Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2018.

An acrobat known as Red Panda has been a staple of basketball halftime shows across the country for more than 20 years. I once saw her at an NBA game years before I had children. I was stunned by her simple-in-concept yet seemingly impossible-in-practice act. In short, she rides a very tall unicycle, places an increasing number of bowls onto her foot and leg, flips the bowls into the air, and catches them in a stack on her head.

She never stops peddling her unicycle during this and she rarely ever drops a bowl. Her performances are mesmerizing.

But because I was a single, child-free adult when I saw Red Panda perform, I didn’t make the connection that she is the perfect metaphor for parenting. Especially when you have sick children.

As the dad of three children under age 7, I often feel like I am Red Panda. I’ve been an at-home parent for more than six years and, in that time, I’ve developed routines and methods that help keep the household running relatively smoothly. However, just like a momentary lapse in concentration or an unnoticed spot of perspiration on the basketball court could send Red Panda, her bowls and unicycle clattering to the ground, the slightest bit of misfortune can wreak havoc on a household filled with children.

Sure, the physical stakes aren’t as high for me. I rarely put myself at risk of a seven-foot plunge onto a hardwood floor. Except maybe when I’m climbing on the kitchen counter to hide snacks on top of the cabinets. The emotional stakes, though, certainly are.

My sick children bring out their vomit pots

Most recently, a seemingly routine bout of illness set our bowls (and bowels) trembling. It was perhaps the most dreaded of common illnesses: a stomach virus.

My 4-year-old brought it home with him from preschool. (For those with kids starting preschool soon, beware. In the first few months, your child will bring home lots of paper with smaller pieces of paper glued onto it and germs. Both are nuisances. The germs are probably slightly more disruptive.)

The first of our sick children, little Patient Zero, erupted late on a Sunday evening, just before bedtime. For someone only alive for four years, he has an impressive resume when it comes to vomiting. His tendency to vomit at the drop of a hat is unfortunate for him and was for me, at first, but it does have its advantages. Namely, he already has exquisite timing and aim. He knows when he needs his trusty vomit pan and he hits the target with a precision that would make Katniss Everdeen jealous. Recently, he managed to spew into the pan while we were dropping his brother off at kindergarten. Didn’t get a drop on our new car’s upholstery! I’m so proud.

From the first sleepless night, which Patient Zero and I spent together on the couch on top of some towels curled around a large silver pot typically used for boiling spaghetti and vomiting into, the plague ran its all-too-familiar course. Mostly it’s a waiting game. We go heavy on mindless television watching with brief flurries of cleaning and disinfecting interspersed between Handy Manny episodes.

Soon enough, all I could think about was sickness. Who was going to succumb next? Was I ever going to do anything normal again? Like leaving the house, sleeping in my own bed, or watching a non-animated television show.

And what was really going on between Handy Manny and Kelly, the Sheet Rock Falls hardware store owner?

Once one bowl is off balance, there’s no stopping the ensuing cascade.

The next victim falls

Later, the disease struck our youngest. The great thing about 2-year-olds and stomach viruses: there is not a second of warning before the terror is unleashed. Two-year-old children with sick stomachs are not like volcanoes or hurricanes; they are like earthquakes and tornadoes.

In the end, a whole week later, I was lying on the couch on a Sunday morning waiting for my anti-nausea medicine to kick in while my finally healthy kids watched more television and scampered around our living room. Perhaps I was dozing off just a little. I do, however, distinctly remember hearing one of my sons saying something about his 2-year-old sister having markers. By the time I roused myself sufficiently to stumble across the room to investigate, the boring, white ceramic tiles surrounding our fireplace had been transformed into an array of little Jackson Pollack paintings. The 2-year-old’s appearance was similarly colorful.

Such is the life of a parent whose routine, monotonous world has been disturbed by the most mundane provocateur — a sick child, or three. When the bowls crash down, boy, do they make a great clatter. And more often than not, the parent takes the fall, too.

But, eventually, when the wave has passed and the normalcy and motivation begin to return, you just have to get back on your unusually tall unicycle, arrange some bowls on your legs, and start flipping them up into the air so you can balance them on your head again. Because that’s just what parents do.

Sick children photo: © Viacheslav Yakobchuk / Adobe Stock.

I sit in front of my laptop at my kitchen table most weekdays now, writing radio advertisements while my 6-year-old sits beside me on another laptop learning math in Spanish.

Like many things in 2020, that sentence would’ve made very little sense to me a year ago. Yet here we are.

My son sits in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest, watching the screen. His teacher talks about prisma rectangulares and triangulos. I don’t understand much more than the names of shapes, numbers and colors, and I don’t think my son really does either. But it’s the beginning of his second year in a dual-language immersion program, so hopefully he’ll eventually figure it out. As he sits and wiggles and bounces, he sometimes leans over and clutches my arm or rests his head against me.

Our youngest was slated to start preschool this August. This time last year I thought my house would be incredibly empty come the fall of 2020. How wrong I was. It turns out the house has never been fuller.

Not only am I here all the time — that’s nothing new — all the children are here, too. All day, every day. And so is a growing legion of computers and other devices, worksheets, crayons, pencils, textbooks, glue sticks and occasionally a lizard that just stops by to get in on the house party.

In the few moments during the school day that I’m not providing technical or emotional support, I churn out advertising copy for a content mill I’ve started working for nearly full-time. It’s weird work, but it suits me. There is zero interpersonal interaction. I write quickly so I can crank out large amounts of content and earn decent money. I feel fortunate to have the work when so many others are struggling to stay afloat.

However, this year has certainly seen an unusual confluence of events. I started taking on more work because I anticipated having all the kids in some type of school. Then the pandemic came and crushed all those plans.

Safe at home — now and …

So, now I’m working almost full-time, parenting more than full-time, and leaving the house maybe two or three times a week at the most. All around me, I see other people’s lives going on while I’m in the Groundhog Day movie.

I understand most people want to “get back to normal,” but I’m becoming less and less certain there is any type of normal to get back to. The pandemic has laid bare divisions in our communities I didn’t even know existed. As coronavirus case numbers and deaths piled up here in Florida in July and August, I saw acquaintances and even friends pretending it was over. While many people attempted to cling to normalcy, I completely tossed it aside.

At some point in time that I can’t specifically identify, I stopped venturing out not only because it wasn’t safe, but because I just didn’t want to anymore. I know I’ll have to emerge from my bunker eventually — if not for my sake then at least for my kids — but it won’t be easy.

For example, I went inside a store for the first time in nearly six months a few weeks ago and promptly spilled the entire contents of my wallet on the floor at the checkout. In that moment of raw panic while I shuffled my plastic cards around on the linoleum floor as the cashier judged me with his eyes — luckily the incredulous laugh that was no doubt there was hidden by his mask — I determined that I needed to retreat to my house, throw away all the junk in my wallet, and practice doing routine activities for a few more months or years before venturing out and trying to get “back to normal.”

But it’s not just that I’m socially rusty. Many times, I wonder what really is out there to go back to? What could possibly be worth the risk right now and for the foreseeable future?

It turns out I’m getting pretty comfortable in my very uncomfortable kitchen chair, typing away on my computer, right in the middle of everything that really matters to me. It feels familiar. It feels safe. I never have to search for somewhere that feels like home if I never leave my actual home in the first place. If I’m not careful, I could get a little too used to the safety of this new normal my family has created.

Photo: © ajr_images / Adobe Stock.

Somehow, I ended up arguing with my oldest child about doughnut holes. Again.

My three kids and I were driving to my mom’s house late on a Sunday morning. As is tradition during our hour-long drive, we swung into the drive-thru to pick up coffee for me and a treat for the kids to share. After collecting the bounty, I always pass the cup of doughnut holes to the kids in the back seat and they fight like a pack of agitated badgers over whose turn it is to hold the cup and dole out the contents. Holder of the cup is the highest of honors, so a fair amount of squabbling and thrashing is to be expected. It’s tradition.

Shortly after we pulled back onto the road, my oldest, who was seated between his two younger siblings, let out a wail. I assumed it was fallout from the cup holder death match, but I was wrong. It was something much worse.

The kids had determined it was my oldest son’s turn to be in charge of meting out the chocolate glazed, and he had dropped them onto the floorboard. I took a quick glance back to see a handful of delicious spheres trundling around on the dirty, fuzzy floor.

In the midst of his crying, I asked my oldest child why he had dropped the cup. I didn’t ask this dumb question because I was upset. I asked because I was still peeved at him for taking what seemed like hours to get into the car before we left the house, and I wanted to be snarky.

Of course, this only made things worse. A full-on meltdown commenced.

Now, I’m typically pretty good at staying calm and cool in such situations. Or at least as calm and cool as can reasonably be expected for someone who is isn’t a Zen master or Billie Eilish. I turned the music up a few notches, focused on the road, and mentally prepared to ride it out.

However, the ruckus didn’t stop. In fact, it kept getting worse. Until finally, I snapped.

I raised my voice more than I normally do — I have a particular aversion to raised voices, so I try to avoid raising mine whenever possible — and told my son to calm down or we were going home. I then flipped my turn signal on dramatically, because there is nothing quite like slamming on a turn signal to show someone who’s boss, and turned onto a side street at the next stoplight.

Best parenting moments, worst ones part of same fabric

Not surprisingly, things got even louder and more screechy at this point. I kept trying to pontificate over my child’s protestations, but nothing was getting through.

And then my younger son’s voice cut right through the noise.

“Daddy, he just needs a few minutes to calm down,” he said. “He needs to breathe, and he’ll be OK.”

The noise level in the car dropped dramatically, my older son started to catch his breath, and I wallowed in a pool of shame and misery.

I remember an old song called “Nice Guys Finish Last” was playing over the car sound system as we turned back onto the main road toward my mom’s house. I was definitely finishing last in that moment, but I did not at all feel like a nice guy.

After a few minutes of driving in relative quiet, things returned to normal. My oldest son relented and ate the final two doughnut holes that had remained in the cup during The Great Doughnut Hole Spill of 2020.

I reached back and patted his leg and apologized for getting upset. I reminded him that while he didn’t react the right way, I certainly didn’t either. And that we all get upset sometimes; we just have to do our best to learn how to handle it.

He grabbed my arm and leaned forward to press his wet face to the back of my hand.

As I reflected on the incident later, I thought back to what my younger son said to bring us out of our collective tailspin.

“Daddy, he just needs a few minutes to calm down. He needs to breathe, and he’ll be OK.”

It sounded very familiar because I have heard myself say almost those exact words more times than I can count in the last half decade. I guess they have been listening!

Which just goes to show, when it comes to parenting, there are good days and bad days and great moments and terrible ones. There are times when you react just the right way to whatever your child throws at you (literally or figuratively). There are days when you go on family bike rides and eat healthy foods. And then there are days when you turn on the screens, hole up inside, eat ice cream for breakfast, and try to stay out of each other’s way.

We are not defined by our worst parenting moments any more than we are defined by our best. Best and worst are threads in the same tapestry. They weave together and cross over in intricate and unexpected ways to create one whole that is all the more beautiful because of its imperfections.

In those difficult times — the tantrums, the heated exchanges of cross words, the mistakes we know we’re making even in the moment — it’s important to remember that the distance from your worst parenting moment to your best isn’t as far as it seems.

What you really need to do is find a few minutes to calm down. And breathe. And try to never, ever get into an argument with your child about doughnut holes.

Photo: © Konstantin Yuganov / Adobe Stock.

It’s such a strange disconnect between my real life joy and the worry in my mind these days.

It feels like the world is falling down around me, yet, on my little island, everything seems sunny and bright. Quite literally as well as figuratively.

Every day for the past several weeks, the Florida weather has been relentlessly bright, clear, dry and hot. Completely inappropriate for an apocalypse. And inside the walls of our suburban home, with an air conditioner that whirs and rumbles most hours of the day and night, things are cheery and comfortable. The halls are filled with squeals of joy and laughter that bounce off the wood floors and invade every corner.

Sure, there is also infighting and whining, and tears of indignation brought on by the most recent personal affront doled out by a sibling, but all in all, our home remains a happy one. It’s surprising, really. Our routines, schedules, activities and even our school days were yanked out from under us just a few weeks ago.

I had expected my three children would be more disoriented by the upheaval, but they’ve taken it all in stride. Their insouciance is almost unnerving. Like the big orange street cat that sprawls out on our driveway and refuses to move until an oncoming car is about 12 inches away.

Perhaps one upside of living an introverted, mostly insular existence is that my children are used to us doing our own thing. They’re used to being entertained by their parents, each other, and of course, the television and iPad.

Or maybe it’s just true what they say. Perhaps kids can really adapt to anything. But can adults? Can I? That’s the real question.

Keeping my worry on the inside

My wife is a labor and delivery nurse at a nearby hospital. At the moment, I’m thankful — for my own selfish reasons — that she’s not an ER or ICU nurse. Still, she works in a hospital, so that’s reason enough for me to worry. However, I have managed to channel my fear and anxiety into mostly positive action. I’ve spent most of my recent days caring for the children, trying to work from home on writing projects, and refreshing the COVID-19 stats website seven million times. I did say mostly positive action, not completely positive action.

On one of her off days, my wife found a homeschool schedule that seemed somewhat realistic and we began to follow it.

The schedule was relatively simple. We took one of our chihuahuas — the more agreeable one — on a walk in the morning after breakfast. Then we did academic time, creative time, lunch, chore time, recess, quiet time, technological academic time, P.E., and, everyone’s favorite, TV time.

When my wife was home and we could share the job of wrangling a second grader, kindergartner, and 3-year-old, it was actually relatively pleasant. Tiring, but pleasant.

The beginning of formal distance learning for my kids’ elementary school changed things. We began to slip away from our little schedule because there were actual assignments to keep up with and video conferences to do and my 5-year-old got Animal Crossing for his birthday.

But still, all things considered, we are doing pretty well. When my wife is not working, we do a pretty decent job keeping the kids entertained and marginally on task. Of course, when my wife works, it’s a bit more frantic and scattershot with only one adult present.

And there’s the additional burden of the worry that sits on my chest like an anvil.

Fear checks in

She’s up and dressed well before dawn. If I happen to still be sleeping in our bed, which is rare since our 5-year-old typically pulls me into his bed shortly after midnight, she stops to kiss me and say goodbye. By the time I’m fully awake and starting my day, she’s been at work for at least an hour.

As I brew a cup of coffee and fetch cereal bowls and cups of water, I try to decide how soon is too soon to ask how things are.

I pull out my phone, type out a text and then delete it.

It can wait. I have work to do. An impromptu homeschool to manage. Children to feed. Trampolines to bounce on. COVID-19 stats to refresh.

There’s nothing to worry about, right? At least, there’s nothing to worry about that I can control.

So, I slide my phone back into my pocket and move on to the next thing. Whether that’s breaking up a fight or trying to unlock 17 different distance learning apps. I focus on what’s directly in front of me and try to ignore the bigger picture. I make like Anna from Frozen 2 and do the next right thing.

Because right now, each of us has to focus on doing the next right thing in front of us. Stay home when we possibly can. Protect ourselves, our families, our healthcare workers and everyone in harm’s way. Do our small part and shove aside the rest. At least for an hour or two.

“How’s it going?” I finally text no later than 10 in the morning.

“Not bad so far.”

“That’s good.”

A temporary relief. Better not to ask for more details. Instead, I make three peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, get out the sidewalk chalk, and head outside to soak up the hot midday sun. Hoping with everything I have that the stunning brightness can keep the darkness at bay.

Joy and worry photo: © Antonioguillem / Adobe Stock.

Losing a parent is something you’re never adequately prepared for no matter how inevitable it might be.

My dad’s passing in December was both shocking and not. He had Parkinson’s disease for almost 30 years. Such a disease keeps mortality ever present in your mind, and his life had been increasingly difficult in recent years, but the end seemed to come like an afternoon thunderstorm during the Florida summer. Somewhat expected, but still completely jarring.

His passing left the earth beneath me unsteady. I often feel like I’m walking on the rocks beside a stream. Usually the walk is routine if I tread carefully, but it’s impossible to anticipate when a step might shake a rock loose and leave me scrambling to keep my balance.

Despite the hole his passing has left, I am grateful for all the time we had together, and I’ve taken some time over the last month to consider the lessons my dad taught me through his actions.

My dad was a highly accomplished scientist. He worked for the NASA Life Sciences program in a leadership role for several decades. He loved his work and the people he worked with. Seeing how important his work was to him taught me that it is important to find something in this life that brings you joy. It doesn’t have to be work, but it is nice if your job is more to you than just a paycheck.

He loved his family and was always present and supportive. He was so proud of all of us and would never forego an opportunity to discuss his children and grandchildren’s latest accomplishments, both real and sometimes slightly greatly exaggerated, with anyone who would listen. His family role was different than mine. He was primarily a breadwinner while I am primarily a caregiver, but he never voiced any qualms with my status as a stay-at-home parent. His example taught me the importance of fulfilling your role and always being proud of your children, whatever path they chose in life.

Remembering Dad, the sports fan

He loved sports, Wake Forest University sports in particular, and was a devoted fan all his life. Some of my greatest memories of him involve attending Wake Forest games. One that stands out is the ACC Championship Football Game that Wake Forest won 9-6 over Georgia Tech in 2006 on a very wet day in Jacksonville. It was a great payoff for my dad after a lifetime of fandom to finally see his beloved, but often over-matched, Demon Deacons prevail on a big stage. Sports may seem trivial, but my dad taught me a love of sports and the value of loyalty.

When I was around 10 years old, my dad, my brother, and I drove from Florida to Atlanta to watch Wake Forest play in the NCAA Basketball Tournament. We watched them win their opening round game and then drove back late at night. In classic dad fashion, we stopped off at a very affordable, but rather sketchy Passport Inn alongside the highway in central Georgia. I remember it being a place you were well advised to refrain from touching much of anything like the carpet or bed sheets. Life lesson? I’m not sure. Frugality is a virtue, I guess? I probably didn’t learn this lesson too well. To this day, I prefer hotel rooms where you can touch things.

I lived with my parents for longer than many people do, so my relationship with them grew and evolved over the years. I remember the months my dad and I lived together alone while my mom was in New York receiving medical treatments. He drove with me to a rather sketchy home to pick up my new chihuahua puppy that I had found in a newspaper classified ad. It was basically the Passport Inn of puppy trafficking homes. And while my dad wasn’t a huge dog fan, I’m sure he understood I needed something in that challenging time of young adulthood complicated by parental illness. Even if emotional openness wasn’t our thing, I will always be grateful for my dad’s support and I hope to be a reliable and understanding presence for my children.

What will my kids memories of Dad be? 

I remember staying with my mom and dad in Winston-Salem when they both were fighting cancer and driving them to the hospital several mornings per week for my dad’s radiation therapy. I listened to Green Day CDs over and over again during those drives. I’m sure he didn’t completely understand the music selection as he sat beside me in the passenger seat, but he never complained. My dad taught me the value of not speaking just for the sake of speaking. Sometimes silent understanding is what people need most.

I wish my children were older so they could remember more about their grandfather, but I am hopeful some of his lessons reached them as well. I hope they will remember his kindness, his love, and his leading them in drumming their hands on the table at dinner time. I hope they will remember the things they did together like raking leaves, sweeping the driveway, untangling Christmas lights, and using his walker as a roller coaster. I hope they will remember how they helped my mom keep up with their Granddad’s pill schedule and how they brought him his iced tea.

My father was still teaching lessons late in his life. This time, to his young grandchildren. They learned the importance of caring for people in need and they learned that no one can make it in this life alone. We all need help.

My children are still very young, and they might not remember Dad much, but I definitely will. I’ll remember the life lessons and I’ll remember the memorable moments. I’m holding onto these memories a little extra tight. Right now, and for years to come.

Remembering dad photo: ©  Olesia Bilkei / Adobe Stock.

On a hot summer morning, I walk stealthily from my car to the covered pavilion in between two rows of tennis courts at the front of the park.

I make sure to approach from a particular direction, keeping the small trees and bushes between me and the courts so I remain unnoticed. I sit on a weathered green bench attached to a picnic table. I disrupt a squirrel’s meal and, startled, it scampers away to safety.

I’ve given up some things to be a stay-at-home parent — career, money, a large swath of my sanity — but moments like this make the sacrifice worth it. Quiet moments of secretive observation like this are why I am most grateful for my life choices and the privilege that allows me to make those choices.

This is when I stop thinking about all things I could be doing and appreciate what I am doing. I’m experiencing my children’s childhood and that matters.

My two sons, ages 5 and 7, go to tennis camp during the summer at the county park just around the corner from our house. Tennis has been an important part of my life since I started playing when I was 7. My interest and commitment have ebbed and flowed over the years, but it remains a part of who I am. As sports go, it was unique enough that I took it on as part of my personality when I was growing up. Plenty of kids played baseball or basketball, but I played tennis! And as I grew into an adult, as my life changed and took me in different directions, tennis remained my touchstone. A link to my past and something I could rely on to be there in my future.

However, while tennis is an important part of my life, my children are my world. I love watching them do anything. Well, almost anything. I don’t particularly enjoy watching them watch people playing Minecraft on YouTube, even though they wish I did. I love watching them on the playground or playing soccer. I love seeing them test their limits and exist in a world that’s not controlled by me.

As parents, we can cast a long shadow on our children’s lives. That’s why I love observing my children when I’m not in charge. When I’m not expected to play along. When they don’t even know I’m there. Like today.

My 7-year-old appears to be carrying on a continuous running commentary as he and the three other children on his court retrieve orange-and-yellow tennis balls from the cart, drop them, and then hit erratic forehands that fly in all directions. I can’t help but chuckle because he is so different from me in some ways and I love it. I worry about my children inheriting my anxieties and shyness, so I’m always pleased when they show signs of having more outgoing personalities.

Two courts over, my 5-year-old is playing a slightly unusual game with the three other children in his group. He is holding a circular white laundry basket while his partner, a blonde-haired boy with knee-high socks, drops and hits oversized red-and-yellow tennis balls for him to catch. As the balls fly wildly through the air or bump along the ground, he scampers in every direction with his laundry basket in tow. He is determined, energetic, eager and, perhaps most importantly, very ready to take on some light laundry duties at home.

I, like many other moms and dads, often get lost in the weeds when parenting. We spend our days struggling to keep our children fed and cleaned and mentally stimulated (but not overstimulated!) and physically active and happy and on and on. Meanwhile, we often forget to step back to get a broader view.

I often wonder, “How are my children really doing?” Sure, we get the report cards and messages from teachers, the odd tidbit from an acquaintance or friend. That helps us ascertain some of what goes on when we’re not around. But what’s the real story of their everyday lives?

So I’m lucky when I get to spend a few minutes each week, silently and covertly, watching my children play the sport I love. It might not seem like much, but it’s just what I need to keep me focused on what really matters. I spend a lot of time worrying about what I’m not doing, like making money or policing my kids’ screen-time effectively or making my kids eat enough vegetables. I’m not doing so many things, but all it takes is a few minutes of quiet observation for me to remember that I must be doing some things right.

My children have unique personalities that are constantly evolving. They are happy and loved. And by the looks of things, at least one of them is going to be helping out with the laundry very soon. But best of all, I get a front-row seat to watch it all happen. Even if that seat is sometimes hidden behind tree branches.

Photo: © HBS / Adobe Stock.

We have three children ranging in age from 3 to 7. The bedtime routine in our house is simple.

First, my wife takes the youngest upstairs while I stay downstairs to get the older two into pajamas and ready for bed. On her way upstairs with the little one, my wife pauses at the top to say good night and wave to the two older children below. If you’re having trouble picturing this, think of the classic party scene from The Sound of Music when the Von Trapp children sing their good night song and wave good night from the upstairs balcony and the adoring party-goers shuffle to one side in mass to sing good night back. It’s exactly like that, but slightly more choreographed.

Sometimes, while the youngest’s bedtime routine is in progress, I try to get a jump on things by taking the older two upstairs. We gather in one of their bedrooms and sprawl out on the bed or floor like house cats. Then, when the youngest is asleep and my wife finally escapes from her bedroom, I take the younger of the other two and my wife stays with the oldest. I’m not totally sure what happens in the older child’s room, but my wife is typically missing for at least 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, the 5-year-old and I rock in the rocking chair for a few minutes and then we migrate to his race car bed. My son arranges three to six stuffed animals and a blanket that he brings to bed with him so we both have equal cuddling access. Then I lay down on the Black Panther pillow on the edge of the bed and he lays down ostensibly on the regular pillow, but mostly on top of me. After he talks about crustacean facts or lists the middle names of children in his preschool class for a few minutes, he usually drifts off. I then extricate myself by removing his arm from the back of my head and barrel rolling out of the bed. Simple.

To be clear, this routine only holds when both parents are home at bedtime. I could explain how bedtime works on solo parenting nights, but I would need more note cards, push pins, and yarn than a detective trying to hunt down a serial killer. And possibly a beer to wash away some traumatic memories. Possibly a whole six pack.

I was talking with a friend recently who has a daughter the same age as my middle child and he asked me about our bedtime routine. “Do you just put the kids in bed and leave them to fall asleep?” he asked. After I laughed hysterically for several minutes, I replied, “No, we kind of stay in there sometimes until they fall asleep. No big deal.”

We discussed logistics some more and from the sounds of it, our routines are similar. I mean, I’m sure his isn’t as circus-like as ours — he does only have one child — but the basic outline is the same. He asked me if we still used the same method for my older son who is 7 and I told him we did. He seemed relieved.

We agreed that our kids are only young once and we were happy to spend the extra time with them while we could. And the funny thing is, I wasn’t just saying that because it sounded good. I really meant it. And while my wife has the longer end of the bedtime routine now because our youngest insists on mommy putting her to bed, the burden shifts from time to time and we have to stay ready for anything. Tomorrow I could be on the hook for all three children’s bedtimes and it could stay that way for months. But still, I wouldn’t mind.

Because, despite how difficult and frustrating our bedtime routine can be, particularly after a long day of parenting, I know this stage is not going to last forever. Like many things in life and parenting, you never know when the last time is going to be until it’s already happened. One day, they won’t want us to lie in their beds or on the floor in their room. They’ll go in their bedrooms, close the door, and that will be it. We’ll be left alone to watch TV or read or do whatever it is people do at nights. And while I’m sure in some ways I’ll be relieved to have the nightly burden in our rear-view mirror, there will be a part of me that will miss it.

And that’s why I’m not rushing change. I’m willing to sit (or lie down) and wait. And revel in the extra minutes of connectedness while I can. With a small arm draped over my head and the plastic railing of a race car bed digging into my side. Because once this period of our lives is over, it’s over. And there will be no going back.

Photo: © Daxiao Productions / Adobe Stock.

Several years ago, we had a cat. He was sleek, moved effortlessly, and annoyed us to no end. In fact, when we moved from a townhouse to our current suburban home, we attempted to turn him into a part-time outdoor cat. Since he was always trying to escape from our old place, this seemed like a smart move.

It didn’t turn out quite as we’d anticipated.

My wife and I didn’t have much experience with cats, but apparently they like to bring “presents” to their owners. These presents were typically alive, but only barely. Or they were recently deceased, which was somewhat better relatively speaking, but not by much. Having a consistent stream of half-dead squirrels and assorted rodents deposited on your back porch is quite gruesome. Fully dead is also bad, but if you must choose, it’s the better option. Of course, you really want neither.

So every time our cat left his calling card, I crossed my fingers that it was fully dead. Then I could get on with the disposal. Before I had kids, this whole situation would have grossed me out to no end. But since I was a grizzled veteran of two children, who were around ages 1 and 3 at the time, I had experienced things. I had seen, smelled and been drenched by all sorts of bodily fluids and excretions. Thus, I was comfortable enough with grossness that a mangled squirrel wasn’t quite so bad. In fact, my main concern was disposing the squirrel before my 3-year-old saw it. He was very sensitive, and I knew the sight of a dead little animal would be traumatic for him.

When our cat did drop off a gruesome gift, I’d usually find it early in the morning while I was letting our dogs out. I would grab my shovel, scoop up the glob of fur and guts, and quickly bury it in the backyard. It was a task I dreaded. Turning our backyard into a squirrel graveyard wasn’t one of my life goals, but I put my head down and did the dirty work. That’s what parents do. We learn to put our child’s needs before our own.

It starts with those first sleepless nights with a newborn. At first, it feels completely weird. Like you’re groping around in the dark trying to find something, but you’re not sure what exactly you’re searching for. Suddenly your primary concern isn’t whether you sleep or eat regularly, but that this new little person does. As the months and years go by, this new arrangement starts to feel normal; you feel like this is the way life has always been. But, when you take a step back, it can be hard to wrap your head around. What did I do with my time before all this? Did I really sleep eight hours and eat three meals most days? What did I do on weekends before there were red-ball tennis lessons and tiny tot soccer games? Yes, things have certainly changed. Your life isn’t just yours anymore, it also belongs to someone else.

With this recognition of a shared existence comes a fierce protectiveness that is almost indescribable. It’s visceral and anxiety-inducing and all-consuming. It is forged in the fire of those early, muddled days and nights and only grows and expands with time. In the beginning, the overriding drive is to provide physical protection. To hold this new being as close as possible. To shelter it with your own fragility. Later, as that little person grows, it only becomes more complicated. Now you must worry about the psychological and not just the physical. As they pull away, you struggle to pull them back. Paddling against the relentless current of time to protect them from disappointment and trauma. Of course, you’re not only protecting them. If you’re being honest, you’re protecting yourself, too.

Life is hard and heartbreaking. As an adult, you understand this more every day. You want nothing more than to shield your child from these harsh realities as long as possible. To let them revel in blissful innocence while it lasts. When they walk close to the edge, when they start to ask difficult questions, sometimes you give encouraging, simplistic answers that you don’t necessarily believe. “Yes, buddy, we’ll all be together again one day, even after we’re gone.” You feel that if you can convince them, maybe you can convince yourself. By wrapping them in your fragility, maybe you can make yourself feel less fragile.

So it is that I found myself collecting the carcasses of small rodents from my porch and depositing them in the earth. As a scrape and shovel and dig and try not to look too closely at the crime scene, I think about how soon enough my child will learn more about death and despair and how unfair and painful life can be, but it doesn’t have to be this morning. I can put it off. I can save him this much, at least. As long as I shovel quickly enough. Hurry.

Photo by Lukas from Pexels

One night recently at the dinner table, my wife said to me, “You know you’re the reason why the boys are the way they are.”

While I might have hoped this was general praise for their overall wonderfulness, I think what she was referring to specifically was their petty competitiveness.

As is often the case, our 4- and 6-year-old sons were enjoying their dinner with a side of brotherly bickering. School had recently started for both, and they were arguing over who had received more points from their teacher that day.

Our older son’s first-grade teacher uses an app to help parents track their child’s behavior. The children receive points for things like being on task and teamwork and can have points deducted for bad behavior. The teacher updates the app in real-time throughout the day. My younger son’s pre-K teacher has no such system, but that hasn’t stopped him from claiming he’s accumulated hundreds or millions of points per day.

Needless to say, I was immediately captivated by the app. The second day of school, I refreshed repeatedly, waiting for the point total to tick up. Four points for being on task before 11 a.m.? Yes!

I quickly realized, though, that there was one major problem. Without a point of reference, I had no way of knowing if, say, eight points in a day was a good total or not. In other words, I really needed a class leaderboard so I could see if my kid was dominating the competition. Otherwise, the whole points thing felt a bit empty. Kind of like playing tennis and only keeping count of your points and not your opponent’s.

I resisted the urge to message the teacher and ask where I could find the class leaderboard because I assumed that would be heavily frowned upon. Instead, I dropped a few hints to my son when the moment seemed right.

“So, do you see how many points you have while you’re at school?” I asked casually.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s projected on the board.”

“How is everyone else doing? Do they have a lot of points, too?”

“I think I probably have the most. I was kind of at the top of the list.”

I gave a subtle fist pump.

It was only later when my wife scolded me for trying to turn everything into a competition that I realized I was probably getting a little carried away. She had a, um, point

An arbitrary point system for a bunch of first graders is certainly not something to obsess over. No matter how appealing the instant gratification the app provides might seem, I really should save my energy for more important things like Little League, tiny tot soccer and under-8 tennis.

In all seriousness, there is a danger in our competitive and connected world of becoming fixated and obsessed with trivial matters. For example, businesses attempt to exploit our weaknesses every day. They prey on our need to compare ourselves to others, to prove that we belong, to believe that our wildest dreams are achievable.

Whether it’s the burst of adrenaline you get when one of your Instagram posts gets tons of likes or the shadow of depression that lurks when you see friends and family living seemingly perfect lives online, our technologies and the businesses that create them are continually pulling our emotional strings as if we were their marionettes.

Perhaps even more insidious, there are businesses that get cheap labor by gamifying their workplace. As a writer, I’ve come across this on many platforms. Companies often offer freelancers the opportunity to make their own schedules, get their work seen, build connections, develop new skills, and, very often, compete for compensation against other desperate writers. Like the classroom app, many of these platforms are brilliantly designed to appeal to our obsessive natures. Unlike the classroom app, most of them have leaderboards or contests or various forms of rankings, making them even more addictive for those of us with maniacally competitive tendencies. They share tricks and tendencies with the ubiquitous multi-level marketing systems that often clutter your social media timelines.

These businesses offer periodic hits of dopamine in the form of peppy digital notifications, head-to-head wins, and various contests and rewards. What they don’t typically offer is fair compensation, benefits, or a stable financial future of any kind. They get tons of great content from talented people by exploiting our obsessive tendencies, need for competition, and the sense of belonging and achievement that comes with “winning.”

I know this because I’ve participated on these platforms. I still do. And I’m borderline obsessive about it even though I know it’s a lot of smoke and mirrors. Human nature is a weird thing. But, it’s not just instinct. We’re often taught from an early age that if we just work hard, delay gratification, and compete to win, something better is just over the horizon. However, in the online freelance world that better thing often doesn’t come. Instead, if you’re not careful, you can spend years making a lot of money for other people.

Yes, there certainly is a darker side of competitive drive. Particularly when competition is increasingly presented to us in attractive, technologically sleek packages. When it comes to providing a model for my kids, it’s probably best that I keep that in mind.

Competition photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash

Earlier this summer, my kids and I embarked on a 600-mile road trip without my wife. Many people thought I was crazy, including, most notably, my wife. As is almost always the case, she was right.

The drive from our home in Florida to North Carolina was a grind and the fact that we had to turn around and do it all over again in just a few days was downright brutal. The in-between part while we were on what some might call a “vacation” wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either, although we did walk in a park at one point, which was lovely.

To make a long story short, when it was all over and we arrived home late on a summer evening, I was tired and beaten and very glad we had made the trip. Much like exercise, traveling with your kids is a great thing to have done. And now that I’m a grizzled solo road tripping veteran with four days of experience under my belt, I have a message for dads everywhere: Take the road trip.

Here are five reasons why:

1. A solo road trip beats watching YouTube videos

Really, what else do you have to do during the summer? Work? Watch YouTube videos? Sit inside and stare at your air conditioning unit while saying a silent prayer of thanksgiving?

Taking your kids on a road trip by yourself is better than all these things. Kind of. It’s much harder, but ultimately more rewarding. Unless you’re a brain surgeon or something; I assume that is also rewarding.

And while YouTube is a wonderful invention, if you’re anything like me, you’re sick of your kids devoting their lives to it. Now is your chance to get them out from in front of the TV or iPad and into a car where they can sit for 10 hours or so. Sure, they will probably use their devices somewhere along the way (i.e., the whole way), but screen time in cars doesn’t count as screen time. That’s Parenting 101.

In addition, if your kids are young enough, you can convince them that there is no technology available that allows them to access YouTube in a car. You will likely be able to keep this charade up for about two hours before you start indiscriminately throwing account passwords into the backseat for any child to feast upon.

2. You will gain a deep personal knowledge of interstate restrooms. All of them.

Never underestimate the value of public restroom knowledge. And since you will be stopping at every restroom you pass, you will quickly become the world’s foremost bathroom expert. The Stephen Hawking of interstate toilets. You will dazzle guests at your next dinner party with your newfound knowledge. Even better, you can provide invaluable assistance to random strangers you meet at the McDonald’s on your way home.

“Oh no, don’t stop at the rest area at mile marker 135,” you will say with an air of profound authority. “Wait for the one at 182. It’s much cleaner, has a lovely picnic area, and vending machine selection you won’t believe.”

“Yes, thank you,” the stranger will reply. “I just asked if I could borrow this chair, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

 3. It will help make you a more confident parent

Society has a way of subtly suggesting to dads that they are lesser than as parents. Most of us know this isn’t true, but like all parents, we have our doubts and insecurities. And while taking a road trip won’t cure all your fears and worries, it will likely blunt them. I mean, it’s hard to get too worked up about taking your kids to the grocery store or the mall after you’ve survived a thousand miles of interstate highway and several nights in a hotel room.

Taking them to the beach by yourself will still be a nightmare, particularly if you have more children than hands and some of them can’t swim. There is nothing you can do to make that experience better, but otherwise, a nice, long solo road trip is a bit like a parenting vaccine. It builds up your immunity to the daily irritations and challenges.

4. You will entertain other hotel guests at breakfast, bringing them immense joy

Picture yourself sitting down to a quiet meal at one of those free continental breakfast buffets at a mid-level chain hotel. Suddenly, a small tornado of noise and energy spins into the room, knocking into the cereal box display and overturning a napkin dispenser.

It’s a harried dad with three small children!

The children are understandably excited by the bounty set forth before them. It’s not every day they get to choose their own sugary breakfast foods from a plastic display case and then not eat them. Meanwhile, the dad spends the entire 20-minute fiasco racing back and forth from the buffet to the table where his children are precariously perched on bar stools, which they just had to sit on. He stops only to slosh a few sips of coffee into his mouth and down his shirt. What a sight!

Now, flip it so you are the dad instead of the child-free, relentlessly relaxed hotel patron. Sure, this scenario is a lot less fun for you, but at least you’re making other people smile. You can’t place a dollar value on that.

5. Think of the great story you’ll have to tell for years to come

Have I ever told you about the time I took my kids on a road trip by myself? This will be your opening line for any conversation for at least the next five years. It works everywhere: doctor appointments, weddings, dinner parties, open mics.

You will delight friends, acquaintances and audiences with your tale of struggle and strife. They will laugh and cry right along with you.

But your most important audience will be the people who also experienced the journey first hand. The ones who have tried doing a solo road trip themselves and were with you in the car for every painstaking mile.

“Hey kids, remember when we drove all the way to North Carolina?” you will say to them years later on a rainy summer morning. “How we played in that park where your grandmother used to play when she was a kid? And caught fireflies at night? And how on our way home we stopped at that rest area and none of you would get in your seats so I finally gave up and we ran around the picnic tables for what seemed like hours until it started to rain on us and we piled back into the car wet and smelly?”

And they will remember.

Photo by Dino Reichmuth on Unsplash