Resolutions. I love them. Love to make them, write them down, and commit to them loudly with bravado at New Year’s Eve parties (“I’m SO gonna do Tough Mudder this year! AND go gluten-free. WHO’S WITH ME?!!”) even while knowing all that big talk will likely evaporate by February. I just like this time of year when we all attempt to take a few steps toward becoming better humans, at least for a little while.

For me, resolutions fall into two categories:

• Outward Accomplishments — get more writing done, make more money, be the first bald man ever to grow a new head of hair by determination and straining alone
• Inward Improvements — be nicer, be less judgmental, be a tiny bit less hypocritical by not yelling at other drivers just before cutting someone else off myself

To have some nice father-daughter bonding time recently, I sat down with my 14-year-old daughter to talk about making our New Year’s resolutions, particularly in the category of Inward Improvements.

Spoiler Alert: she doesn’t have any.

That is, she doesn’t have any resolutions for herself. Turns out, however, she had several resolutions for me.

Like, a list.

That she’d already written down.

For me.

Ways that I, her father, can improve.

It was a super-productive discussion.

These are the resolutions my daughter told me I should embrace, straight from the 14-year-old’s mouth:

1. No more knocking on my door and asking if I want to, like, hang out all the time. If I want to hang out, I’ll come find you.

Me: But you never want to hang out.

Her: That’s not true. We hung out for an hour yesterday.

Me: That was Christmas. You hung out with me because I was giving you presents.

Her: Well, let’s do more of that kind of hanging out then.

2. You know that thing where you try to use cool slang in front of my friends? Stop doing that. No one actually says “OMG” out loud. It’s not a thing.

Me: Are you sure? Because kids on TV say it all the time.

Her: No! Bad dad.

3. Stop repeating yourself all the time. For example, you don’t need to tell me to wash the dishes FIVE TIMES after every night.

Me:  But you never respond after the first four times. If you did, I would stop —

Her: You don’t give me a chance! Sometimes it just takes me a while to, you know, process what you’re saying.

4. Stop talking about Star Wars, like, all the time.

Me: No.

5. Ease up on my grades. Sometimes a B+ is just fine.

Me: But what if it’s in a class where I know you can get an A?

Her: If I could get an A in a class, I’d already have one. A B+ is still above average, you know.

Me: I’d like to think we can set our goals higher than –

Her: BAD DAD!

6. Stop trying to make me do boring grown-up things all the time.

Me: You mean like laundry?

Her: Very funny.

7. Stop worrying so much about whether I have enough feminine hygiene products in the bathroom.

Me: I just don’t want you to run out of … girl stuff

Her: Dad, you buy “girl stuff” every time you go to the store. I’ll literally never run out for the next 20 years.

Me: Parental responsibility. Listen, someday when you’re an adult you’re going to run out of … stuff, and you’ll look back on what a responsible father I was. And how awkward it was to buy the … stuff.

8. Stop worrying about my screen time. I’m not looking at anything gross online. I’m basically just talking with my friends or drawing on my iPad.

Me: OK. Just promise me you won’t give out any personal information to some stranger claiming to be a 14-year-old named Katy. It might be a 65-year-old guy named Cleetus living in a trailer somewhere.

Her: Dad, I’m not stupid.

Me: Not the point.

9. Stop worrying so much about me in general. I’m totally fine.

Me: Sorry, kid. I’ll never be able to keep that one. Oh, and you should probably know that I’ve made my own set of resolutions that are the exact opposite of everything you just said.

This was originally published in 2016 and later updated. Photo credit: Resolutions and goals via photopin (license)

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This article about a dad’s introverted teen daughter comes from 2018.

I recently ran into the mother of a girl at my daughter’s high school. Both our kids are seniors this year; they know each other and are casual friends.

After congenial hellos in the line at our neighborhood coffeehouse, she asked, “So! What are Riley’s plans after graduation?”

We’re not totally sure yet, but are looking at colleges in the area.

“The whole college thing is overwhelming, isn’t it?” the mom exclaimed. “How are her grades? How are her SATs scores? Are you applying to places that put a big emphasis on extracurriculars?”

Grades were fine; test scores, fine. I had no idea how much certain schools care about extracurriculars (because of how I’m a bad dad and stuff), so I kept my answers polite but short, without elaborating much.

But this mom could not be stopped.

“Hey,” she said, “did Riley ever decide to try out for any school plays? The last time I saw you, you said she was thinking about doing theater. Theater can do wonders for a kid’s social skills and confidence. Skyler isn’t a theater kid, but she’s really loving her debate team. Plus she’s on the yearbook staff. And she’s doing cheerleading, can you believe it!?”

Riley and I had briefly talked about theater as an extracurricular pursuit, but it ultimately wasn’t for her. I said as much to the mom, then mentally kicked myself for it.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly doleful. “Sounds like she’s still our little introvert, isn’t she? You know what? It’s going to be fine. You shouldn’t worry. A lot of kids grow out of it.”

That’s when I had to suddenly use every ounce of maturity I had to excuse myself politely. It wasn’t just that her tone was condescending and offensive. It was that it was laced with the arsenic glaze of “Thank God my kid isn’t like your kid.”

Thanks for that, but I like my kid just fine, fuck you very much.

Dad and daughter — different teen spirits

I was also an introverted teen. It took me a while to come out of what I perceived at the time as my “shell.” I was shy, awkward and pretty unsocialized. (And, as it turned out, deeply, deeply closeted. But that’s a whole other bunch of blog posts.) I never stopped being weird in my own ways, but I did discover a few social skills and ended up making valuable friends, many of whom are still in my life today. I tapped into some dormant extrovert traits around my junior year. I discovered confidence through my school’s fine arts programs, learned the fine art of partying from my more rebellious friends, and found ways to connect with people from different social circles. As a result, I have deeply fond memories of high school.

But when I became a parent, I firmly told myself that when my daughter became a teenager, I wouldn’t use my own experience as a barometer for what was and wasn’t right for her — a common parenting mistake.

This is good because while my high school experience was about friends, school activities, and sneaking out to late-night parties, my teen daughter is not.

Her high school experience has been different. She has a couple of friends, but very rarely does she have anyone over after school to study or hang out. She’s involved in a couple of afterschool activities, but nothing that has enlarged her social sphere. She doesn’t party. She spends most weekends at home with us and seems content with that. She’s a straight-laced, good kid.

Yes, my daughter is an introverted teen.

Neither she nor I need a Myers-Briggs test to tell us that. I see it in her behavior, and I recently came to appreciate it more than I used to.

Why do people worry about introverted teens or introversion in kids in general?

Because introversion so often runs against what we’re told are valuable skills: sociability, confidence in large groups, and the overall ability to be the life of the party. It’s the stuff of popularity and acceptance. The stuff we see in the kid Most Likely To Do Everything Impressive After Graduation.

In our cultural context, despite what people claim to understand today about the range of personality types, and the values that come with being both an extrovert and an introvert … the extrovert still always seems to win.

Introverted teen at her best

What does life with my introverted teen daughter look like?

• She is smart and funny, yet has limited energy to sustain it with others.
• She likes being around people and has fun in social settings, as long as she can retreat for short breaks to re-energize.
• She likes parties as long as she has an exit strategy available to her. She doesn’t like the feeling of being trapped someplace where there are tons of people. (You know what? Me neither.)
• She likes attention, but only when she knows to expect it, and only in measured doses. In other words, she wouldn’t like having friends throw her a huge surprise birthday party. She does, however, like getting together with a few friends at a time to hang out.
• She has friends but prefers them at arm’s length much of the time. She doesn’t do the deep sharing thing easily with others. The close friends she does have, she cares for deeply.
• She’s a good listener with tremendous intuitive skills. She pays attention. Nothing gets by her. When I’m feeling sad or upset, she will notice and ask what’s wrong. And because she’s so intuitive, I can’t get away with the classic parental deflection answer: “Oh, I’m just a little tired.” She sees right through that.
• She enjoys her own company and is almost completely immune to peer pressure. No one will ever pressure her into doing something she doesn’t want to do.
• She spends her free time diving deep into her own artistic creativity, drawing, sketching and manifesting a world around her that’s more colorful than the one others see.
• She solves problems and addresses challenges by talking them out to herself, rather than looking for others to serve as a sounding board. This means she’s got resilience, resourcefulness, and the ability to think critically on her own.

I do believe that there’s a healthy middle ground between extroversion and introversion, of course. The ability to draw energy both from being with others and from taking time alone? That sounds great. Do you know anyone who has that particular yin-yang balancing act down?

My daughter still has growing to do. As always, I look forward to seeing how she’ll evolve as adulthood approaches. But do I want her introversion to end up being just a phase? Do I want my wonderfully strange, creative, thoughtful girl to “grow out of it?”

Not even a little bit.

Introverted teen photo by Igor Cancarevic on Unsplash

Editor’s Note: June 12 marks the anniversary of the 2016 mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people died and 53 were wounded when a lone gunman attacked patrons of the gay nightclub. It was the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history at the time (it’s since been eclipsed). This article originally ran just two days later.

I woke up Sunday morning blissfully unaware. It was a rare opportunity to sleep in, not having to get up and hustle into action. When I did roust myself, I leaned over, kissed my husband good morning, and shuffled into the kitchen to pour my morning cup of coffee. And, of course, I checked my phone.

The first thing I saw: a text from a good friend of mine.

“When I saw the news this morning, I immediately thought of you and Chris, and wanted to express my sadness and outrage that even in the most powerful country in the world, we are so flawed, so full of hatred and fear,” it said.

She went on to let me know that she loves me and my family, and was thinking of us.

I didn’t know what prompted her message.

A quick web search revealed facts about the mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people gunned down on a Saturday night. During Gay Pride Month.

And, once again, I had to decide how to discuss evil with my daughter.

Nightclub shooting our latest tough conversation

It’s not the first time. She’s almost 15. Like so many other parents, I’ve been having conversations with her since she was a toddler, with horrifying regularity. Sandy Hook. Virginia Tech. San Bernardino.

When she was little, I consulted books about how to talk about death and violence with children. Do you avoid the topic, and shield them from it altogether? Should you mask real-life tragedies in analogies or fables? Or, should you stay honest, but use gentle language that minimizes the brutality?

Now that she’s a teenager, we talk about this stuff with more directness and clarity. Real-life violence has yet to touch her life directly, which is a blessing. So we did talk about the Pulse nightclub shooting, and I decided to go with accuracy and less emotion (which is always difficult for me, as someone whose emotions tend to be the boss in my head): Who the shooter was, what he did, what was known/not known about him at the time.

We had our talk, and it was briefer than conversations in the past. She hadn’t seen the news yet so I just filled her in on the latest Horrible Thing that had happened, and that was that.

Her reaction was difficult to read. Whether that’s because we were used to these talks by now, or because she’s at the stage where she’d rather process stuff on her own, it’s hard to say. I did realize, though, that this tragedy in Orlando felt different from other mass shootings for me, and possibly for her as well. Why?

Because the Orlando shooting was the deadliest in American history.

A horrifying loss of human life.

Fueled, in part, by a hatred of gay people.

And, because, I am gay.

How can she not worry?

I have been out for five years, and this is the first time such a violent act has ripped into this community I proudly call my own.

My daughter tends to be a worrier. She’s gotten a handle on it over the years, but she has the double whammy of having a very active imagination and a short anxiety fuse. So when my husband and I go out at night and she stays home, she still gets a bit nervous if I don’t text her to check in at least once. (Total role reversal. In another year or so, I’ll be the one asking her to check in.)

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

And while our evenings out are usually pretty benign, my girl knows that every once in a while, we do love to go out dancing. Dancing is deeply important to us. It’s how we find our feelings, connect with the world, and thank the universe for everything that we have. We plan to keep on going out and dancing until we’re in wheelchairs. And hopefully, by then, science will have developed the technology to make robot legs and neural Groove implants so we can not only keep dancing but look even cooler than the young whippersnappers around us.

My daughter, the worrier, sees the news from Orlando about the Pulse nightclub shooting as such: people in a gay club — people there because they love their community, love each other and love dancing — being heartlessly killed. The gears in my girl’s brain turn, and she makes the connection.

Someday her dad and stepdad could be in a club, dancing happily, and be killed by someone evil, simply for being.

I know her. That’s how her brain works.

Evil will not triumph on the dancefloor

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

But can I tell my daughter her worry is unfounded?

No.

Because the scary truth of it is, it’s sheer luck that I was never in a club at the same time as a monster with an AK-47. This was the killing of my people, in my house. There is no way to pretend otherwise.

So how do I talk about that with my daughter?

In this strange new world where some members of our nation are zealously clinging to their right to own guns, where any attempt at greater gun safety and regulation is met with an outcry of “You can’t take my guns away from me!”, where someone on an FBI watch list can still own a gun and carry it into a place of safety and sanctuary and act out his dream of being a vengeful god, where being gay can still result in persecution, shame and outright fear …

I don’t know what to say to my daughter about that. She’s afraid for me, and I can’t tell her that fear is unfounded.

All I can tell her is this:

Yes, there is a lot of hatred in the world.

That hatred tends to come from fear and ignorance of those we don’t understand.

That hatred can sometimes result in evil, violent action.

But there are far more people who believe in the value of love, and human life, than not. Evil doesn’t rule. It just gets more press.

Oh, and one other thing:

There’s no way in hell that evil is going to keep me from dancing. Ever.

Pulse nightclub mass shooting photo: ©  Alex / Adobe Stock.

When Chris and I first got married, I was charmed and amused by the notion that I, a man-person, now had a Husband.

I had a Husband while simultaneously being a Husband myself.

My inner child loved it, finding it both weird and silly. That kid voice in my head giggled: “He’s your HUSBAND? But you’re both boys!”

It was unusual, and extremely pleasing, to talk about my Husband, rather than my Partner. And waaay better than talking about my Boyfriend.

I also realized how much I enjoyed hearing myself being referred to as Husband once again, in this new chapter of my life.

When your husband calls you Husband … it’s really something thrilling. It means you have a distinctly male role for someone, a masculine presence in someone’s life. At least, that is how my old-school, straight-raised brain translated it. Being Chris’s husband meant I was the Man in his life. I’m the one who would wrap him up in my arms when he needs to feel comforted or safe. My shoulder would be the one he could lean on for support. That notion was very special to me.

(And before I go any further, let me be clear: I’m not saying wives don’t provide the same thing for their spouses. I’m really not. So don’t troll me. I’m saying that for me, someone who had lived the majority of his life in Straight World and been brought up to see gender roles in a traditional way, who then came out of the closet at age 40, there was a sense of relief that I could still be the husband I’d always wanted to be.)

We’ve been married for years now. A fascinating and exciting experience, being a Husband to one’s husband.

But not long after I realized how much I enjoyed being called “Husband,” I realized it didn’t actually happen that often. Chris and I would be at some social event for his work, or mine, and when he referred to me, Chris would introduce me by saying, “This is my partner, Seth.”

It bothered me a little, at first. Especially when I realized I sometimes defaulted to calling him “partner,” too.

And we talked about it, curious about our behavior. We certainly felt like husbands. So why did we sometimes introduce each other as “partner”?

It’s an interesting question, considering more people support marriage equality now than ever before. Now more than ever, people are down with the idea of same-sex matrimony.

We quickly realized why. It’s simple and obvious: there remain some strong beliefs out there that undermine the idea of same-sex marriage. I can’t speak to what it’s like for gay women who marry each other, but I now see clearly how some folks still react when meeting two husbands.

“They’re playing house.”

Even in our enlightened context, there’s still a pervasive belief that when two men get married, they’re simply pretending. It’s not a “real marriage” if there’s no wife involved. Gay men are simply marrying each other so they can register for flatware, decorate a new house and pose for adorable holiday card photos with their twin Shih Tzus.

“They have an ‘open arrangement.'”

Without a woman to maintain monogamy rules, men are rutting pigs who give each other permission to rut away, even if it’s just under special circumstances.  I’ve had straight people pull me aside after learning I’m “gay married,” and covertly ask, “So … what’s the agreement you guys have if one of you is traveling?” I don’t think straight marrieds are asked that question. At least, not as often.

“They’re probably just temporary.”

Because gay men are … gay men, their commitments are temporary. They’ll stay together until they get bored, and then they’ll move on. Because, you know, men.

“They’re SO adorable.”

This one seems harmless, but we get it a lot — the condescending smile and virtual pat on the head by people who think it’s so cute how two men try to be just like a real couple. How. Cute.

It’s worth noting that it isn’t just uninformed straight people who harbor all these beliefs. I know more than a few gay men who believe and embrace the stereotypes, who shake their heads in disbelief when they learn that two more of their gay friends have decided to tie the knot.

The range of responses has been coming up more often lately because of the various functions we both attend this time of year: weddings, graduations, etc. This usually occurs when we meet new people and receive the full range of fun social reactions.

I went solo to a bat mitzvah celebration recently when Chris was out of town, and found myself at the reception that evening with a ton of people I didn’t know. There was probably a healthy mix of people with varying orientations. I was mingling to the best of my ability (which I sort of suck at in the first place), trying not to hover too much around the brie. As I met other guests and engaged in the basic conversational intel, I found myself purposefully going out of my way to drop the word “partner” from my lexicon and mention my Husband as often as possible:

“What a special event. My HUSBAND sure wishes he could be here.”

“These salmon puffs are fantastic. They’re my HUSBAND’S favorite!”

“That’s so funny that you’d mention Madagascar. Just last night my HUSBAND and I saw this great Netflix documentary on ring-tailed lemurs.”

Maybe I was leaning into the word a little too hard.

A friend of mine had to pull me aside and point out that I sounded like a weirdo who was making a husband up.

I’ve been a husband to two people in my life. One woman and one man. Both times, the role has been a point of pride and honor for me. I value the role, I take it seriously, and I see it as one of the greatest privileges one can have (as well as being a fundamental human right). I don’t want to be downgraded to Partner, especially since the right for two dudes to be each other’s husbands in the first place was so hard-won, even here in California.

And I absolutely don’t want to downgrade myself when I’m around people, just because of what their views may be about gay marriage or even gay people.

But as I attend more springtime social events, both with and without my husband on my arm, I’m realizing something fundamentally important: My husband and I are husbands not because others acknowledge our legitimacy, but because we do.

We are husbands to each other because we are two gay men in love, who are committed to each other for life. We are legal husbands because, aside from all the legal and financial benefits that come with the paperwork, there is something special about having our union officially acknowledged and respected in the place where we live. For us, being husbands who have husbands feels good.

Husbands is what we are, and what we get to call each other. We don’t have to downshift to Partner to make others feel more comfortable. And we don’t need to shout “Husbands present!” whenever we walk into a crowded room just to assert ourselves. We believe in the value of marriage, for couples of any orientation who choose to embrace it or define marriage itself in whatever way they choose.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dinner started and choose a new Netflix nature doc for tonight. My husband and I have a date.

Photo: Nick Karvounis on Unsplash

As a professional full-time gay man, I’m obligated to write about Netflix’s recent reboot of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I sat down with my husband recently to watch the first episode, and after I did, I had a few thoughts.

My first thought: I hated it.

I’ll back up a bit.

The original series aired on Bravo from 2003-2007: a kitschy and colorful little show in which five fabulous gay men kidnapped a slovenly straight dude and taught him the ways of the Gay Force. The gays would give the straight slob a makeover: a cool haircut, some better outfits, tips on healthy eating and entertaining, even a renovated bachelor pad. They’d then reveal their Cinderfella to all his friends and family, who would cheer and applaud, and marvel at how those magical gays had sprinkled their fairy dust and transformed their pal into a man who was dashing and cultivated — but still straight, Thank God.

The show was popular, even downright progressive for its time. It celebrated gay men and everything they brought to the table even if it was skill sets that were largely affirmations of stereotypes. I remember watching several episodes of the original with my then-wife, long before my own coming-out journey. You’d think I — a straight-living-but-gay-struggling guy who didn’t know a pocket square from a Kleenex — would’ve been deeply uncomfortable watching the show back then. But I enjoyed the show while totally distancing myself from it. My wife and I would joke, probably the way all straight couples joked when they watched it:

Me: Heh, those guys wouldn’t even know where to start with me, right?

Wife: Ha! You’re too hopelessly straight and slob-like for them!

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ahem.

Cut to 15 years later. I’m an out/proud gay man, married to another dude, with a teenage daughter who’s a staunch supporter of equality for all.

While coming out later in life obviously has challenges, one of its more fun aspects has been exploring different parts of pop culture I didn’t really appreciate before — the gay parts.

Over the last few years, I’ve enjoyed watching gay-themed movies and TV shows without having to act like it was foreign territory. I could watch Brokeback Mountain and cry my eyes out freely. (Which I’ve done. Twice.) I could watch old Will & Grace episodes and both raise my eyebrows and laugh heartily at “Just Jack.” I could now comfortably watch old Madonna videos and say to anyone in the room who would listen, “I’m telling you, Britney is nothing compared to her.”

Watching new Queer Eye with new queer eyes

So word of the Netflix Queer Eye reboot made me excited to see it with my own officially queer eyes.

My husband, Chris, who barely remembered the original series, and I sat down for the premiere episode in which the new, sparkly Fab Five went to Atlanta and made over an older, self-proclaimed redneck named Tom.

They showed him what colors look best with his skin tone. How to paint an accent wall. How to make yummy-yet-soooooper healthy guacamole.

Tom played along. He let them play dress up with him and trim his overgrown beard, and even coach him on how to ask a lady friend out on a date. Along the way, they provided him with affirmations to keep him from criticizing himself (the episode is called “You Can’t Fix Ugly,” which is what he repeatedly says to them throughout the episode as they help him discover that even older men can pull off a jaunty newsboy cap.) In the end, he thanked them, hugged them, and cried because they changed his life forever. They hugged back and cried, too; congratulating him, and congratulating themselves on creating a whole new Tom minus the redneck.

It was truly awful.

Chris and I looked at each other.

“You say this was a good show before?” he asked incredulously. I didn’t know what to say.

“I remember it differently.”

“Were the original five guys such stereotypes?”

“I think so. But,” I said, “it didn’t seem so bad back then.”

“I mean, this show is saying that the only things gay men are really good for are accessorizing and interior design.”

“I know.”

“And why do these guys have to sing everything they say?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Do we do that?”

“We definitely don’t do that.”

“I mean … what’s up with that guy with the long hair? He can’t actually be that effeminate in real life, can he?”

“Maybe he’s secretly a straight actor playing a gay person.”

“Yeah. Badly. I know we don’t act like that. Do we?”

“We definitely don’t flounce around like that.”

“Maybe we do that a little bit.”

“We don’t. Barely, if ever. I mean there’s nothing wrong with guys who do. But we don’t.”

“No way.”

“And if we do, it’s only around our gay friends.”

“Exactly.”

It really did feel like the show was setting gay men back 50 years.

We vowed never to watch another episode.

Re-evaluating my Queer Eye connection

The original Queer Eye show was reasonably groundbreaking in the Early Aughts. It presented its five, happy-go-lucky gay life coaches to a culture that still thought you could catch Gay from a handshake. They may have been a little cartoonish, but for many American viewers, the series broke new ground by putting these guys together with accepting straights and showing them what they could learn from each other.

The next day, I kept thinking about why the new version bothered me so much. I didn’t feel any thread of a connection to this new Fab Five, with their sing-songy prancing around a dumbfounded straight dude who stared at them like they were aliens.

Or … maybe I did feel a connection. Maybe I just didn’t want to admit it.

It began to dawn on me that I had watched the new Queer Eye like I used to watch the old Queer Eye. Back then, I was scared of feeling any affinity toward a gay character on TV — and a great way to hide fear is to criticize, to joke, to judge.

Yes, one of the new Queer Eye guys (Jonathan, the grooming guru) was so queer that we seriously did wonder if he was a straight actor trying to play gay. He seemed to be basing his whole persona on Robin Williams’ performance in The Birdcage.

But the thing is I really do know and love men like that in my own life. Men who have become some of my best friends. And those guys are probably the most authentic, truest-living, happiest people I know in the world. They are men I admire.

Maybe my initial response to the new Queer Eye was being shaped by some lingering discomfort I felt about my own gayness.

I decided to watch a second episode. And it was better.

Upon further review …

The second episode followed the same pattern. Another schlubby straight got the full makeover from the Fab Five complete with haircut, beard trim, apartment renovation, shinier wardrobe and a heartfelt (possibly scripted) speech at the end from the straight guy about how his life was forever changed after hanging with gays for one week.

This time around, the super gay behaviors from the Fab Five didn’t bother me. And the straight guy’s end-of-show speech seemed really sincere. It sorta made me almost tear up a little bit.

Plus, the Fab Five did a fantastic job on his apartment. I love the textured wood paneling they put in his living room.

So I watched the third episode.

And the fourth.

I’m not sure what the official rule is for when viewing becomes binging, but it’s been two days and I’m down to the last episode of the season.

There’s still something about the premise that bugs me a little. I don’t like that audiences will see flouncy Gay Jonathan Hairdresser and think that’s what all gay men are like. I also don’t like the notion that gay men are genetically gifted in certain areas like style, home decor and beard shaping.

But these guys are TV personalities. That means it’s their job to be larger than life. I get that watching someone on TV doesn’t tell you who they truly are when the cameras are off. But watching the new Fab Five present their most authentic selves, twirl into the lives of straight men and their families, and sprinkle metaphorical glitter everywhere with pure joy and enthusiasm can be very freeing, especially to this gay man who may still be working on feeling comfortable in his own gay skin. Maybe they have something to teach me about being more … fabulous.

I wonder when Season Two starts.

My daughter just finished the first week of her junior year of high school. I have absolutely no idea how it went for her, or how this year’s going to be, despite my daily attempts at Dad Recon from her bedroom doorway each afternoon.

MONDAY

Me: Hey! How was the first day of school, Miss Junior Year?

Her:  You know, it was pretty good! I know where my classes are, and they’ll all pretty close together except for environmental science.

Me: That’s good! Did you have any of your friends in your classes?

Her: Yeah! Brianna is in my English, and John and Rain are in my math.

Me: How was your “mock trial” class? I know you were bummed about having to take it, but I think it might be really great for you.

Her: I think it’s actually going to be interesting! Mr. Tormey is teaching it, and I had him for history last year, and he’s really funny. So that’s really cool.

Me: Outstanding!

Her: I know! Also, I hung out with Grace, Drewes and Eliana at lunch. I really missed them.

Me: Well, that all sounds great!

Her: AND … I think I may really like my English teacher this year. Her name is Ms. Speers, and she seems super nice, and she’s young so she won’t be all boring.

Me: You like your English teacher? A first! How awesome!

Her: I know!

Me: First-day success! Let’s celebrate with ice cream!

Her: YES!!!!!

Me: High five!

[Enthusiastic high fives ensue.]

TUESDAY

Me: Knock, knock! Hey there, Junior! How was school today?

Her: [Muffled, due to the pillow over her face.] Shitty. I hate everyone.

Me: But … but … your friends?

Her: What friends.

Me: You said yesterday that … never mind. How was your cool English teacher today?

Her: She’s awful. She hates me. We already have a research paper. And I was late to science today because it’s too far away from English, and so that teacher’s going to hate me, too.

Me: O … K. Well, what did you do in mock trial today?

Her: I had to speak in front of everyone and I sucked. Everything sucks.

Me: But … but …

Her: This year is gonna be the worst year of my life.

Me: I’m sorry. Um … high-five?

Her: Don’t even talk to me.

WEDNESDAY

Me: [Knocks gingerly then opens door just a crack.] Um … Knock knock?

Her:  [Ignores me due to ear buds.]

Me: [Waves to get her attention.]  Yo. Junior. Hello.

Her: [Plucks out buds reluctantly.] Hi. What.

Me: How was Day Three? Dare I ask?

Her: [Sighs.] It was OK, I guess. I don’t know.

Me: You don’t know? Was it bad?

Her: [More sighing.] It was school.

Me: Meaning what?

Her: It’s gonna be the same as last year. Only harder.

Me: Why harder?

Her: Because it’s junior year. I found out that junior year is, like, the hardest year of high school.

Me: It is. Why?

Her: Dad. Have you ever heard of college?

Me: Yes, youngling. I’m familiar with the concept.

Her: This is the year when grades count the most. Everything is about grades for college. If you screw up your junior year, you don’t get into any colleges anywhere. AND, I need to take the SAT this fall.

Me: Why so soon?

Her: Because the first time I take it I’m going to suck at it, so I need to get that out of the way early.

Me: Oh.

Her: I’m going flunk out of school, I won’t get into college, and I’m going to have to live in a box under an off ramp.

Me: Wow. I can see why you’re bummed.

Her: Whatever. It’s school. And life. Plus, Brianna isn’t my friend anymore. We had a thing at lunch today.

Me: That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear that. What was the thing about?

Her: It doesn’t matter. In 100 years we’ll all be dead anyway.

Me: Sounds like you’re in a malaise.

Her: [Shrugs.]

Me: [Lifts one hand.] Melancholy high-five?

Her: [Eyeballs roll, ear buds reinserted.] Maybe later.

THURSDAY

Me: [Knocks on door.] Hey, Kid.

Her: [No answer.]

Me: [Peeks head in.] Just seeing how school was today. Didn’t want to intrude if you want to be alone.

Her: [Stares at me with laser eyes.] Just so you know. This year is going to suck, and it’s basically your fault.

Me: MY fault? Why?

Her: I can’t believe you didn’t make try out for the fall play two years ago.

Me: [Confused and disoriented.] Oh. Wait. What? What are you talking about?

Her: OH MY GOD, Dad. The fall musical? When I was a freshman? I wanted to try out, but I didn’t, and you just let me not do it instead of making me audition, like you should have. And now there’s no way I’ll ever be able to be in the play this year because all those theater people started doing it two years ago, and now there’s no room for me. So THANKS A LOT. [Focuses laser stare at me until I feel my face getting uncomfortably warm.]

Me: I’ll talk to you later.

FRIDAY

Me: [Gently knocks on door.] Is it safe?

Her: Huh? What do you mean?

Me: [Opens door a crack, peers in with one eyeball.] Just wanted to see how we’re feeling now that the first week of school is officially over. I can come back later.

Her: Just come in, Dad. God. Why are you being weird?

Me: [Enters room cautiously, scanning for booby traps and quicksand.] How … how was school?

Her: It was fine. Why are you acting like you’re surrounded by wolves or something?

Me: Just wanted to check in and see what you think about your first week as a junior. I can come back later.

Her: [Face of innocence.] Dad, it was completely fine.

Me: How’s that English teacher?

Her: She was cool. We learned about logical fallacies. She asked everyone what a “straw man” argument was, and I totally knew.

Me: And how was it getting across campus for science class? That sounded pretty hard to do in so little time.

Her: [Brushes away with one hand.] It’s not a big deal. I just cut through the art building and behind the auditorium, and I’m there in plenty of time.

Me: And Brianna? Is she going to be a problem?

Her: What do you mean? She’s one of my best friends. She was just having bad cramps and had temporary Bitch Syndrome yesterday. I told her I get the same way. We’re totally cool.

Me: Oh. Well, that’s good. Are you still worried about grades and stuff? It’s junior year, after all.

Her: Dad, it’s fine. I mean, it’s school, but it’s fine. There’s an SAT prep class I might take, and it’ll be a couple weeks before homework gets too crazy, I think.

Me: I see. That’s a relief, then. OK. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready. [Withdraws and starts closing door.]

Her: Wait!

Me: Yes?

Her:  Hello, it’s Friday. Friday high-five. [She waits, hand raised.]

Me:  High five, indeed.

[The highing of fives commences. I leave her room, confused, exhausted, and needing aspirin. Happy First Week of School, everyone.]

My 15-year-old daughter had her first experience with a new species over the weekend: The North American Drunken Asshole.

I wasn’t present for the encounter, which was probably a good thing. My girl was visiting her mom in San Diego for the weekend, a couple hours south. Here’s the situation:

They were out for an evening stroll in a funky-but-fun beach neighborhood, a place they’ve been many times. They’d just emerged from a restaurant, and were just enjoying the fresh, salt-tinged evening air. As they walked down the block, they passed a group of young guys. I’m told they looked like they were in their early 20s: sorta gangly, backwards baseball caps, slouchy, scruffy. Plus drunk.

After Riley and her mom had passed the group, one of the guys called out to my daughter. It started out as simply, “Hey!,” which my daughter ignored. She actually had no idea the dude was even talking to her.

But after the third semi-slurry “Hey!,” it became clear she was the one in the guy’s scope.

What he said next wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been. I’ll give him that.

Catcalls from the beast

The dude shouted at my daughter, yelling, “Oh, fuck. You’ve got a total hot Hermione thing going on, and I FUCKING LOVE IT!”

All things considered, I know Harry Potter-centric catcalls are pretty tame, compared to the sorts of things jerks normally say when they yell at girls. It was aggressive, yet vaguely nerdy. A fine line. But it really freaked my daughter out.

Riley is 15. She’s a beautiful young woman. And more than a few people have told her that she bears a striking resemblance to Harry Potter‘s Emma Watson, who is herself an intelligent, beautiful, and classy human. In some other context, it would be a compliment.

But in this situation, it was unwanted, unsolicited attention that scared my girl. A random, loud, drunk dude noticed her, and felt it was totally appropriate to yell at her. And she didn’t know what to do.

Maybe Drunk Doofus thought he was simply offering her a compliment, nothing more. Maybe it didn’t occur to him that he might’ve freaked her out. It’s possible he thought she was older than 15. Not that any of that makes catcalls OK.

Or maybe he was one of those assholes who likes to make women feel uncomfortable and intimidated.

The meltdown

After they got home, Riley had a minor meltdown about the whole experience. This was the first time she’d experienced this sort of adult male behavior. What made things worse is that she’d dressed up for their evening out, putting on makeup (which she rarely uses) and nicer clothing that her usual T-shirt and jeans. She was feeling confident, attractive and grown up. Then this guy came along and made her feel self-conscious, embarrassed and vulnerable.

She and her mom had a long talk about it. I don’t know the details, but Riley felt better afterward. I heard about it from her mom over the phone, and then I got the full version when Riley came back home after the weekend. As I listened to the story, I tried to avoid wigging out myself. I DO NOT LIKE the idea of some random drunk doofus yelling at my daughter and making her feel afraid. I DO NOT LIKE the idea of any man doing that to any woman and making her feel that way. (I don’t like the idea of any human making any other human feel uncomfortable in such fashion, frankly — but we can probably all agree that when we do see it happening, it’s most common for the remark to go from a man to a woman. So I’m currently focused on that.)

The breakdown

As Riley told me the story, some of the rapid-fire observations she made about it were:

1. I’m never going to dress nicely in public again.
2. That guy wouldn’t have said anything if I’d been with you, Dad, instead of Mom. That’s lame in itself.
3. I know he was acting that way because he was drunk. But that just makes it scarier.
4. Guys are pretty much jerks when they drink. And also sometimes when they’re not.
5. I’m not going to be grateful that the guy didn’t say something dirty or nasty. It was still not cool.
6. OK, maybe I won’t let that stop me from dressing up again in public. But I don’t know what to do if it happens again.

I did my best to break it down with her, point by point:

1. My girl, you have the right to dress any way you want. I know it’s hard to embrace such a concept after an encounter like this, but remember that no one else should ever have a say in what you do or wear to feel confident, strong or capable.

2. Yes, it’s grossly unfair, but you’re probably right. If you’d been with me, the dude may not have felt as comfortable lobbing out his comment. Young guys get a lot less ballsy when there’s an older male around who resembles their dad. Much less the courage to say and do dumb shit, even drunk. This is why I would prefer to be your bodyguard everywhere you go for the rest of life. But sadly for us both, that’s not how things work.

3. Sounds like he was drunk indeed. Or on the way to drunk. As you get older, you’re going to see more people, male and female, exhibiting silly, obnoxious, abrasive behavior thanks to the wonders of alcohol. What a great way to learn the value of moderation when it comes to our own substance intake.

4.  Yes. Guys can be jerks when they drink. I have to point out that girls can, too. I know you know that. When people are drunk, their filters go on the fritz. That internal barometer that dings right before they do or say something stupid usually malfunctions. But I agree that this is worse. It’s worse because drunk guys in particular can be especially scary. Let’s agree to steer clear of those guys.

5. I completely agree. Just because the guy didn’t make a nasty, anatomically focused remark doesn’t change the fact he made you feel intimidated. And you shouldn’t simply sit back and “take it as a compliment,” just because what he said wasn’t gross. If he’d wanted to actually present you with a respectful compliment about being an attractive human, he would’ve done so differently. That wasn’t his goal. His goal was to own a moment with bravado, to prove that he gets to yell shit at anyone, whenever he feels like it, because that oh-so-important Y chromosome gives him the right to do so. Which is utter crap, of course. It is not OK for men to do that to women.

6. As for what to do if it happens again? Hmm. My girl, I hate to say this, but odds are good that it’s probably going to happen again, sometime, somewhere. If you ask any woman, you’ll learn that she’s probably also had this experience, to some degree or another. She will understand what it means to feel uncomfortable, exposed, unfairly targeted.

Catcalls in the future

Sweetheart, I know what I want to say. I want to say that if someone drunk guy catcalls you again as you walk by, you should turn around, walk right up to him, look him in the eye and tell him to shut the fuck up. See, many guys are all kinds of courageous when they’re not being confronted. And they usually don’t expect a woman to go eye to eye with them and call them on shit like that. They like it better when they see they’ve intimidated her. So a big part of me wants you to be the crusader who goes up to that guy and tells him to knock it the hell off.

And part of me is afraid that if you provoke a guy who’s being fueled by drunk bravado, it’ll result in a much more nightmarish scene that scares me too much to think about. That’s the part of me that wants to go with you to college and live next door to you until you graduate.

In the end, I didn’t have a lot of awesome advice for her about catcalls, other than to hold her head up high, be confident, and have enough strength to ignore the drunk doofuses of the world who get off on intimidating women. I told her she’s strong, she’s cool, and she deserves to be respected. I told that it’s a fight worth fighting, and I’ll have her back all the way.

I hope that’ll be enough.

This week marks a big literary anniversary. Twenty years ago, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was published. (Let’s marvel at that number for a second. Has it really been two decades since we were first introduced to Harry, Ron and Hermione — the spunkiest, the cleverest wizards ever if ever a wiz there was?)

I, like so many others, read the book during that summer of 1997. As a writer, I marveled at the fully realized world, rich and enchanted with detail, that author J.K. Rowling had created. As an unabashedly excited reader (27 years young at the time, mind you), I appreciated how Rowling swirled together a balance of whimsy and darkness. I was completely engaged in the story, which began with a fairytale-like premise (orphan turns out to have magical powers and a fantastic adventure awaits him on his birthday) and steadily became much more substantive as the characters matured over the years, and Potter’s world took on more texture and gravitas.

My daughter read Sorcerer’s Stone 10 years after I did. I know most parents probably have a story about the first time they watched their child fall in love with a book. However, in my house, getting my kid to love Harry Potter (and love reading itself as a result) required some careful, strategic planning.

Here’s how it played out:

The setup

Riley, then 6, was already an avid reader. She was also a kid who had an instantly adverse reaction to anything recommended to her by her parents.

I don’t know what that’s about. She and I had tons of fun together during those early years, but she always had an immediate distrust of anything I officially endorsed. I’ve tried tracing this back to an actual incident. Did I promise she’d love something that ended up traumatizing her? For example, did my hyping Finding Nemo and then (SPOILER ALERT!) her seeing those first eight minutes where super scary and awful things happen scar her for life?

Not really. At least, not that I remember. But if there were ever to be a book, TV show or movie that I distinctly didn’t want her to watch, all I had to do was recommend it to her. After that, it would be on her “No Way” list.

When I realized Riley was the right age to love Harry Potter, I decided I would have to proceed very, very carefully. If I approached her the wrong way, my daughter would miss one of the most important literary experiences of her young life.

She’d never experience the wonder of Harry’s story.

She wouldn’t imagine what it might feel like to sit in a boat at night with other first-years, steadily drifting across the water as the silhouette of Hogwarts’ towers rose from the mist.

She wouldn’t be curious about what the Sorting Hat might say when perched on her head in the dining hall.

She wouldn’t fantasize about sneaking through the castle at night, listening for the faintest whisper of Parseltongue from just around the next corner. Or racing through a dark and spooky labyrinth to reach the TriWizarding Cup and save the day.

I really didn’t want my daughter to miss all that. If I could just get her into the first chapter of the first novel, Rowling would take care of it from there.

On a summer afternoon, while Riley at lunch downstairs, I casually entered her room, Sorcerer’s Stone in my hand. I gently slipped it into her bookcase, between Ozma of Oz, and Captain Underpants. (I thought about putting it on her nightstand, but realized that would be too much — she’d see right through such blatant placement.) I paused, making sure the book wasn’t sticking out from the others. It’s purple-covered spine was definitely noticeable among the rest … but not too noticeable.

Then I left.

After Riley finished her sandwich and apple sauce, she bounced upstairs, back into her bedroom, and resumed whatever she’d been doing before lunch.

The discovery

Three days passed. Nothing.

On that next afternoon, as I worked in my home office, Riley came in with a resolute, skeptical expression on her face. Sorcerer’s Stone in her hand.

“What’s this?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s what?”

“I found this book on my shelf. Did you put it there?”

“What’s the book?” I asked, pretending to appraise it.

“Oh, right,” I said, “I think I’ve heard of this.” I had to consciously remind myself not to make even the slightest positive reactions, like Yeah, I think I heard it was pretty good. Even that could’ve ruined it.

“Where did it come from?”she asked, looking me right in the eye. It was like we’d just switched roles. She was the reprimanding parent, and I was the kid being busted for doing something wrong.

“Oh, now I remember,” I said. “I think I put it on your shelf because I thought it was yours.” Evasive, but not an outright lie.

“It’s not mine.”

“Oh. Well, you can keep it or not. Up to you.”  Then I turned back to my computer and pretended to be very, very, very focused on something else.

I felt her standing behind me as she scrutinized the book cover featuring Mary Grandpré’s illustration of a young Harry Potter whizzing across under the title on his Nimbus 2000 as he reaches to catch the Golden Snitch.

She said nothing more, but turned and went back to her room.

I had no idea whether my devious ploy had worked. You can’t make a kid like things you like. Riley was the Princess of Skepticism, and I had always been the King of Trying Too Hard. This whole situation could go either way.

Four more days passed when, going by her room, I peeked in and saw her reading it. Again, I had to stop myself from bursting in and saying, “Isn’t that book awesome? Have you gotten to the part where Harry plays in his first Quidditch match yet?” Instead, I simply backed away.

Harry Potter comes through

Two days later, the payoff came.

Riley ran into my office, holding the book in her hand: “I just finished that book you gave me! It was AMAZING!”

I feigned surprise.

“It was? That’s cool. You know what, I think we have a couple more from the series in the shelf in the living room if you want to read the next one.”

“OK!” She whirled around and scurried off. She would read the next two books in three days, and beg for the fourth one in the series.

Yes, I took a minute to congratulate myself. Father of the Year.

She’d enjoyed books before Harry Potter. But she’d never read so much, so fast, with such passion.

So on this auspicious week, let me say: Thank you, J.K. Rowling. I really owe you. I’m glad I had the common sense to get out of your way, and let your book cast its magic spell on my daughter without my interference.

Consider this an early Father’s Day tribute to my dad. Put it in the category of “Things I Did When I Was a Kid That My Own Kid BETTER Not Do.”

When I was 12, I had a manageable chore list. Nothing extensive or unreasonable, although at the time I’m sure I thought I was doing the equivalent of those orphans in the Industrial Revolution who worked in a sooty, life-endangering factory for 14 hours at a stretch.

I was responsible for washing the dinner dishes. Vacuuming the living room. Cleaning my room and bathroom.

Scooping dog poop from the backyard.

That was the one. That was the chore I dreaded.

I loved our dog, a mop-headed cocker spaniel-poodle mix named Sophie. But I was bewildered at how a dog the size of a toaster could put out 50 pounds of crap a day.

And I absolutely hated being the one who had to pick it up.

Have dog, will scoop poop

My dad had a very specific rule about clearing dog poop: it had to be done every seven days. No one likes walking around the backyard, he said, feeling lush, velvety grass under their bare feet, and then experiencing a crunch-then-squoosh between their toes.

I understood that. And, since Sophie was my dog, all canine maintenance duties fell to me. Feeding, walking, and generally snuggling (all of which I was happy to do). But the biggest part of the gig was poop scooping.

I don’t even know why I hated doing it that much. I had a nice, wide plastic shovel and plenty of paper lunch bags. It didn’t take much skill to walk in a careful grid, spot the poop, lean down, scoop up the nuggets, and drop them in a bag. You could clear the yard of turd bombs in less than 20 minutes. No big deal.

But I still hated it.

Every Saturday morning, I would conveniently forget the job I had to do outside. I’d hunker down in my room, happily listening to music and reading comics, and then my dad would call to me.

“Seth, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Son, please go outside and do your job.”

“What job?”

Selective Amnesia, I believe, is the correct term for my affliction.

“GO OUTSIDE AND SCOOP THE POOP.”

“OK, OK! God, you don’t have to yell.”

I would drag myself out of my room, get my tools (scooper, paper bags, heavy crown of martyrdom), and go outside to grumble my way through filling God knows how many bags with Sophie’s prolific output. Typically, that 20-minute job turned into three hours of oppressed servitude.

And then, one morning, I discovered a way to make the job way more fun.

The incident

Let me switch perspectives now, and talk of this particular Saturday from my father’s point of view:

I remember that my son Seth did not enjoy this particular chore when he was young. However, it remains a mystery to me why,  for years, the boy would rather spend two hours complaining than the 10 minutes it took to simply do it. 

On the Saturday in question, I did request that my son rise, get dressed, get the scooper, and clear the yard of our dog’s droppings. As was his fashion, he complained and procrastinated to an impressive degree, but after the whining was completed, he did go outside, scooper and bag in hand, albeit begrudgingly. I went upstairs to my office to do some work where, as it happened, I also happened to have a view of our back yard.

After a few minutes,  I glanced out the window to check on Seth’s progress. My mouth dropped open.

I was, in short, completely flabbergasted by what I was seeing.

I called to my wife: “Robin, you have to come in here.”

“What?”

“You need to come in here.”

“Why?”

“You need to come in here and look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“Just … you have to see what your son is doing.”

She joined me at the window and suddenly her expression matched mine as we watched in disbelief at what our son, our flesh and blood offspring, was doing.

“Oh, my Lord. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” she said.

“He is.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“Oh, my Lord. He’s about to do it again.”

“There he goes.”

“OH. MY. LORD.”

My turn again. So, out in the yard, I had no idea my parents were watching me, first in shock, then in anger, then with uncontrollable laughter.

Why were they laughing? Because rather than simply scooping and dropping poop into a bag, I was instead aiming my plastic shovel skyward, drawing back, and flinging the shit over the fence.

Into our neighbor’s yard.

I. WAS FLINGING DOG SHIT. INTO OUR NEIGHBOR’S YARD.

On Saturday morning. In broad daylight.

Unaware my parents were staring from the upstairs window, I continued to wing big ol’ nuggets over the fence, emptying our yard, and filling our neighbors. (The neighbors, by the way, had no dog.)

I developed a variety of techniques. I named them.

The Whiplash.

The Catapult.

The Over the Shoulder.

The Up, Up, and Away.

The Shit Bullet.

With each new toss, my technique gained more artistry. I gave each throw a wind-up, sometimes a leap and spin before a flick of my wrist sent the poop skyward, arcing gracefully in the sky and over the fence.

I was enjoying myself immensely.

I began wishing there was an Olympic event for this. Competitive Poop Throwing.

It hits the fan

Meanwhile, my parents continued to watch, equally shocked and entertained, crying with laughter as they saw me perfect my new talent. After a few minutes, they realized what I didn’t: at some point, our neighbors on the other side of the fence were likely to emerge from their own back door, hoping to enjoy their morning coffee on their patio, and instead get smacked in the face by flying dog shit.

Mom and Dad collected themselves, wiping away the tears of laughter, put on their Angry Parent faces, and opened the window, making me freeze in mid-throw:

“SETH ANDREW TAYLOR, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?!”

And with that, I was completely and fully busted, my future Olympic career ending before it began.

I don’t really remember the repercussions. I recall being yelled at. (I didn’t know how hard they’d been laughing from inside until years later when they started telling the story to friends, relatives, girlfriends, and basically anybody in town who knew me.) I have a vague memory of being forced to scale our back fence and retrieve all the poop I had sent over. It took forever (there was a lot), and I did so afraid that the neighbors would see me, come out and ask exactly what was going on.

Decades later, my dad still tells this story, and he does so with dramatic flair (despite the fact that his son is now a 46-year-old grown damn man, thank you very much). He relishes every detail, right down to the look on my face when he yelled out the window and I whirled around, instantly knowing I’d been caught doing something — well, just downright gross.

He particularly loves telling this story to my daughter, who never grows tired of hearing it. It’s their tradition. It’s their very own “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” (Gather round, kids, it’s time for the story of the Boy Who Sent Poop To The Sky!) Even now, at 15, she laughs hysterically when he spins the tale. The two of them, along with my mom, fall to pieces every time, laugh/crying like idiots. Every. Damn. Time.

As for me, I just sit and listen, remembering, and feeling grateful that my daughter doesn’t have a dog.

Can a parent force his teenager to have fun if she doesn’t want to?

I’m asking for a friend.

As in, you go upstairs to your daughter’s room on a calm, quiet Saturday morning, and you knock on her door in a way that’s totally casual — not at all aggressive or mean or in a way that would provoke the following response from the other side of the door:

“WHAT?!?!?!?”

Imagine you answer such a vitriolic outburst with a suggestion, presented in a meek, tentative tone like if one of those kind-faced, adorable ring-tailed lemurs could talk. Imagine your voice is that of a sweet lemur, asking gently:

“Um … I was just wondering if maybe you would enjoy going ice skating this afternoon? For fun?”

Then imagine the silence that follows.

A thick, viscous silence that oozes under the door. The kind of toxic pause that makes you want to take back whatever you just said and back away slowly.

But it’s too late. You’ve already put it out there, and you can’t take it back. You suggested doing something with your teenage daughter, something you know for a fact she enjoys doing. You didn’t just come up with this out of the blue. There’s history between you, her, ice skating, and fun.

After the silence — that awful silence — that eats away at your soul as you stand on the wrong side of the door, you hear a long drawn-out sigh. A sigh you’d hear from someone trying to exercise enormous patience with a person who is unbelievably, irretrievably stupid.

That sigh comes from your daughter.  Because the stupid person is you, dad person.

No turning back from serious fun

You could just walk away. Pretend it didn’t happen. Maybe it wasn’t even you who said it! Maybe it was an alien intruder who does a great impression of you but who didn’t take the time to research the turbulent relationship between fathers and teenage daughters before invading Earth.

No. It was you, dad. You had a moment of naive optimism in which you thought to yourself, “It’s Saturday. People like to go out and have fun on Saturdays. Hey, I know!  My daughter has fun when she skates! Let’s do that! YAY, plan!”

Stupid dad person.

All you can do now is wait out that exhale of hers that is now actually making the bedroom door in front of you rattle.

After the sigh, you are gifted with the following response: “I don’t think so.”

Is that it? Will there be a reason to turn down this innocent offer of an afternoon ice skating? Will you just be left hanging, never to know why — oh, why — your seemingly innocuous suggestion was summarily rejected?

For better or worse, you push the envelope.

You knock again and crack open the door. Just enough for a sliver of your face to be visible. You use your lemur voice: “Are you sure? I thought we could go just for an hour or so, just to get out of the house.”

She looks directly at the fraction of your eyeball peeking through the door. You feel the heat of her laser stare intensify as her eyebrow arches.

“Maybe I don’t feel like I need to get out of the house today.”

The kid is a wizard at arguments. She astounds you with her dance of carefully crafted logic.

But once you opened that bedroom door, mister, there’s no going back.

“But … you always say that on the weekends.”

“And you always assume it’s never true.”

Parry! Thrust! Guard! Ouch!

You try a new approach. “Listen,” you say, mustering some backbone. “We both know you can’t just stay in here all day on your computer.”

“Do we both know that? Because one of us doesn’t seem to.”

Zing.

The breaking point

How about a whole new tactic?

“You know what? I’m projecting. You’re fine where you are. What I mean to say is, I need to get out of the house today and get a little exercise. I thought ice skating would be a good option. For me. So really, you’d be helping me out a lot if you came ice skating with me. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Wow, that eyebrow of hers can arch really high. “Tell you what,” she says. “You go skate and let me know how it was. You can close the door on your way out.”

This is bullshit, right? You’re not asking her to enlist in the army. You’re suggesting an hour or two of ice skating, for Chrissakes, just so she’ll log off of her computer for a little while. You yourself don’t even want to go ice skating. The only reason you even know how to ice skate in the first place is because she was obsessed with it when she was 7, and you enrolled her lessons (and bought her a shiny pair of skates and several adorable sparkly skating costumes for Christmas that year), and decided you that should also learn to skate as long as you guys were spending so much damn time at the rink.

That’s when you lose your temper just a wee bit.

You open the door all the way, stand in the room like Caesar Julius Baddassivus, hands on hips, and proclaim: “GET DRESSED, GET YOUR SKATES AND GET DOWNSTAIRS. WE’RE LEAVING IN TEN MINUTES.”

Her face freezes, then twists in outrage. How dare you? How dare you force her to do something fun! Something that, for a couple hours, would require her to log off social media and interact with the real, live, people? Something she loves to do, no less? WHAT KIND OF MONSTER PARENT ARE YOU?

You close the door, feeling like a complete asshole.

You think to yourself: What am I doing? Why not just let her stay up there if it’s all she wants to do on a Saturday? I could use the free time! I could go down to the corner microbrewery! I could watch a sport on a giant TV! Why does everything have to be so fucking Thunderdome all the time?

You take a couple minutes to breathe, to relax. Then you get your skates out of the hall closet.

Around and around we go

In 10 minutes, she comes downstairs, her own skates in hand. To her credit, she doesn’t stomp.  She doesn’t say anything. Her face is blank with just the faintest flicker of OMG I can’t EVEN that you choose to ignore.

You stay calm even though it feels like wasted effort since you already blew it upstairs.

You drive the two of you to the rink, where you used to go once a week as recently as a couple months ago. Neither of you say a word. You get there, lace up your skates, and both of you step out onto the ice. It’s not too crowded. A few kids, a few adults, a few couples doing the cute, clumsy first-date thing. The sound system blasts ’80s playlist.

She takes off on the ice without looking back at you.

It’s OK. Give it a few laps.

After a few minutes of skating on your own, you sense your daughter glide up behind you. She taps you on the shoulder before quickly darting to your other side when you look. Just like she’s been doing since she was 7.

You look over your other shoulder and see her grinning like a doofus.

“You’re still the weirdest skater in the world,” she says like she always does.

“Just you wait until the next Winter Olympics. We’re gonna sweep the Father-Daughter Ice Dancing event,” you respond primly. As you always do.

She rolls her eyes, and then the two of you skate together for a while, doing all the same dumb fake poses you’ve been doing for years. You embarrassing her. Her laughing at you. You both occasionally linking arms. Or helping the other person skate backwards. Or playing tag.

It’s fun.

Yeah, you’re basically vindicated. You’re not such an idiot dad after all — just keep it to yourself.

You don’t even mind that you’re going to have to go through this whole ordeal again the next time you suggest ice skating. (Clearly your teenage daughter has the same disease as that guy in the movie Memento, where he wakes up every day with no memory of anything that’s happened to him before.)

This might be what people mean when they talk about leaning in to parenting, maybe.

She’s a teenager. That means there are only so many Saturdays when the two of you will be going ice skating together after this. So for now, go ahead. Lean in. Force the fun. Take a few more turns around the rink with her. Enjoy them while you can.