to be younger again, it has nothing to do with the physical.

This morning, my oldest son, BR, came downstairs. He looked at my wife and I who were sitting and talking on the couch discussing our daily plans like football coaches game planning for the upcoming foe. He had a smirk on his face even as he was wiping the tired out of his eyes

“It’s tomorrow, today,” he said.

He said it a second time, and that seemed to be his whole message. He was excited for the trip we have planned to a water park later in the week. Youthful enthusiasm.

SJ, his younger brother, will be celebrating his 5^th birthday in November. It’ll be his first birthday party at which we will include his friends. He’s talking about this party incessantly and invites and uninvites on a regular basis.

According to SJ, the birthday is tonight, and it should have been every night of the last two weeks. This morning I showed him a calendar. We sang the months of the year song that he learned in school. I then showed him that there are many days until his birthday.

He nodded his head indicating that he understood. Skip a beat. A moment later, he informed us that his birthday party was tonight. Palm slap right to my head. This kid ain’t gettin’ it.

But then I realized why he is not getting it – it’s about youthful enthusiasm. It’s tomorrow, today.

Both boys are experiencing pure and utter joy – like only the young can. Beautiful, just beautiful!

So, while I really would love that full head of hair, I want what my children have. We adults no longer experience the pure and utter joy of youthful enthusiasm.

I hope my boys can retain that joy of youthful enthusiasm for as long as possible, and I’ll be content to live vicariously through them.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: © anekoho / Adobe Stock.

I was on the other side of the room so I’m not exactly sure what happened with Penny. I just know I saw her crying and spent the rest of the birthday party comforting her.

Through barely muffled tears, she told me part of the story before we left. Through slightly more muffled tears, I deciphered additional details on the car ride home.

She and a few of her friends were in the bathroom together. (This is, by the way, super common for them. I don’t know why women use the restroom in packs, but I do know it starts young.) One of them was, apparently, still “busy” when the mother of the birthday girl knocked on the door. When they innocently exited, she reamed them out. She made it clear that they wouldn’t be invited to any more parties ever again.

W T actual F, right?

That was Penny’s perspective, anyway. And she bawled her little eyes out.

I didn’t speak with the mother before we left. I just wanted to comfort my daughter, find out what was wrong, and get the hell home.

But I couldn’t just let it rest.

My baby got hurt and I had to make it better. I had to find out what happened, at least. I know the mom and the mom knows Penny. There had to be a good explanation.

I texted the mom that night to hear her side of the story while letting her know how distraught Penny was. I also hoped to subtly convey that explicitly un-inviting a 9-year-old to all future parties is kind of a fucked-up thing to do. (If you really don’t want her at another party, don’t send an invite. You don’t have to be a dick about it a year in advance.)

Why did you yell at my child?

The mom explained that the girls locked themselves in the bathroom because, apparently, they didn’t like the game that was being played. They were hiding in there, goofing around on an iPhone, refusing to come out even though she knocked on the door repeatedly. She felt like they were disrespecting her (and her time putting the party together) and being mean to her daughter on her birthday. It was a yell of protection as well as anger.

I followed up, explaining Penny’s side of the story as I understood it and my wish that things had been handled differently. She emailed a sincere and thoughtful apology to me and the other parents involved, admitting that she handled the situation poorly and should have spoken with the adults instead of yelling at the children.

From an objective parent’s perspective, I understood her frustration. She was, after all, throwing a party for her child, and the guests – who are supposed to be her child’s oldest friends – seemed to bail on it. She also explained that she was going through some crap with her father’s health, so under additional stress.

Let me be clear: If my child is misbehaving and I’m not there to witness it, I trust her friends’ parents to reprimand her. Not yell at her necessarily (unless she’s doing something dangerous then YELL LIKE HELL), but tell her she’s not doing the right thing. In turn, I’m very comfortable telling her friends that they’re being little assholes when they are, in fact, being little assholes. Probably not in those words, of course. But it really does take a village to raise a child not to be a douche and we all need to do our part. Unfortunately, sometimes the villagers fuck up. I suspect that’s what happened in this case.

I’m still not exactly sure what happened in the bathroom, but I know my kid. And I know those kids. And they’re all good kids. And they all take a long-ass time in the bathroom.

I believe my daughter when she tells me they weren’t playing in there avoiding the party. I believe her because she’s given me little reason not to. And, again, I know how long she and her friends take in the bathroom. Frankly, it’s a little much.

Lessons for kids (and adults)

I’m not glad this happened, but there were some important lessons. And life is all about the lessons we learn along the way. Here are a few I talked about with Penny and some she’s figuring out on her own.

1. Everyone makes mistakes.
2. Everyone can be an asshole sometimes.
3. If you make a mistake or you’re being an asshole, own up to it and apologize.
4. There are two sides to every story.
5. Everyone is going through their own crap.
6. Empathy is important.
7. Even if you didn’t do anything “wrong,” you can get in trouble.
8. Perception matters.
9. Friendships can survive misunderstandings.
10. Maybe don’t take so damn long in the bathroom. Seriously, what the hell are you doing in there??

Penny and the birthday girl have seen and played with each other since the incident. They’ve known each other forever, and it’s all good in the hood, water under the bridge, forgiven and all but forgotten.

Our paths have not crossed with the mom, yet. Penny is sensitive and has a long memory. I’m not sure how that interaction will go. Hopefully with a hug. Hopefully with mutual apologies. Hopefully with the parent being the adult.

A version of “Yell” first appeared on Amateur Idiot / Professional Dad.

The 40^th birthday party my wife threw for me was legendary – the next day’s massive hangover being evidence enough.

My head pounded on that first official day of my fourth decade as I trudged out of bed and began picking up the remnants of the past night’s celebration.

As I emptied the second half-full beer can of the morning, I mumbled, “F*ck 40.”

My tone was dismissive – as if I was saying something snide like, “I’m better than ever” or “age is just a number” or “40 is still sort of a millennial, right?”

Maybe I was trying to convince myself.

The hangover, though, has not gone away. Four months later, my solemn disposition persists. And, whether I brand my subdued mood as a mid-life crisis, depression or just a funk – the fog has been heavy, real and has lasted far too long to ignore.

F*ck 40.

I’ve started calling this mood my “fine fog” – the state of being neither great nor terrible, not good or bad, not well or sick. I am stuck being “fine.”

There is a loneliness of living in neutral. Little has been written to help guys struggling like this. Talking to my buddies about how I’m feeling isn’t appealing either and, face it, men generally stink at emotional discussions anyway.

It is up to me to solve this. But no matter how much I tried, nothing lifted my “fine fog” – and that made me feel worse.

How could I not be “great?” I wondered. I have a great spouse, five great kids, a solid career path and relationships with friends that others covet.

It must be turning 40, right?

F*ck 40.

When I started feeling down, I thought the approaching holidays would help me regain my vigor.  But no jingle bells, no silver bells, not even a trip to see my extended family helped. The fog continued to loom.

That’s when I started to realize that I might not be so fine.

When back at home after another fine day at work, I turned to my wife, “I think something is wrong, hun. I can’t seem to shake this funk. You all seem so happy, and I’m just not.”

She nodded. We talked for a while.

As it turns out, those around me had taken notice of my fine fog, too.

Later that night as I drifted off, I dismissively mumbled, “F*ck 40.”

How I’m beating those 40th birthday blues

I was at a tipping point. I had to change. Fine, for me, just is not good enough.

From the next morning on, I’ve tried.

I can’t say I’m happier than I was as a carefree 21-year-old. I won’t say I don’t have fleeting thoughts of self-doubt or of fear or of feeling unprepared or unworthy.

My fine fog does still roll in – but I try to burn it off quickly. I do so the only way I know how – through my family. After all, being a dad is what I do best – so it stands to reason that lifting the fog has to involve my wife and children.

My family is a case study in energetic happiness – and, I need some of that immediately.

My kids bounce out of bed each day.

My wife smiles more than she frowns.

When my kids see someone – a friend, the school crossing guard, anyone – they get excited.

Each of my five children fights to extend their day – rather than looking forward to it ending. 

I’ve been working on modeling these simple behaviors – except maybe the whiny, crying 4-year-old’s “I’m not tired” tantrums each night at bedtime.

Today, I’m good. That is light years ahead of the “fine” I’ve been stuck in for the past half year.

I want to be great, though – to match the way I feel each day with the tremendously fortunate life I now have.

I’ll get there – I have to believe that sunshine waits out there, somewhere.

But, until the sun permanently burns off the fog, it feels cathartic to, from time to time, say, “F*ck 40.”

40th birthday fog photo: Harman Abiwardani on Unsplash