“Dude, you can live with us if you need to!”

My childhood buddy, Tim, blurted these words when I told him my parents were divorcing. I was 17 years old at the time, and to this day I appreciate his dramatic concern for me.

But I had to smile and remind him: “I’m not becoming an orphan. But thanks for the offer.”

Tim’s offer was tempting. His parents, Jerry and Ann, had been like a “second Dad and Mom” to me for years. Although I enjoyed a healthy upbringing and loved my parents, Tim’s house became the neighborhood “hub” or hangout, especially for boys, during my childhood. The main reason? He had three brothers—Cary, Bryan and Brendan—who loved to play pick-up sports.

The brothers and a group of neighborhood buddies would play street hockey out front, ping pong in the basement, and/or card games in the kitchen nearly every day. During a few of those early years we even played ice hockey on a backyard rink, and Jerry would help me tie my skates. Even before we knew we were hungry, Ann would provide a vat of chili or a pan full of bacon to be devoured by growing boys.

My Second Mom — the “boy whisperer”

Looking back, Ann was especially gifted as the mother of four boys. Somehow she navigated all that roughhousing and trash-talking (along with all that equipment) with grace. And her skills as a nurse helped with all the minor injuries compiled along the way.

You could say Ann was a “boy whisperer.” She often used humor to cope with the chaos surrounding her. For example, she hung an attractive sign above the toilet in the basement bathroom that read: “My aim is to keep this bathroom clean. Your aim will help.”

One of her favorite stories about raising four boys involved her son Bryan when he was young. On a particularly frustrating day as a tired mother buried in childcare, she lamented aloud that she always thought her life would be filled with fame and fortune. Then she heard Bryan’s little voice try to encourage her.

“Guess you have to go to Plan B, Mom!” he said.

Ann would always cackle at that punchline, displaying just how much she loved her boys—a different kind of family wealth.

Ann was not all food and games, however. Whenever we stepped out of line, she would gently nudge us to be better people by saying “hear—hear.” That was her way of getting our attention. What she was really saying was “Have a conscience at the base of all that goofing around.”

No doubt my childhood friends and I didn’t thank Ann enough back then. But that is what made her well-attended 80^th birthday party so special several years ago. Because Ann had “showed up” for them as boys, many of those neighborhood buddies “showed up” for her decades later. I have never seen so many grown men (including myself) proclaiming their gratitude to one woman for positively impacting their boyhoods.

During our many toasts to Ann, it was as if she had created a “Fifth Son” Olympics in which we were all competing. Of course, she had already won the gold medal in the “Second Mom” event. One guy even called Ann his “Second Mom” in front of his “First Mom,” who looked on approvingly because she was Ann’s friend and former neighbor.

Appreciate “Second Moms and Dads”

Sadly, Jerry passed away many years ago, and Ann passed more recently. Perhaps the most poignant image from Ann’s memorial service featured many of those same grown men “showing up” again to carry her casket. That is the power of a “Second Mom.”

Although “second Moms and Dads” don’t get a national day of recognition, maybe they should. So be sure to think about the people who may have acted as “second parents” in your childhood. Try to thank them, if possible. Hopefully, you can also serve as a second parent to some of your children’s friends. Be a host, coach, teach, carpool, tell stories or just plain show up and listen to them.

Tim’s offer for me to join his family back in a moment of crisis when I was 17 made me realize I would always have both a first and a second home in this world. Many decades later, I visited Ann in a nursing home, shortly before her passing. When she saw me, her eyes lit up and she whispered: “Vin-Man.” That was one of my nicknames in childhood, and hearing her say it made me feel like a superhero. 

In essence, that’s what “second parents” do. They make children feel special and show them they have a second home if needed. Hence, “Second Moms and Dads” are like Plan B. So here’s to Plan B!   

In a few months, I’ll be able to once again hold a newborn in my arms. This time, a sweet little boy. I’m looking forward to the moment I get to meet him. But being the planner I am, I needed to make sure I felt prepared for what that meant. I knew how to be a dad for a girl, but could I do so for a boy?

As someone who’s taken a deep dive into feminist issues to be more conscious of how to raise our daughter, I felt a little intimidated by what it would mean to raise a boy. 

When I bring that up, everyone tells me raising a boy is easier or it should come so much easier for me to father a boy than a girl. A 2018 Gallup poll of Americans even said 2-to-1 that they thought raising a boy is easier. But if that were the case, would men’s mental health issues be as prevalent as they are today? Doesn’t the way society dictates gender norms have a lot to do with the commonality all men feel in our resistance to sharing our true emotions? 

I know how much impact toxic masculinity can have on a child. I know its effects can stay long through adulthood. I’ve worked on my own traumas relating to that in order to make me better for my family. But how can I prevent my child from being damaged by this and repeating a cycle? 

I don’t know the answer yet. I suspect the reason this is even an issue is we are quick to box what we expect from each gender at such an early age. I’m doing it now, but I am trying to learn to parent without expectations of who my children will be. We have to let kids be.

We need to be careful not to persuade them to like certain things simply because they are male or female. As responsible parents, we must give them the environment to explore whether it’s playing in the dirt or with dolls. Kids like what they like (I tried preventing my daughter from liking princesses, for example, but she’s all about it now).

Also, I know that the learnings I’ve had regarding feminism and raising my daughter should only be amplified for my son. Raising a child on empathy and respect should be a priority, regardless.

Finally, I know that there’s so much more to learn. I’ll need to keep up my self-education. By learning more about men’s health, feminism, gender identity issues, and doing more self-work, I hope that I can continuously be better, for both my son and my daughter. 

A version of ‘Raising a Boy’ first appeared on Being Papa. Photo: © kieferpix / Adobe Stock.

A teacher my son had said this to him about the art project he had just completed. A teacher who was supposed to bring out the best in him. A teacher whose very job is to inspire and empower all students.

And so, his mind began to turn, “Was it really good or just good for a boy’s effort?

I am a middle school art teacher. When you train for this profession, you are told that there are thousands of ways to praise. There is no room in art to undermine the creation, revision, polishing, and perseverance it takes to express oneself in art. In a subject where we think outside of the box, it’s hard to imagine feeling trapped within one.

My son’s teacher uttered six devastating words to an impressionable youth who was trying to find his identity in a class designed to nurture and grow a bud into a blossom. Instead of cultivating his art with tender care, the way a gardener transplants a root-bound flower from a pot it has outgrown to thrive in the sun, she instead tore his roots from beneath him. If she had said that to me, I also would have lost my footing.

She chose six words strung together that dispel the notion that anything he created, solved, wrote or performed meant anything at all because he is a boy and only girls have the predisposition to be expressive.

After all, boys will be boys, right? They are too busy wrestling with their testosterone levels to be bothered with feelings and self-expression. Never mind the centuries of critical thinking or pondering that happened before formal education existed; when men pondered the stars in the sky and discussed where the world actually ended. Never mind all the artists and poets from long before their time who spent hours capturing stars on canvas or putting words on paper. Never mind that the ways they spoke about the love they felt in their hearts based on a furtive glimpse or a temporary smile.

I’m lucky, I suppose. In all the years of my schooling, not one teacher told me I didn’t have what it took as a boy to be creative. There were hundreds of thousands of times words passed their lips and never among them was a word of discouragement or malice.

There was no sarcasm when they looked me in the eye and told me that the way I saw the world was special because it was my way. There never was an inference that what I created was inferior to another student because the way I saw the world was different from the girl sitting next to me.

I told my son that our gender never defines what we can and cannot do. I told him that his teacher’s comments prove that even teachers can get things wrong.

I told him that his painting of birch trees in the early morning was more than “pretty good for a boy” and that while that phrase was said to him by an adult, and adults are supposed to know more than kids, there really was no such thing.

I told him that despite his teacher’s own ability as an artist that she truly could never see the forest for the trees if she believed what she said to him and felt sure about a boy’s inability to be creative. If that were true, she was only really teaching to half of her students.

The only way for her to get out of the woods would be to illuminate her path. To prove to her that while the woods may seem dense and murky for boys our creativity will light the way; that our sheer will to not accept this premise that creativity is not for boys.

“Pretty good for a boy” shouldn’t be in our vocabulary. It’s an antiquated line of thinking back to a time when girls weren’t expected to do math or read for that matter because it just wasn’t in their nature.

So to my boy and for every boy who reads this, know this: Art is for everyone. Believing that will lead to a generation of boys who understand that self-expression is a part of who we are regardless of what we are.

A version of this first appeared on DadNCharge. Art photo ©Photographee.eu / Adobe Stock.

Michael Reichert says that just as we no longer believe a girl’s destiny is set by her biology, we need to think the same about boys. The old “boys will be boys” notion of masculinity is not inherent in their DNA.

That and our understanding of how boys learn are among the many things Reichert, the founding director of the Center for the Study of Boys’ and Girls’ Lives at the University of Pennsylvania, says people need to change if we are to raise a new generation of men who can form strong relationships without falling into the macho stereotypes and sexist behaviors of the past.

Reichert dives further into the subject on the latest episode of The Modern Dads Podcast. He discusses the findings in his new book, How to Raise a Boy: The Power of Connection to Build Good Men, along with how parents can talk to boys about the #MeToo movement and gender equality.

Since 1984, Reichert has maintained a clinical practice in the Philadelphia area that specializes in working with boys, men and their families. In addition to direct patient care, he has served as the supervising psychologist at an independent boys’ school and has had the opportunity there to create and lead a program designed to enhance boys’ emotional literacy.

In addition to How to Raise a Boy, Reichert has publish numerous articles and several books. These include the books Reaching Boys, Teaching Boys: Lessons About What Works — and Why and I Can Learn From You: Boys as Relational Learners. He currently writes a column for Psychology Today.

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Raising Empowered Daughters: A Dad-to-Dad Guide, to be released in June 2019, is “a fists-up handbook for helping dads dismantle the patriarchy,” Adamick’s website. On the show, he and host Whit Honea talk about Adamick’s efforts to meet dads where they are to discuss equality, representation and feminism. One way, he says, is to start by changing the way we talk about boys and their perception of what is and isn’t acceptable.

As to the book, Adamick’s website says, “As a primary male role model in a girl’s life, a father influences his daughter in profound ways, from the way she defines her female identity to what she expects from men. In Raising Empowered Daughters, Mike Adamick offers a wise and witty handbook for dads, suggesting ways to raise girls who won’t settle for second-class-citizenship. Examining the extraordinary array of sexisms — both subtle and not-so-subtle — girls encounter, Adamick highlights not just the ways that girls and boys are treated differently but how the roles of moms and dads are shaped by society, too.

“Full of eye-opening anecdotes and dad-relatable humor, this is a necessary guide for every father who wants to raise a confident daughter.”

Adamick, a stay-at-home dad, is the author of a bestselling family craft series: Dad’s Book of Awesome Projects, Dad’s Book of Awesome Science Experiments and Dad’s Book of Awesome Recipes. He has written for or been featured in The New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, NPR, CBS Morning Show, PBS and more. He has been a keynote speaker for the BlogHer and Dad 2.0 Summit conferences, and he penned the “Daddy Issues” column for the Jezebel website.

Adamick, a San Francisco resident, is an OG dad blogger. His blog, Cry It Out, was once named the “best dad blog in cyberspace” by the Babble parenting website.

When our youngest son turned 13 a couple of weeks ago he was officially engulfed in teen spirit, embracing it wholly, eye rolls and all. Granted, the smell of it had moved in several months before, body spray in a hoodie, and the attitude arrived even earlier.

His birthday completed the set: two teenage boys sharing a bathroom and little else, save their love of pets and parents. They are, for the most part, free to choose their own adventures.

There was a time that I would chronicle all of it — the love and the loss, the raw and the perfectly flawed. I would put their stories to the wind and let the lessons fall where they may.

For over a decade I maintained a website, the critically acclaimed and financially non-existent Honea Express, upon which our lives were spread from putty to brushstroke and back again.

I published my last piece there nearly four years ago, just after our oldest son had turned 12. I no longer felt ownership of the tales I told, and perhaps I never did. The boys deserved their privacy and ample room to make mistakes. Pausing my pen seemed the thing to do. Life in real time has no need for a narrator.

Since then I have continued to share a bit here and there, but limiting looks into our world has made the words easy to curate. Milestones have given way to keywords, moments to topics and honesty to hashtags. That isn’t to say I haven’t retained my integrity or been authentic — I believe that much is obvious. I’ve never avoided the ugly and uncomfortable or spun in coats of sugar. However, there is a difference between characters and children, and my loyalty is to the latter.

All of which brings me to a crossroads. There is no shortage of parenting prose, no lack of ample advice, unsolicited or otherwise, but the overwhelming majority of it is centered on younger children. There is very little in the way of teen drama this side of The CW. Yet, the fact is that parents of teenagers probably need pings of reassurance more than anyone.

And while several publications and websites, including this one, do address parenting and teens, it still feels like a large hole in need of filling. Real stories of family life with teenagers tend to be purposely vague, broad and academic, dry bread with the crusts cut off.

I suspect, much like my own experience, that it isn’t a lack of material, but rather a healthy respect for privacy that keeps parents, even those who once ran rampant with personal anecdotes, from divulging too much. After all, our obligations to the internet are inflated and self-imposed, but we owe our offspring everything.

The truth is, raising a teen is hard. Each next thing is the most important one ever. Arguments appear from anywhere and emotions are a blur of hugs and door slams. There is an emoji for everything.

The other truth is, raising a teen is wonderful. Teenagers are becoming clearer versions of themselves, defining their humor and heart, trying on interests and exploring opportunities. It is a dance of trust and worry.

Ours is now a home with two teenagers in it, and their stories are everywhere. The telling of which is always tempting and sometimes possible, but even more importantly, perhaps now is a time best spent listening.

Photo of teen angst at the breakfast table: Whit Honea

The distance between them is a mix of years and meters, measures in degrees of space and sound and time. Two boys joined at the bloodline, bound by fate and floor plans, my sons have shared a bedroom from the beginning, their bunked barracks always a common ground. That changed last week.

For the first time ever, the boys are each in their own room. They believe they have gained freedom and independence, which is true. But I cannot help fear a paradise lost in nightly confidants and the whispers between them. Also, a place for potential guests should any care to visit.

This change in the dynamic of our family feels compounded by another shift, the thinning of a friendship. One of the boys is facing changes at school and we feel the effects at home, relationships being connected as they are.

Granted, friendships are fluid. Even the best can grow stretched or frayed, only held together by past adventures and Facebook. Relationships exist in a state of flux.

Over the years, our boys have bounced in and out of social circles, playdates to sleepovers to group chats always pinging. However, the Venn diagram between them has stayed a steady waxing, rarely casting out into the waning.

But it is happening now. A friend that was is a friend no more, despite my wife and I pleading to the contrary. Our case built against mob mentality, suspecting the other child a victim of it.

Or perhaps it is the other way around. We only know one version of one side, pulled reluctantly through sighs and deep, deep eye-rolls.

It could be this is the way life is supposed to work, bonds breaking as they strain across calendars not yet tethered by the archives of social media. All parties free to expand and explore despite the confines of relative history, now replaced with new paths and nods in the lunchroom. After all, it’s their life, no matter how much we like the other parents.

Therein lies the lesson. What happens in the world gets practice in the home, and while temptation waits around every corner to apply our experience to their discovery, nobody benefits when we do the work for them. Some problems solve themselves, regardless of the making.

At home, our boys didn’t lose any sleep once the new arrangement was decided, dividing bedding and decor in the most amicable split ever. Neither, it seemed, cared as much for the stuff they shared as for the room they needed. All they wanted was privacy and possibility. All they wanted was freedom to expand and explore with the comfort of relatives and history sleeping softly in the room next door.

There are diagrams here, too: sibling dynamics, rivalries and overlaps of everything. Yet since the move the boys have played together more than they did in the countless months that preceded it. Perhaps it is the optics of option, spending time together by choice rather than sentence. Perhaps it is the comfort of commonality.

The distance between them is a mix of years and meters, but it is closer where it matters.

Bedroom bunk bed photo: larkin.family on Foter.com / CC BY-NC

These days, on the now rare occasions I’m walking the streets by myself, if I see tractors, trucks or trains, my first thought is to wish my son was with me because he would think it’s awesome.

Unsurprisingly, my little boy loves tractors, trucks and trains. We may live in New York City, where wonders lie around every corner, but nothing rates next to, say, one of those Kings County cement mixers decorated with the American flag.

Celebrities can’t break him away from the objects of his affection. We’ve had the opportunity to meet Michael Strahan on three separate occasions, and Liam screamed at him to go away each time. He did the same to Ben Affleck. We were at the filming of Good Morning America, you see, but the TV lights and glamour couldn’t compare to the trucks and buses going by, and Michael and Ben were blocking the view.

Once, Jennifer Lawrence tried to strike up a conversation with him in Murray’s Bagels. But Liam was seated at the window and couldn’t care less about the Hunger Games star. He was too busy watching the backhoe across the street.

He doesn’t just ignore celebrities either, he tunes family out as well. He regularly interrupts conversations at home and on the street about any random truck that rattles by, and if it’s a fire truck, well, all bets are off! Fire trucks are the real celebrities to Liam.

Tractors, trucks and trains are all he ever talks about; all he wants to watch on TV; all he wants to read about; and all he wants to play with. His favorite clothes have these vehicles on them, and that’s all he ever wants to wear. He was a Choo Choo Train for Halloween. A local bakery had a train display in their window over the holidays, and I had to take him to see it every day, no matter how sick I was. We need to go to Grand Central Terminal once a week while the Holiday Train Display is featured there. It does not end.

For a while, I worried about him. Was this obsession healthy? There are other things in the world, would he ever pay attention to anything else?

This was before he entered pre-school. And while he’s clearly more interested in big vehicles than other children, it really isn’t by much. And once he began interacting with other children on the playground, it was always a toy truck or tractor that broke the ice and got them playing with each other.

Once a little more thought was put into it, I had to admit that Liam comes by it honestly. I loved tractors, trucks and trains just as much as when I was a boy. Some of my very first memories are of my old Tonka truck, that big metal monstrosity.

I used to go nowhere, and I mean nowhere, without a suitcase full of Hot Wheels, Matchbox and Corgi cars. As I got older, model railroading became the big thing. I devoured magazines dedicated to the hobby and obsessively pored over the diorama I was building and laying track upon.

Somewhere along the line, I lost that love. I don’t really know why. I moved on to action figures, to sports, to girls and trying to impress my friends. University and career took over shortly thereafter. And then I was an adult. Sorta.

Don’t get me wrong, I hung on to mementos from my childhood as much as I could. Anyone who’s met me has probably seen me wearing a superhero shirt. Up until my forties, I still regularly collected comic books and superhero paraphernalia. I still kinda do, they just go to Liam now.

So while the superhero shirts and toys do make us both happy, the pure joy that tractors, trucks and trains bring to Liam not only surpasses that but also has reawakened my own love for them. Just take a good look at the next tractor you see; the next crane towering above you; regard the raw power of that train pulling into the station; and wow, those Kings County cement mixers really do look cool!

And I’m not the only one susceptible to Liam’s infectious joy when he sees the objects of his affection. If a truck is parked on our street he must go and see it, exclaiming the whole time how cool it is. People passing by can’t help but smile, and if the driver is there, that’s who Liam treats like a celebrity.

Also, it doesn’t hurt that his unbridled enthusiasm for the vehicle gets him invited to sit in it.

I mean how could you deny this? Look how happy he is. He’s smiling, I’m smiling, the truck driver is smiling, and passersby are all smiling. His love for tractors, trucks and trains doesn’t just make him feel good but makes everyone around him feel good too.

Look, the world is an unsteady place right now. America is divided sharply by uncertainty and obstinance. Discrimination is threatening to become law. The hateful and bigoted are crowing about running the country while massive protests line the streets against the current administration. “Alternative facts” are trying to whitewash brazen lies, and the low rumble of war has started from nations like China.

In times like these, filled with anger and dread, joy becomes more precious than ever. So who am I to deny my son the joy he finds in these vehicles? He loves them, and they bring him joy. Not only that, but his joy infects everyone else, so who am I to deny those people joy as well?

A parent’s duty is to raise a happy child. He loves them, I love him, and so I will love tractors, trucks and trains once again.

All photos contributed by Chad R. MacDonald

NYC Dads Group recently sponsored a screening of the documentary The Mask You Live In, a film focusing on masculinity and how our often limited view of it can impact the lives of boys and men. It is a truly powerful film, one relevant to all. There is much to take away from The Mask You Live In, so I’ve decided against a traditional review.

The data the film shared really hit home for me. Not all of it was entirely shocking. However, all of it provided potent reminders that our behavior can far too often be problematic, especially when we perpetuate stereotypes.

In addition, the words of former NFL player Joe Ehrmann will stay with me. He feels that “be a man” is one of the most destructive phrases a male can hear. As men, we are often asked to “man up” or “be a man” because of a stale, limited view of masculinity. The film shared stories about males who dealt with consistent bullying in school just because they didn’t represent the stereotype of manhood. We were reminded that 25 percent of boys are bullied. What is more shocking is that only 30 percent of the boys are willing to share this with their parents often because they do not want to be perceived as weak.

This film reminded me that for the most part, I am lucky. I wasn’t bullied. I was allowed to create my own sense of masculinity. I had men in my life who were quite respectful, cared about me, and didn’t question my manhood. Perhaps it was because I represented the masculine stereotype: straight, athletic, virile.

What is interesting is how my mother, who raised me by herself, had to endure ridicule about me. When I was young, I enjoyed going to playgrounds, but was not really interested in sports. This was perceived by some men my mother knew as a sign that I might be gay. Although my mother was not concerned about this, what did anger her was the mentality that a woman could not raise a boy without a father. My mother was determined to prove them wrong. As I entered my middle school, which was all-boys, my mother and grandmother both had to deal with questions about why I was attending an all-boys school. “Aren’t you afraid of Christopher becoming gay?” people asked. “No, I’m not,” replied my mother.

Instead of justifying behavior by constantly saying “boys being boys,” we should develop good, thoughtful human beings. Boys and men who value life and their actions. Men who look at how a woman is dressed not as an invitation and would not take advantage of someone intoxicated. Men who can play sports effectively and proudly and not be called out when they incur an injury. Men who are not afraid to show affection and emotion. Men who are happy to redefine the current definition of masculinity.

There’s a section of The Mask You Live In where some teens discuss, “If you really knew me. . .” It’s because so many of us wear masks to hide who we are and how we really feel. The tough question to consider is what can we do to help people be themselves. Because, as the film reminds us, everyone deserves to feel whole.

Further reading and viewing:

• More information on The Mask You Live In.
• Why Be A Man Is The Worst Thing You Can Say To A Man
• Joe Ehrmann’s talk at Ted X
• Join The Representation Project

I’ve learned that brothers manipulate each other like salesmen. If one of them wants something, all they have to do is feign not being interested in it and the other one will back off. This rule holds true unless it’s something that has an attraction so undeniably strong that neither one can fake it.

Enter the doughnuts.

Our grocery shopping trips always start in the far right of the local Publix supermarket. That way we can pop by the bakery and get a free cookie. Free cookies, especially when the kids need a snack or you’ll be in the store for a long time, help keep daddy sane … keep daddy sane … keep daddy sane.

On this day, the kids were OK. They weren’t the angels they portrayed themselves to be on our annual Christmas card, but they were behaving in an acceptably manic way. This is a moving and gray behavioral target for a 3- and 5-year-old. It can go from normal to delirium in the matter of one shopping aisle. That is why we navigate Publix like Indiana Jones in the Temple of Edible Treats.

Some treats offer acceptable levels of enthusiastic outbreaks while others released the Kraken of childhood crazy. That is why we skipped the frozen foods section: it contains ice cream and offers a direct view of the doughnuts.

The doughnuts. Oh, the doughnuts. See, sometimes I let the kids get a bag of powdered doughnuts as a treat. Not in the plan today, though.

So, we went straight to the fruit to get some bananas. That’s when our youngest wanted to get out and do something. “Do something” is his Jedi mind trick. He placated me into thinking that he was sleepy, well-mannered or calm and not the 3-year-old doughnut-loving fiend he is at heart.

Once freed from the racing cart buggy, he went straight for the doughnuts. On the way, he yelled in the same frequency dog trainers use to get their student’s attention. He also laughed in that childlike yet maniacal way that makes me thankful that they’re on our side. Sort of.

His older brother was apparently in on the ruse, too, because he was cheering him on yelling “Go, go, go!” Once at the doughnuts he grabbed a bag, yelled with glee and tried to hide on the other side of the packages.

“I can see you, come here please,” I said. At the same time, an older couple rolled up in their scooters.

“Excuse me, can I talk with you,” the older gentleman said. “Never forget this. Never forget this time. By the time you blink, they’ll be older and you’ll be putting them in college. They’re running around the store now, acting like children, but this is the only time that they’ll do this. Enjoy it.”

“Never forget this”  — that was this older man’s Jedi mind trick on me.

I hadn’t intended to purchase doughnuts that day, but I did. I also gave them each one in the car, even though it was close to dinner time.

A version of this first appeared on Daddy Mojo. Photo: © Sarah Wilson / Adobe Stock.