If “Born in the USA” has taught us anything, it’s that people will cheerfully blare any song with a catchy beat regardless of the incongruously depressing lyrics. These days every store you walk into is legally required to play Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” at least once an hour. Tucked into that ditty about holiday cheer is this little chestnut:

There’ll be scary ghost stories
and tales of the glories
Of Christmases long, long ago

Wait – what?

Scary ghost stories? Scary Christmas ghost stories!?

On the surface, it seems like a lyric a few months past its Halloween expiration date. But scratch the tinseled surface and Christmas has some weird undertones.

What’s so jolly about a young, panicked woman giving birth in a filthy stable in the dead of night? Or an immortal being who breaks into houses and whose omnipresent gaze is fixed on your every move? Watching. Judging.

Life’s ghosts don’t take a Christmas vacation, and hardships don’t plan around your holiday calendar. So as I sat with my mother in hospice, two days before Christmas a few years back, it was hard not to notice the almost purgatorial nature of her room. At the nurse’s station outside, people flitted by – chatting next to holiday décor. In her room, it was dark and still. There was no longer the need for the expensive machines she had been hooked to for the past 10 months. No beeping or dinging. Just her shallow breath and closed eyes.

Ours had always been a difficult relationship. She was what some would describe as a “formidable woman.” Her superpower was bending reality to justify her actions. On the rare occasion where she owned up to being in the wrong, she would happily tell you why it was really someone else’s fault. Likely yours.

Becoming a father put into relief how differently we were wired. My journey into parenthood has taught me the value of self-reflection – examining why I am where I am, what I’m feeling, and what lessons I have learned. And how am I going to impart that to the two malleable humans who are always learning from me, whether I want them to or not? It’s a rich and rewarding road, but the tradeoff is it doesn’t end until you do. There’s no finish line. And you never get to fold your arms and say, “So there. Checkmate.” Reflection versus justification. My mother and I simply had different approaches to life.

But, oh, how she was loyal. I knew she would pitch a tent and just live in that room if the tables were turned. If half of life is showing up, she showed up – even if you didn’t realize you needed someone there. That’s also how she was wired. I admired that. I wanted to be that kind of person. And she brought me into this world. She deserved someone to stand sentry as her body prepared to leave it. The someone should be me.

Hours later, my thoughts turned to another family. The one I chose to build with the woman I love. A year of managing my mother’s illness had taken me away from them so often – missing moments big and small. They deserved my showing up as well, especially at Christmas. In the dark, I gathered my things and stood over her and said the last words I hoped she would hear. “I love you. … Goodbye.” And I left

The next morning my phone rang. It was the hospice. At 7:30 a.m. On Christmas Eve. They weren’t calling to discuss paperwork.

Christmas Day, my wife and I had to sit down our 6-year-old and tell her grandma died. She had known pets who had passed on, and over the year I kept her up to date as best I could on what was going on with her grandmother, even though she might not make it. All this she handled with surprising grace. But the end hit her hard. Amid the debris of wrapping paper and toys, I held my crying daughter and told her all the things I had researched to say. I spoke honestly about how special their relationship was. We would make a memory book of all the fun times they shared. I also could see her telling a future therapist, “I think it all started when I was 6 and my dad interrupted Christmas to tell me THAT MY FRIGGIN’ GRANDMOTHER WAS DEAD.”

I’ll give my mother this much, she had a flair for the dramatic. Every Christmas Eve from now on I’ll be haunted by her ghost, like Jacob Marley visiting Scrooge. As for my daughter, well, we’ve all changed in this last year. Kids are strong and resilient all right, but you can’t just say that with a shrug and go get a snack. There’ll be checking in, talking, listening, observing. As I said, no finish line.

If you want Christmas “tales of the glories,” you’ll have to take the Christmas “ghost stories.” That’s what relationships leave you with – even at this time of year. Especially at this time of year. Whenever we can celebrate the holidays with people and music again, you’re likely to be visited by a ghost or two as everyone is swaying to a favorite seasonal tune – be it traditional or hip. And if someone is wondering why you aren’t moved like they are, just give them this sage response: “Well, because, I’m listening to the words.”

Christmas ghost stories of photo by © RK1919 / Adobe Stock.

I’ve discussed at length turning 40, in writing and in various conversations with friends. I’ve talked about what it means from a physical and mental standpoint, where I am now versus where I thought I would be, and the reality of how this age has been so far compared to what I thought it would be when I was much younger.

Nearly two years in, it’s been great. I feel good — aside from the occasional aches, pains and concerns that come in this season of life. OK, overall it hasn’t been that bad.

For those of us in our 40s, we have spent the better part of two decades or so getting acclimated to the information age. Social media allows us to connect with others, learn, and debate about various topics every second of every day. It also gives us a glimpse into the lives of our peers. We learn of their struggles, their highlights, and whatever they carefully curate to share with us on their respective timelines.

With that, one thing has stood out of late. It seems every time I log on to social media, someone in my age range is dealing with some life-altering event. A parent has passed. A separation has started or a marriage has ended. An illness has struck. These always remind me that we have to enjoy life as much as possible because things can change in an instant.

Big questions to ponder, answer as we age

As a dad, when I see these updates from friends and family, it can’t help but make me think of my own mortality. This is the “dark side” of being in your 40s. Real-life issues and concerns weigh on you more than ever before, especially when kids are involved.

If something were to happen to me tomorrow, would my kids be OK?

Am I doing enough to prepare my kids for a successful future, with or without me?

Are my affairs in order?

I should be thinking about these questions anyway, but they sound louder and more urgent when I learn about the bad news of others. It makes me look in the mirror.

The irony for me is that, in dealing with my own aging parents, I’ve been trying to have these conversations with my mom and dad. It’s uncomfortable for sure, but necessary. However, because those talks to date have not been as productive as I would like, it’s given me more incentive to make sure I’m doing right by my children now. I want to make sure that when my time comes, whenever that may be, the process will be as stress-free as possible for them. Why? Because we’ve all seen online when families aren’t prepared for life’s twists and turns. The GoFundMes pop up, along with the venting, and much of it can be prevented by proper planning.

I try to lead by example to make sure my son and daughter understand the value of preparation. We should always hope and pray for the best, but prepare for the worst. My prayer in my 40s is to live a long, healthy life to be there for my kids. But if my story has an unexpected ending, it’s my responsibility to make sure they have the tools needed to finish their own book.

How to prepare for life-altering family events

Here is some suggested reading to help start you on readying your children and family when life throws you curves:

• 11 life skills you should teach your child (Very Well)
• 65 life skills to teach kids at every age (Mommy Poppins)
• Teach masculinity to sons with positive, healthy examples (City Dads)
• Saving for college: Educate yourself on these 3 main methods (City Dads)
• How to write a will when you have children (WikiHow)
• Tips for estate planning conversations (Fidelity Investments)
• Living trusts vs living wills (MetLife)
• Children and divorce (HelpGuide.org)

Prepare photo by cottonbro studio via Pexels.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This article about Halloween with older children comes from 2017.

Last night was Halloween, and there were ghouls and fools aplenty. All our favorite shows were represented in various levels of costumed detail. Movies, too. Star Wars and superheroes, the staples of my own childhood, still remain firmly affixed upon those of my children. There were red balloons and orange buffoons, clowns from every angle.

The ratio of candy given to the amount received was squarely in their favor. My boys laughed. They had fun. They ate more sugar in one night than in the past six months combined. It was an evening of playful mischief and warmly lit wonder.

Man, I’m glad that’s over.

Except, and I’m not supposed to tell you this, it isn’t.

That may be because deadlines created by evil editors in eye shades are forcing me into actually writing this a week before, only pretending to have survived yet another Halloween. Or it may be because we live in a world so much scarier than anything the holiday can throw at us. Either way, we seem destined to live out the rest of our lives (or the next three years, whichever comes first) in a very special episode of American Gothic, but slightly more racist.

Maybe it’s both.

The thing is, I’m having a hard time getting into Halloween this year. There are several reasons, including, but not limited to the aforementioned fact that nothing make-believe can compare to the terror of our actual reality. Knowing that, it makes conversations about costumes and decorations feel mocking and hollow, the gallows humor of a Target aisle.

Also, I quit eating candy.

Additionally, the boys themselves seem less than excited about Halloween this year. As I typically fuel my enthusiasm from theirs, our home shows nothing to suggest the season but a couple of gourds rolling around our doorstep. The spiderwebs hung themselves.

For a while, I thought the boys may be apprehensive, seeing as each of them are in new, bigger schools than they were last year. Maybe they just needed some extra time to get a feel for how Halloween worked at the current level. I may have been too optimistic.

The oldest did have a costume idea that he seemed relatively interested in, where “interested” means he mentioned it once. He thought it would be fun to dress as Monty Python’s version of the Spanish Inquisition, which if you are familiar with the sketch, is quite funny. However, I had to point out that the context may be lost on some people, which would leave him as:

• a non-Catholic kid appropriating a different culture (the irony being that the Spanish Inquisition was established to deny others their respective culture through acts of great severity), and
• wearing religious stuff to a public school, which may or may not be against the rules, but certainly out of my comfort zone.

The youngest remains uncommitted.

I suppose my fear is that this is yet another milestone on the path out of childhood, the one where holidays, while still enjoyed, lose a bit of the magic that once made them monumental. They are no longer the pinnacle of a season, but rather Tuesday with a wig on it.

Factor in the heat (it’s over 100 degrees today), carry the one, allow for whatever, and you’ve got The Great Bupkis, Charlie Brown (rocks sold separately).

Honestly, I don’t know what will become of Halloween this year, if this is new for us or just a phase that we are going through. I’m pulling for the latter. I will do my best to keep the season, but at the end of the day, I just want my kids to have fun. We could all use a bit of that.

UPDATE: We did it. The boys picked out costumes on Monday after school while I went through the slim pickings of discount candy a couple of aisles over. The youngest chose a werewolf mask, the oldest a decorative light. One cut shirt and a jigsaw later I found myself sitting in a neighbor’s house with a group of other parents (and the frequent passerby) watching the Dodgers take it to Game 7 while the boys enjoyed the safety of mob mentality, a pack of sugar-bellied kids knocking and laughing and hopefully saying “thank you.” They were back by the bottom of the 8th, taking the corner and rounding for home.

The text from my dad arrived around mid-morning, the time of day when I’m usually just settled in at work and inundated with emails and meeting invites.

As I read his message, my already busy morning became more complicated. He wrote that my mom was taking him to the hospital because he wasn’t feeling well. This was the latest in a series of health issues he’d been dealing with the last few months. While it thankfully hadn’t reached a life-threatening level, the frequency of the trips to the doctor had become concerning.

I’d be lying if I said my first response wasn’t a “shaking of the head, here we go again” feeling. After all, one of the things my dad taught me when I was younger that has most certainly proven to be true as I’ve become a man is this: There’s always something. There’s always something that comes up in your day-to-day life that wasn’t on your radar or in the plans. That’s life.

It’s also life when you’re faced with an important choice and not sure how to decide. Naturally, I was concerned about my dad and his well-being. At the same time, I had my own responsibilities as a dad I needed to be present for. If I made the roughly 90-mile drive to the hospital, my son would be disappointed I couldn’t take him to basketball practice. And if I ended up having to stay for a couple of days to look after my dad and help my mom out, my wife would have her hands full with both kids.

On the flip side, if I didn’t go to the hospital, what would my dad think? Would he be disappointed in me for not showing up for him like he’s done for me my entire life? Would my mom, who was already a nervous wreck, be able to answer the doctor’s questions? I had just visited him in the hospital when he was there a few weeks before this latest incident. That has to count for something, right?

Burden of the sandwich generation

This is a common dilemma of the approximately 25% of Americans like me in the “sandwich generation.” We are adults with at least one parent alive, age 65 or older, also raising at least one child younger than 18 (or providing financial support to an adult child). Being torn between young and old family members, in addition to work and other obligations, adds emotional, financial and physical strain to parenting. Luckily, for me, COVID-19 and the recession have not complicated our situation as much as it has for others.

I ultimately decided not to go. I managed to take care of everything I needed to do at home while checking in with my mom seemingly every 30 minutes about my dad’s condition.

However, that didn’t erase the guilt I felt. It ate at me the entire time my dad was in the hospital. My mind was telling me I should’ve gone. I was praying everything would work out because if it didn’t, I’d be kicking myself for not being there. Conversely, I was glad I stayed home. Had I missed my son’s practice, the other side of the guilt spectrum would’ve eaten at me as well.

As I continue to adjust to dealing with aging parents, one thing I didn’t factor into that dynamic was the guilt I would experience when faced with having to choose between my current responsibilities as a dad with being there to care for my own dad as he ages. I don’t want to shortchange either. I want to be able to give equally to my son and daughter, as well as my dad. That’s not realistic, I know, but the guilt I feel is not fair to me.

Just as my dad warned me about dealing with the unexpected, I hope to be able to help my kids not beat themselves up when they have to make tough decisions, especially when their hearts are in the right place. But that’s life.

Tips for those caught in between

If sandwich generation stresses are getting to you, here’s some advice for coping from professionals:

From the American Psychological Association:

• Maintain perspective: Prioritize and delegate responsibilities. Delay or say no to less important tasks. Find ways family and friends can lessen your load.
• Find healthy ways to manage stress: Are your coping mechanisms unhealthy (alcohol, drugs, junk food)? Consider healthy, stress-reducing activities — taking a relaxing bath or shower, exercising or talking things out with friends or family.
• Practice self-care: Always make time for yourself so you have the mental and physical energy to care for your parents and children. Eat right, get enough sleep, drink plenty of water, and engage in regular physical and social activity. Maintain contact with friends and other family members.
• Ask for professional support: If you still feel overwhelmed or unhealthy behaviors start dominating your “me time,” you may want to seek a psychologist or other health care professional.

From Senior Living.org:

• Agree to set financial boundaries to help parents or adult children.
• Consider having aging parents move in with you to lower expenses.
• Look into investing in a medical alert system to monitor your aging parent.
• Think about hiring in-home senior care for your parents.
• Consider using identity theft protection services to prevent seniors from being scammed.
• Keep communication lines open with family members concerning needs, expectations, feelings and other issues.

Sandwich generation graphic: © Piscine26 / Adobe Stock.

There’s a natural progression of life most of us experience, no matter our race, ethnicity or background. We grow up: from childhood to adolescence to teenage years, eventually transitioning into adulthood. If we’re lucky, along the way we’ll have parents to guide us as we navigate life. The lessons we receive from them stay with us forever and provide a roadmap for when we encounter the various challenges of life. They also help us when we become parents ourselves.

While we may not be the same type of parent that ours were to us growing up, at the very least we have a blueprint to follow. That’s the beauty of parenthood. It’s also what has made me nervous from the moment I found out I was going to be a dad.

Being a parent means I have the responsibility to mold and shape a life, to prepare a child for every scenario it may face. I may not have all the answers, but when my children leave the nest, they should be well-equipped to be productive members of society. I was fortunate to have that in my life growing up, and I hope to do the same for my kids.

The jarring reality of aging parents

As I’ve become fully ingrained into fatherhood, my parents have transitioned into grandparent mode. This has made me realize there’s actually something I was not prepared for – dealing with aging parents. It’s inevitable if we are blessed enough to have our parents still with us. It’s still shocking nonetheless.

Growing up, we idolize our parents, especially our dads. They were superheroes. Even with their faults, they were larger-than-life figures who did everything in their power to provide for their families. That vision we have of them remains, even as we age ourselves. That’s why it’s so jarring when the reality of what they are now sets in.

Over the past few years, my dad has experienced some health challenges. The man I knew growing up has slowed down. The weekly routine for my parents now includes visits to various doctors to make sure they’re staying on top of their health. But the decline is not just physical. It’s mental as well. With the ever-changing technology landscape, parents often struggle to keep up, leaving it up to us to provide tech support to connect to Wi-Fi, “the Facebook,” and streaming services. And it always happens at the most inopportune time.

Patience, grace and love lead the way

Just as I have to exercise patience with my kids as they grow up, I have to do the same with my parents as they grow older. It’s a balancing act that forces me to flip the switch depending on who I’m dealing with.

They both require different versions of me. As a dad, I have to realize my kids are still new to the world. They’re still learning. I have to remind myself that they’re always watching and their little eyes see every reaction I have. They see how I act and how I respond to them. So even as they work my nerves, I have to remain cool. As a son, I have to exercise patience that is rooted in grace. The grace that helps me be understanding and gentle with my parents as they navigate this stage of their lives. As frustrating as it may get at times, I can’t lose my cool with them, either.

We owe it to our parents to be there for them in their golden years. That doesn’t make it any less challenging. It can test our sanity, for sure. Especially when we have our own responsibilities as parents to our own kids. I know what they’ve done for me over the years, so I push through. I also know one day I’ll be in the same position. And hopefully, my kids will be there for me to lend a helping hand.

Aging parents photo: ©Tetiana Soares / Adobe Stock.

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

Ugh.   

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

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

Question 1: Do you think 45 is old?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do my kids believe they can truly do anything? 

What could they learn from the regrets I harbor?

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

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

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

Photo: ©soupstock / Adobe Stock.

Seated at a table this past spring in the courtyard of a nursing home, I squeezed into the frame of my iPhone camera and snapped a selfie with my parents. In this fifth decade of my life, it’s the only photo I have of the three of us together. It’s among my most valuable possessions.

This family portrait is neither flattering nor joyous. My mom and I are covered head to toe in the garb required of nursing home visitors in this Age of Corona. A face mask covers our noses and mouths. A curved face shield extends from our foreheads to our chins. From the neck down, we’re draped in a flimsy gown of blue plastic that if it were yellow, could easily pass for the infamous hazmat suits from “Breaking Bad.”

My dad, 90, is in the center of the scene, clad in a faded navy blue polo, smiling as a big as he can despite missing teeth and oxygen tubes running from his nose. His thin, frail body has been ravaged by time and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, but it’s clear he’s happy to be with us in this moment — he mustered the strength to sit upright and pose.

It’s a family portrait that had been in the making since 1974, the year I was born.

No pictures exist of me and my dad before 2006, the year I concluded my journey to find him, arriving in the lobby of a senior housing complex in Inglewood, Calif., where he anxiously waited to greet me.

He was 74 at the time; I was 31. I’d last seen him when I was six years old. It was the only time I’d seen him. And it had been 25 years.

My dad missed out on becoming a father. He met my mother in 1973. They carried on a relationship for two months, maybe longer. Then, she stopped coming by his place.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant when she left. I really didn’t,” my dad once told me, reflecting on the memory. In 1981, when I was 6, my mother arrived unannounced at his home — with me in tow. She was married by then but apparently felt it was important for us to meet. That was the last time I saw my dad.

When we reconnected a quarter century later, my dad took those first awkward lurches toward a bond with me, those wobbly steps at becoming a father. During our first Father’s Day conversation, he shared stories about going fishing with a favorite uncle and hunting raccoons and soft-shell turtles as a young boy.

As I’ve gotten to know my father over the past 15 years, he’s shared his discomfort with being called “dad” — he says doesn’t feel worthy of the title. Instead, he prefers I call him by his military nickname, “Watashi,” Japanese for “I.” It’s how his friends greet him.

Where my father was out of the picture, my mother was front and center. For nearly every milestone moment in my life — the day I was born, my favorite childhood Christmas, my college graduation, my wedding day — there is photographic evidence of her anchoring presence, from holding me swaddled in her arms at the hospital to dabbing tears from her eyes as my wife and I exchanged vows in a Hawaiian garden.

Now here she was with me, visiting Watashi in the twilight of his life while bringing closure to a piece of her past.

Photos are memories you can touch. And the memory that eluded me most was a photo of me with my parents, a family portrait. It took 46 years, eight months, and six days —from the day I was born to that nursing home visit in May — for the timelines of our lives to finally intersect, placing us in the same place, at the same time. As it turned out, when I was growing up in Los Angeles, my father never lived more than six miles away from me and my mom.

The layered and complex narrative behind my one and only family portrait is what makes it so priceless to me. It represents the culmination of the steps I took as a man to find my father and fill the holes in my origin story.

But my photo also reminds me of something else: the important role dads play in documenting family life.

From camcorders in the 1980s to the camera phones of today, I’ve witnessed fathers joyously capture everything from baby christenings and weddings to family holidays and exotic vacations. The technology of this digital age allows us to snap scores of photos and video clips with the press of a thumb and edit (or delete) them on the spot. At times, we have to remember to simply live in the moment instead of fussing over how to get the perfect shot or angle, something I’m totally guilty of myself.

All I ask is that you fit as many people into the frame as possible—mothers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, cousins, good friends and, last but not least, yourself. There will no doubt be one photo in the bunch that will come to mean the world to your loved ones, today or years from now.

Don’t let it take 46 years to make.

The last thing on your mind the first week you have your newborn home is keeping a tidy house. So when my parents came over to see their new granddaughter, our coffee table was a disaster. Frantically scattered upon it lay every single parenting book we had bought, read, forgot about, and then frantically dug up again in the previous 72 hours when it became clear how woefully over our heads we were.

Why the hell did I think I’d learn to swaddle a baby just by reading about it once? And why won’t she sleep? Wait … is she sleeping now? Is she dead? No … she’s definitely asleep.

 “Wow. Look at all those books,” my dad said.

“We never had those when you were growing up,” my mom added with a smile and an “aren’t you lucky” tone.

“Well, we could’ve read something. There was that Dr. Spock,” Dad said.

Mom’s smile disappeared. A line had been crossed.

“He was a liberal kook.”

Fortunately, my wife has ninja skills when it comes to changing topics whenever one of my parents stumbles into politics. She once pivoted from Anthony Weiner to the glory days of St. John’s basketball in two moves flat. But the point sank in. The people responsible for raising me had gone full Lucille Bluth.

They did no research. They chose to skip all the homework. My parents: they elected to wing it.

A well-traveled path of faking it

Had Mister Rogers raised my parents, that might be fine. However, both freely admit they had terrible relationships with their fathers – especially my mother. I have no doubt there was love there, but there were also a lot of other things. Aloofness. Volatility. Impatience. Hoarding. And, yes, violence (and it wasn’t just the parent-on-child kind). Yet, they made the decision to follow only what they had experienced firsthand when it came to raising two brand-new human beings. Tactics they knew from experience were flawed, but they hoped against hope that this time it would turn out different.

No doubt a lot of this was tribal. They’re Irish Catholic so anyone else is “The Other, Not Our Kind,” and eventually dismissed. This is especially true of pointy-headed intellectuals who write books. It’s such an easy style of parenting. It doesn’t ask you to be humble, to say “there are things I don’t know – and someone else might.” You don’t need to be courageous or vulnerable enough to venture out of your comfort zone to learn something about yourself you may not want to know. All it requires is for you to repeat the cycle of “This is how we do things because that is the way things have been done because that is the way we do things because that is the way things have always been done. Because …”

Believe it or not, we wound up in family therapy. It ended because my parents didn’t see any point in it.

Now here I am, sitting in the same position they were in all those years ago. Co-piloting a family with two children. Of course, I said to myself I’d be different, but I was more like them than I care to admit. Once our first child was born, I was done with reading books myself. Who had the time? I’d figure it out as I go. People have been raising kids for millennia, right? So long as I didn’t hit anyone, I was doing better (which, while true, is an incredibly low bar).

Choose your own adventure

It was my wife who suggested that I read up some more on parenting, and maybe talk to someone about how I respond to certain situations – and why. As always, she was right. Not to give them a shameless plug, but I found How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen – an offshoot of How to Talk So Kids Will Listen (And Listen So Kids Will Talk). I won’t give you the whole book report, but it has opened my eyes to the value of helping your child identify what they are feeling and why, and how to use those feelings in a constructive manner. Almost by accident, any parent who reads it will find themselves applying these practices to themselves – even in adult relationships. I know I have.

It would be great to say I’ve done all the work needed to be done, and the cycle I was born into has been broken. Of course, that would mean I’m not prone to yelling “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!” at 5- and 1-year-olds on occasion. I am. Honestly, I just did it in the last 10 minutes while I was trying to concentrate on writing this paragraph. But a start is a start – and knowing the tools you need to get to where you want to go (communication, emotional honesty with yourself and others, introspection and accountability) is a good place to be. Even if it isn’t the finish line. And, most importantly, it gives the tiny human beings we are charged with raising a leg up toward becoming confident, functioning, compassionate – and hopefully, fulfilled — adults

By the way, I had to look up what made Dr. Spock so controversial. Turns out he was against hitting kids and nuclear arms, but pro-civil rights and marched with Dr. King.

What a kook.

Editor’s note: The author requested and was granted anonymity. Photo: Rod Long on Unsplash

According to Facebook, we are now entering the most wonderful time of the year. The “first day of school” season has started.

Soon, the entire social platform will be virtually overrun with endless photos featuring the hottest trends in back-to-school fashion, unstained and firmly pressed beneath the forced smiles of freshly scrubbed children. Next up: Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

The parents, however, are not forcing anything. The reaction shots of ecstatic moms and triumphant dads celebrating the return of academia are becoming increasingly popular. School is back from summer vacation, and the carpool is a small price to pay for the end of long, hot days with the kids at home, presumably whining about their constant wants for attention, food or water.

Frankly, I’m against it.

It’s not that I have issues with school, quite the contrary. I’m a fan of the public school system and those who dedicate so much to it. Knowledge is everything, schoolyard or otherwise. But school means early mornings and busy nights, a rigid schedule after two months spent roaming free. It is the return of homework, extracurricular practices and the long drives between.

Honestly, I’m not ready for summer to end. Just two weeks ago we were sitting on an island drinking something with mango in it — granted, it was work (I was covering a family cruise package for another website), but there were perks. And now? Now I’m packing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

This was the first year that we didn’t do any back-to-school shopping, other than some shoes and a backpack out of necessity. The boys didn’t want anything and they certainly didn’t need it. Besides, staying away from school supplies meant we could hold on to summer just a little bit longer. In theory.

We have been here before.

The photo above was the first day of school two years ago, and it is the first day of school every year. They don’t want to go back, and I want to hold on forever.

Next week the stores will have replaced pencils and paper with all the trimmings of Halloween. It will be 100 degrees outside, and we’re supposed to act like it is autumn. I’m not falling for that.

Summer is too lazy to end so quickly, but it does, like all things. It will end again this time next year, and, hopefully, another after that. It will keep stretching and ending, an oasis of sweat and smiles, long past the school bells and the echo of their ringing.

I’ll be there making sandwiches, and watching the shadows grow.

First day of school photos by Whit Honea

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

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

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

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

Maybe I was trying to convince myself.

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

F*ck 40.

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

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

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

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

It must be turning 40, right?

F*ck 40.

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

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

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

She nodded. We talked for a while.

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

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

How I’m beating those 40th birthday blues

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

From the next morning on, I’ve tried.

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

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

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

My kids bounce out of bed each day.

My wife smiles more than she frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

40th birthday fog photo: Harman Abiwardani on Unsplash