Protecting Hockey Boys From Themselves

When we started hosting hockey boys, Judy and I established two basic responsibilities. First, feed them well. Second, let them control the thermostat in their part of the house so they can sleep comfortably. The boys from Minnesota seem particularly interested in the second responsibility. Evidently, sleeping in a room that resembles a meat locker is an important part of developing into a successful hockey player.

After seven years, we’ve become reasonably competent at both responsibilities. Unfortunately, recent events have convinced us that we may need to add a third. I’m not sure what to call it. “Don’t blow your opportunity to play college hockey” is one possibility. “Protecting you from your own stupidity” is another. The second is more accurate, but I doubt it will receive enthusiastic support from the boys.

Junior hockey players work hard. They practice, travel, play games, and occasionally win one worth celebrating. In my world, a bowl of Blue Bell ice cream and a good night’s sleep would seem like a reasonable reward. The boys have a somewhat different understanding of the word “celebration.” It can involve visiting the nearest college campus and making decisions that the younger version of me might have considered but lacked the enthusiasm, confidence, or stupidity to follow through on. I’m not claiming I was a particularly wise young man. I may have simply been less adventurous.

Now that we’re back to three boys, the opportunities for social activity have increased. So has our exposure to decisions made by young men whose brains are still negotiating with their testosterone.

This weekend, the boys had a big win against the top team in their division. I sent a congratulatory text: “Nice win, guys! Let me know if we should leave the light on for you.”

One responded, “No light necessary.”

That seemed like a satisfactory conclusion to our evening. They were happy, we were happy, and I was headed to bed. I have found that my ability to enjoy the boys’ social activities improves considerably when I’m not required to participate in them.

Unfortunately, the evening wasn’t finished with us.

At O’Dark-Thirty, my phone rang. This was surprising because I was under the impression that I had arranged for my phone not to ring during the night. I also sleep with earplugs, which ordinarily provide another layer of protection from people who believe their problems should become my problems before sunrise. Neither defense worked.

I looked at the caller ID and saw the name of one of our hockey boys. That narrowed my options considerably. Ignoring a call from a teenager living in your house at that hour is probably not going to earn you any billet-parenting awards.

I answered.

“I got myself in a bit of a jam.”

He was calling from the back seat of a police car.

We established that he needed to be picked up, and Judy volunteered for the rescue operation. I gave her my phone so she could use the location he had shared, and off she went.

Some husbands might have insisted on accompanying their wives on a middle-of-the-night mission involving a police officer and a teenage boy. I have the advantage of being married to a woman who considers me a zombie at that hour. I’m not inclined to challenge that assessment. If Judy believes the situation will be handled more efficiently without my participation, who am I to interfere with her judgment? Besides, I don’t see any benefit in introducing a public servant to my early-morning personality.

I stayed home and attempted to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, my brain wasn’t particularly interested in returning to oblivion.

When Judy arrived, she made the boy thank the female officer and shake her hand. The officer had handled the situation in a way that allowed him to return home without additional complications, and Judy wanted him to recognize that. The boy had made a poor decision, but he was also fortunate that someone had chosen to help him rather than make his evening considerably worse.

The next morning, Judy and I discussed what had happened. My thinking leaned toward the stupidity of testosterone. Judy’s thinking leaned toward our responsibility to keep the boys safe. Neither position was particularly unreasonable, although mine probably offered more opportunities for sarcasm. We agreed to talk with the boys before deciding whether any rules should change.

After church, we sat down with our late-night caller.

He is a solid kid, and I don’t want one bad evening to become his defining characteristic. He knew he’d messed up. What surprised me was that his biggest concern wasn’t what we were going to do to him. He was worried about what we might do to the other boys.

He practically volunteered to accept triple the punishment if it meant his roommates wouldn’t lose any freedom because of his mistake. I suspect he was imagining the reception he’d receive if the other two discovered that his adventure had resulted in new restrictions for everyone.

“Do what you want to me. Leave them out of it.”

I could appreciate his concern. Nobody wants to be the reason the entire group gets punished, particularly when that group consists of teenage boys with a strong interest in preserving their social opportunities.

Unfortunately for him, Judy and I have raised four children and hosted enough others to know that maintaining two sets of house rules isn’t particularly attractive. If he wants to impose additional restrictions on himself, we’ll support him. We’re just not interested in administering three different versions of the same household.

When the other boys returned, we continued the conversation. We weren’t interested in extracting confessions or demanding promises that they’d never again celebrate a hockey victory in a way we might question. We wanted them to understand that their decisions can have consequences well beyond one unpleasant night.

We floated the possibility of having them share their locations with us. That suggestion didn’t receive unanimous support.

One of the boys was particularly opposed to the idea. He didn’t want us tracking him, and he was prepared to defend that position. Then, during the same conversation, he volunteered an explanation for an earlier occasion when he’d been somewhat mysterious about his whereabouts.

He and a teammate had gone to a casino to learn how to count cards.

I had not been aware that this was an extracurricular activity available to our hockey boys.

I’m not sure why he chose that moment to share the information. Perhaps he thought his willingness to confess would demonstrate that we could trust him. From my perspective, it raised the possibility that there were other adventures we hadn’t heard about.

The conversation didn’t result in any immediate changes. We told them we wanted to feel a little more confident about their safety without turning our house into a detention facility. We also suggested that they think about reasonable safeguards and come back with ideas before the next home game.

I’m not expecting a proposal that includes voluntarily surrendering their freedom and promising to spend every post-game evening reading books in their bedrooms. If that happens, I’ll probably be more suspicious than I am now.

For the moment, the rules remain unchanged. Judy and I will decide what makes sense after giving the boys a chance to participate in the discussion.

One thing I’ve noticed is that the “thank-yous” have increased around the house again. When the two newer boys first arrived, they were almost excessively appreciative. As they became comfortable, some of that wore off. Now, following our unexpected adventure, there seems to be a renewed awareness that their presence occasionally complicates our lives.

I appreciate that. It tells me they recognize that Judy and I aren’t simply providing beds and groceries. We have a stake in what happens to them, even when they’re somewhere else enjoying themselves.

Our household had been settling into a comfortable routine, and this weekend set that progress back a little. It’s similar to what happens when you’re raising your own kids, except these boys aren’t ours. We care about them and want them to succeed, but we also have to remember that our marriage and the peace in our home deserve some consideration. We’re willing to tolerate a little discomfort if we believe something good will come from it. We’re not interested in volunteering for an unlimited supply of chaos.

Fortunately, the boys will be gone next weekend. I’m not suggesting that their absence is the highlight of the schedule, but I won’t pretend it has no appeal.

They’re good kids. They work hard, they want to succeed, and they occasionally make decisions that remind us why young men aren’t generally placed in charge of important institutions.

Our own kids continue to question why we voluntarily open our home to this sort of thing. I suppose Judy and I did such a good job raising them that they’ve stopped providing us with puzzles to solve and problems to work through. We had finally reached a point where our children were managing their own lives, and we could enjoy a little peace.

Naturally, we decided that wasn’t enough.

Why hire consultants to help you find a purpose in life? Why not bring a hockey kid into your house who can keep things unpredictable?

Better yet, why not bring three?

Old MacDonald Had a Papa

Yesterday was the day I found out what Ellie was going to call me. I may have planted a few seeds along the way, but she made the final decision. I am “Papa.”

I have been warned to monitor this situation carefully. Whatever the first grandchild calls me could establish the pattern for all the grandchildren who follow. That puts a lot of responsibility on a little girl who still occasionally stores Cheerios in her stroller for later. Fortunately, Papa works for me.

With her mother at a doctor’s appointment, I had more than two hours with Ellie this morning. I may have looked at her through slightly misty, rose-colored glasses following my promotion, but I’m pretty sure that is allowed. I also had time to appreciate a few things she has been working on.

For a while, Ellie wasn’t too sure about the swing. On our two most recent park visits, she settled into it with her head down and her back pressed firmly against the seat. She stayed that way for several seconds at a time before looking around to see what was happening. I could push her from the front by giving the baby swing a little nudge, which also put me in position to be struck by her feet on the way back. My dramatic reactions to these terrible injuries seemed to make her enjoy the swing even more. I am willing to suffer for her development.

On a recent walk to the park, Ellie made several requests for “E-I-O.” My daughter had already translated this for me: Ellie wanted “Old MacDonald.” Her mother can pull it up on Spotify and let someone else do the singing, but I had a stroller to push and an audience waiting for her song. I sang the version I grew up with, where each animal gets its own verse. Some versions keep adding the previous animals, like the twelve days of Christmas. My version gives Ellie more of her favorite “E-I-E-I-O,” and I don’t have to remember every animal on the farm. Whenever Ellie asked for more, I added another verse. The dog alternated between “woof” and “bow-wow,” depending on what came to mind. Eventually, Ellie joined the farm and said “no-no,” Santa said “ho-ho,” and a turkey contributed a few seasonal “gobble-gobbles.” I don’t know how Old MacDonald managed to acquire Santa, but Ellie didn’t object, so we kept going.

There are usually Cheerios for our trips, too. Around the house, Ellie does a pretty good job of eating them. In the stroller, some make it into her mouth, some are tucked into the recesses of the seat for future discovery, and others mark our route in case Papa gets lost on the way home. She has also finished the last couple of sips of my Gatorade and dropped a few Cheerios into the bottle. On other trips, the bottle has collected mulch and other treasures from the playground. I try not to interfere too much with her curiosity, so our rules mostly involve keeping her safe. What happens to the Gatorade bottle falls outside that jurisdiction.

Ellie has had some adjustments to make at home since her twin sisters arrived. She has to share the attention she used to have all to herself, but she has also joined the rest of us in giving the babies affection. She says something resembling “kiss,” and one of us brings a sister down to her level. Ellie leans toward the baby’s face and makes a little “mmmm-ah” sound. Whether she wants to join the kissing or make sure everyone is still paying attention to her, I’m happy to help her with either one.

After Ellie does something new or particularly cute, my daughter sometimes asks, “Do you remember when I did that?” I usually have to give her the same answer: “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much about any of that stuff.” I wish I did. There are moments from my kids’ childhoods that have slipped away, and there are others I remember well enough to wish I had handled them differently.

Later that same day, my daughter told me, “I think you are a pretty good dad for me.” I may be interpreting that in the most favorable way possible, but I’m going to accept it as a compliment. As a parent, it is easy to look back and think the older version of you could have done a better job. I have a few “if only” moments with each of my kids. There were times I was there without bringing quite as much enthusiasm as their mother did, and I have been known to hold those moments against myself.

Hearing those words from my daughter made me think I could ease up a little. Despite my mistakes—and possibly even with some help from me—my kids turned out okay. Now I get to spend a morning singing to Ellie, collecting mulch in a Gatorade bottle, and answering to Papa. That feels like a pretty good place to be.

We Were Getting Entirely Too Comfortable

For most of October, Judy and I had settled into a comfortable routine with our one remaining hockey boy. We cooked dinner when he was going to be home, made other plans when he wasn’t, and occasionally managed to sneak out for a spontaneous date. It wasn’t a bad arrangement. We had finally figured out how to accommodate a teenager whose communication style leaned heavily toward, “I’m going to do this. Do you mind?” rather than our preferred, “I’d like to do this. Would that be okay?”

There is a difference. One involves asking permission. The other involves announcing a decision and allowing us a brief opportunity to object before he disappears.

We were making it work. Then Halloween arrived, and somebody decided we had become entirely too comfortable.

Through a series of events involving a rare Saturday night off, an OU football game, and circumstances I’m not at liberty to discuss, we suddenly had two additional hockey players moving into our house for the remainder of the season. They had spent the previous two months living with another billet family, and now they were moving again. The boys had some adjusting to do. So did we.

Fortunately, we already knew them from our Friday game-day breakfasts. They knew we could cook, and we knew they were capable of eating. That eliminated two of the more significant uncertainties involved in the arrangement.

Including these two, we’ve now had eight different hockey players living in our house this season. Eight. We’re not quite operating a revolving door, but I’m considering installing one to reduce wear on the hinges.

Cooking for three hockey players isn’t particularly difficult. You just cook more. One box of fettuccine becomes two, and the grocery bill starts looking like we’re provisioning a small military unit. The challenge is learning everyone’s preferences. With one boy, it’s easy to remember what he won’t eat. With three, you’re comparing lists and trying to find something everyone will tolerate. If we’d raised these boys ourselves, we’d have had 18 years to wear down their resistance. Instead, we’re attempting to accomplish the same thing in a few months.

Other billet homes may offer better amenities, fewer rules, or a more entertaining host. We’re hoping to remain competitive in the category of “Consistently Feeding Hockey Players Something Other Than Chicken Nuggets.” I don’t know if the league gives out awards for that, but I’m prepared to submit an application.

The first week also included a medical mystery. Several boys on the team became sick, with competing theories involving the flu, a seafood buffet, and a pepperoni pizza provided by the opposing team. One of our new boys was convinced the pizza was responsible for his miserable bus ride home from Amarillo. I wasn’t there, and I’m not qualified to determine whether the cheese was guilty. I was simply grateful that whatever happened occurred before he became a regular consumer of my cooking.

Transportation presented another challenge. We now have three boys and two cars available to them, which sounds manageable until you factor in practices, social plans, illness, and one boy who doesn’t have a vehicle. Junior hockey players have developed a transportation system based largely on the generosity of teammates and the occasional direct order to a rookie.

“You live closest to me. Sorry to lean on you, but you need to take me home.”

I’m not sure where that falls in the team’s official chain of command, but it seems to work.

The new arrivals have also changed the social dynamics of the house. Our original boy was accustomed to going out several evenings a week, which contributed to our flexible dinner schedule. The new guys seem more inclined to stay home. Whether that’s their normal behavior or a combination of illness, exhaustion, and adjusting to a new household remains to be seen.

Whatever the reason, they’ve had a calming influence on our resident social butterfly. He’s been home more often, although the availability of a car every other day may also be influencing his decisions. I would like to credit our charming personalities, but I’m not prepared to compete with automotive independence.

The biggest adjustment, though, wasn’t the food, the transportation, or even the sudden increase in laundry. It was taking on the emotional responsibility of two more boys.

That may sound selfish, but there’s a difference between providing someone with a bed and dinner and making room for him in your life. These guys are legally adults, but they’re still young men living away from home, trying to play hockey, figure out their futures, and navigate circumstances they don’t always control. We’ve done this enough times to know that the relationship doesn’t develop automatically just because someone moves into the spare bedroom.

And this time, the boys weren’t arriving at the beginning of a season with the excitement of a fresh start. They were being asked to move after two months somewhere else, learn another household’s routines, and get comfortable with two more adults who have their own expectations. We knew what we were volunteering for when we said yes. They were the ones dealing with the uncertainty.

When they first arrived, the thank-yous were almost nonstop. They thanked us for meals, for helping them get settled, and for just about everything else. I appreciated the gratitude, but I also wondered whether they felt they were imposing on us. Three boys are certainly more work than one, but we knew that before we agreed to take them.

As the week progressed, the thank-yous became a little less frequent. I consider that a good sign. They were beginning to understand that we really were going to take care of them. They didn’t have to keep thanking us for fulfilling the commitment we’d already made.

I also began feeling more comfortable doing what I do best: giving them a hard time.

One of the new boys is an early riser. By the time the others are trying to locate their alarms and remember what day it is, he’s already showered, eaten breakfast, and is ready for a conversation. He’ll sit in the chair and chat for a while, which suits me just fine. He has a level head and an East Coast perspective that I enjoy. He reminds me a little of one of our favorite boys from last season, although I’m trying not to make comparisons before everyone has had a fair opportunity to disappoint me.

Another boy is less enthusiastic about mornings. As they headed out the door today, I called after him, “Good talk, Buddy. We’ll finish it later.”

He apologized.

I laughed. He hadn’t done anything wrong. I was just giving him a hard time for sleeping through another opportunity to benefit from my wisdom. I’m sure he’ll eventually learn that not every comment I make requires an apology. Some of them don’t even require a response.

We’re not particularly close yet, but we’re getting there. The conversations are starting to happen naturally, and the joking is becoming less tentative. I don’t feel the need to force it. If I give them enough time and enough opportunities to talk, we’ll figure each other out. I also have to remind myself that not every quiet moment needs to be filled with my thoughts. This is particularly difficult for someone who has accumulated as many thoughts as I have and considers most of them worth sharing.

Some of my projects went untouched last week, and our routines were disrupted. That’s okay. We agreed to take the boys because we wanted to, and knowing them from breakfast made the decision much easier. I don’t know how the hockey season will end or what kind of relationships we’ll have when it’s over. But I can already see them becoming more comfortable, and I’m enjoying getting to know them beyond the breakfast table.

The boys were talking about how they’ll look back on this week in a few years and laugh. Between the illness, the unexpected move, the transportation complications, and the adjustment to sharing a house with additional people, they’ve had plenty of material to work with.

I’m hoping that when they tell those stories, the difficult part will be the move and the illness rather than having to live with Andy. I would prefer to be remembered for the conversations, the occasional bit of brilliant humor, and perhaps a decent meal or two. They may remember things differently.

We’ve survived the first week. The thank-yous have slowed down, the conversations are picking up, and I’m getting more opportunities to give them a hard time. I think we’re going to be fine.

The Birthday Thank-You Department

I have a tradition of personally responding to everyone who wishes me a happy birthday on Facebook. Nobody asked me to do this. There is no law requiring it, and Facebook has yet to threaten to suspend my account for failing to acknowledge someone I haven’t seen since 1983. Nevertheless, I have established this tradition, and now I feel obligated to maintain it. I’ve managed to turn people being nice to me into something I dread. That’s quite an accomplishment.

In the old days, I actually enjoyed it. I’d spend part of my birthday responding to everyone, clean up a few stragglers the following day, and move on with my life. It was a nice little celebration of my popularity, even if that popularity was largely manufactured by Facebook reminding people that I was still alive. I used to receive more than a hundred birthday wishes. That might sound impressive until you realize most of those people were simply clicking a button while waiting for their coffee to brew.

Over the years, my inner hermit has become considerably more assertive. I’ve also moved away from the area where many of these people live, and visits back are discouraged due to my participation in the witness protection program. Consequently, the birthday wishes have declined. You would think fewer wishes would make the process easier. Unfortunately, I’ve compensated for the reduced volume by increasing the amount of work I put into each response. Leave it to me to find a way to make less work more exhausting.

This year, the notifications started arriving Thursday morning. I ignored them until evening, when I began sorting through the various categories of people who had acknowledged my continued existence. Text messages and Messenger notes from family and former exchange students received immediate attention. Those are personal, and I enjoy hearing from them. The Facebook wishes were a different matter. They required an evaluation of how well I knew the person, when I last saw them, and whether I could come up with something more interesting than “Thank you. Hope you’re well.”

I have somehow created a classification system for birthday wishes. Close friends and relatives deserve a little extra effort. People I haven’t seen in twenty years require a different approach. And then there are the high school acquaintances whose names I recognize, but whose faces have undergone enough renovations that I wouldn’t recognize them at Walmart. For those people, I occasionally conduct a little research.

Yes, I look at their Facebook profiles. I’m trying to write a thank-you note, and I’ve turned it into a background investigation.

If I remember seeing something interesting about them recently, I’ll check their profile and attempt to work it into my response. Sometimes this produces something reasonably clever. Other times, I stare at their vacation pictures, grandchildren, and recent meals, hoping inspiration will strike before I lose the will to continue.

One cousin I haven’t seen in a couple of decades takes occasional driving trips. I responded, “Thanks! Let us know if you swing thru OKC.” Not exactly award-winning material, but it demonstrated that I knew something about her life and hadn’t simply copied and pasted my response. Of course, if she actually takes me up on the invitation, I may have created an entirely new obligation.

For someone I haven’t seen since high school, I managed, “Thank you. I bet your grill missed you.” There was something on his profile that made this relevant. At least I hope there was. Otherwise, I’ve just sent a former classmate a very strange message about his barbecue equipment.

The problem is that I don’t want to sound boring. Someone has taken the time to click a Facebook-generated birthday greeting, and I feel compelled to reward that effort with an original composition. They may have spent three seconds wishing me a happy birthday, while I spend five minutes trying to demonstrate that I’m still an interesting person. I’m beginning to suspect I’m getting the short end of this transaction.

By Friday, I was only about halfway through the responses. This was no longer a birthday celebration. It was an administrative backlog. I had other things I wanted to do, including writing something that didn’t begin with “Thank you.” Yet there I was, reviewing profiles and composing personalized acknowledgments for people who probably wouldn’t notice if I responded with a thumbs-up and a picture of a potato.

I’ve noticed that some people simply post one big thank-you to everyone who wished them a happy birthday. Some even manage to tag everyone involved. I briefly investigated how to accomplish this, but the answer wasn’t immediately obvious. Besides, that felt like cheating. I’ve spent years establishing an unnecessarily high standard for myself. Abandoning it now would mean admitting that all those previous hours could have been spent doing something more productive. I don’t need that kind of revelation at my age.

The ridiculous part is that I do the same thing to other people. Facebook tells me it’s someone’s birthday, I remember something about them, and I send a greeting. Sometimes it’s someone I haven’t seen in decades. I like to think my message is a thoughtful little reminder that I remember them. For all I know, they’re sitting at home wondering why I’ve just added another item to their birthday thank-you list. I may be contributing to a nationwide network of people exchanging obligations that nobody particularly wants to fulfill.

Still, I can’t dismiss the whole thing. Every once in a while, a birthday greeting leads to an actual conversation. I’ll remember something they posted a few months ago, ask about it, and we reconnect for a few minutes. Sometimes it’s nice to know that someone from another chapter of my life is still out there, even if neither of us has made much effort to stay in touch. Those occasional connections are probably why I keep doing this.

And I do appreciate the birthday wishes. I really do. I just wish I could appreciate them without feeling compelled to prove it individually, creatively, and within a reasonable response time.

I’ll finish responding to everyone eventually. Some will get a personalized message, others will get the reliable “Thank you. Hope you’re well,” and a few may receive something that makes them wonder whether I’ve suffered a minor head injury.

Then I’ll be done for another year. Unless, of course, someone responds to my response. I’m not sure what the protocol is for that, and I refuse to establish another tradition.

I Voted. Now I Can Complain

Yesterday, I voted in my first midterm election since moving to Oklahoma. I consider voting a civic responsibility, but I also believe it comes with certain privileges. One of those is the right to complain about the people running our government. Since I have no intention of surrendering that privilege, I needed to get myself to the polls.

I decided to vote early. Election Day voting takes place at the church where I walk, which would have been convenient, but rain was in the forecast. I didn’t want my commitment to democracy tested by the possibility of getting wet. I’m reasonably confident I wouldn’t melt, but I’ve retired from scientific experiments, too.

Oklahoma offers only four days of early voting, which seemed a little stingy compared to Texas. I came across a Facebook memory from two years ago showing that I’d already voted in Texas by this point. Either Texans need more time to make up their minds, or the state recognizes that voters need an opportunity to escape the political commercials.

Once I’ve voted, I want the commercials to stop. My phone somehow knows when I’ve been thinking about buying something, but my television can’t figure out I’ve already cast my ballot. I shouldn’t have to spend another week listening to politicians tell me how terrible their opponents are. I’ve already made my decision. Go bother somebody who can still do something about it.

Before heading to the polls, I needed to figure out who and what I was voting for. I entered my address into the appropriate website on the dark web. I call it that because the lights were off in my office. The website provided a sample ballot, complete with candidates, judges, and resolutions requiring opinions I hadn’t yet developed.

Party affiliations helped narrow some choices, but judges were another matter. Fortunately, I stumbled across a fellow Oklahoman on Facebook who had done considerably more research than I was interested in doing. He wasn’t even from my part of the state, but since neither of us had local issues on our ballots, his recommendations seemed transferable.

I had found someone willing to do my homework. This was beginning to look like a successful election.

He even recommended voting against one of the candidates from the party I generally support. That gave me the opportunity to demonstrate my independence by voting for someone from the other party. I could now proudly tell people I hadn’t voted a straight ticket. Of course, most of my independent thinking had been borrowed from a guy on Facebook, but I didn’t see any reason to complicate the accomplishment.

I followed his recommendations on the resolutions, too. Reading enough legal language to understand all of them might have discouraged me from voting altogether. I wasn’t willing to risk democracy over excessive homework.

Wednesday’s errands with my daughter took us past the library, where early voting was underway. The line stretched out the door, and I wasn’t about to subject her and the grandkids to an extended civics lesson. I returned Thursday, when the line was considerably shorter. I was fifth, comfortably inside the building, and feeling pretty good about my timing.

The gentleman ahead of me wasn’t having nearly as much fun. He was informed that he needed to complete an additional form, which evidently exceeded his tolerance for government paperwork. He expressed his displeasure and left. If he expected someone to chase him into the parking lot and beg him to reconsider, he was disappointed. The line simply got shorter, and I moved forward. Democracy had survived its first casualty of the morning.

After confirming my identity and sending me through the appropriate tables, the poll workers handed me a paper ballot. One gentleman cheerfully asked the next voter how he could help. I had a smart answer ready in case he asked me. Unfortunately, I got the woman beside him, who simply handed me my ballot and told me to use any available voting booth. My opportunity to announce that I’d come to vote had been wasted.

I settled into a cardboard cubicle and pulled out my cheat sheet. The ballot required filling in boxes rather than the little circles I remembered from standardized tests. These were considerably larger, and I was determined to fill them in properly. Starting at the upper left corner, I carefully colored each box until I reached the lower right. I was treating the ballot like an art project, except nobody was going to hang it on the refrigerator.

Everything was going well until I reached the judges.

Despite having the correct choices clearly marked on my cheat sheet, I filled in the wrong box for one of them. This presented a problem. In my business days, I could correct a contract by crossing something out, making the change, and initialing it. I figured the same principle ought to apply here. Scratch out the wrong box, fill in the right one, add my initials, and move along.

Evidently, election officials aren’t interested in my contract-editing experience.

I approached the woman distributing the coveted “I Voted” stickers and explained my mistake. Rather than accepting my proposed correction, she directed me to another table. I had been sent to the principal’s office.

I expected to write “I will not mess up another ballot” 100 times, but they settled for some additional paperwork and my signature. My original ballot was surrendered, and I was issued a replacement. I had managed to turn a simple voting experience into an administrative event.

Now I was nervous. What if I messed up the second ballot? Was there a limit? Would a third mistake require a phone call to Judy? I didn’t want to find out. I checked my cheat sheet, filled in the boxes, checked them again, and then checked them once more. I was beginning to understand why people develop test anxiety.

Finally satisfied, I fed my ballot into the scanner and watched it disappear. No alarms sounded. Nobody asked me to return to the principal’s office. My vote had been accepted, and I was free to leave.

I even forgot to collect my sticker. After all that work, I had nothing to show for it except the satisfaction of having fulfilled my civic duty. And, of course, the privilege I’d come for in the first place.

I can now complain.

I take that privilege seriously. I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices, and I certainly don’t agree with every decision made by the people I vote for. But I do believe that if you’re going to spend the next two years telling me how badly our government is being run, you ought to have participated in choosing the people running it.

You don’t have to vote the way I do. You don’t even have to like the choices. I certainly wasn’t thrilled with all of mine. But voting is one of the simplest opportunities we have to influence what happens next. It may not always produce the results we want, but refusing to participate doesn’t improve the odds.

I’ve earned my opportunity to complain, and I intend to use it. Judy might argue that I’ve never required much encouragement in that department, but this time I have documentation. Somewhere in Oklahoma, there’s a scanned ballot proving I showed up, made my choices, and even went through remedial training to get them right.

So, if you want to complain, stand in line. I did. And if you begin a political conversation with, “I don’t believe in voting, but…” please give me a moment to turn down my hearing aids.

I don’t wear hearing aids, but I’m willing to buy some for the occasion.

A Good Life, According to the Wrong Measuring Stick

It is a cruel trick when your iPhone, your glasses, and the gunk in the corner of your eye are suspected of collaborating on a birthday surprise. As I picked up my phone, all the text and overnight notifications were much blurrier than I remembered the night before. A few blinks and removing the trifocals from the equation helped, but not enough to make me enthusiastic about starting another birthday. My eyes had evidently decided to celebrate by reducing their services. I would have appreciated a little advance notice, or at least a senior discount on the remaining vision.

Birthdays have a way of making me wonder what I’ve accomplished during the previous year. I’m not expecting a parade or a certificate suitable for framing, but I would like to feel that another trip around the sun was worth the fuel. For most of my adult life, I had a reasonably reliable way to measure that. Business accomplishments, financial goals, and the occasional successful attempt to keep our family functioning provided something tangible. These days, the financial goals have largely been met, but my brain hasn’t updated its procedures. It still wants to know what I’ve produced, preferably with a dollar sign attached. Unfortunately, most of what I do now produces dirty dishes, additional laundry, and the occasional heartfelt thank-you. If somebody knows of a surgical procedure that could reset my expectations without interfering with my ability to make coffee, I’m willing to discuss it.

Earlier this week, our hockey boys asked if he could bring four friends over for pizza and the hot tub. We agreed, which meant I headed to Sam’s for supplies and had the hot tub water tested. I wanted to make sure the boys’ first reaction to entering the water didn’t involve screaming or a request for medical attention. The evening also required our chicken barbecue pizza and chocolate chip cookies baked from a tub of dough purchased at Sam’s. We supplied the oven and removed the cookies before they burned, which I believe qualifies us as bakers under a sufficiently generous definition.

The boys ate their dinner, enjoyed the hot tub, and spent a few hours relaxing. At some point, one of them told me, “I really needed that.” He’s been coming to our Friday breakfasts, and I’ve gotten to know him a little. He’s a good kid, and his words meant more than the usual thank-you. Junior hockey can be a chaotic existence, with games, practices, roster changes, and enough drama to keep a television network supplied for several seasons. For a few hours, our house provided a place where none of that mattered. They could eat, laugh, and enjoy being teenagers without worrying about what the coach might have planned for them tomorrow.

Our recent visit from our Chinese exchange student provided another reminder of how strangely these things work out. Thirteen years after living with us, she still calls us Mom and Dad. When we welcomed her into our home, we weren’t thinking about building a lifelong relationship. We were probably more concerned with whether she would eat what we cooked and how much additional laundry she would generate. Yet here we are, more than a decade later, still part of each other’s lives. Between fostering, exchange students, children of missionaries, random kids we somehow acquired through Facebook, and hockey players, we’ve had more than 80 young people live in our home who weren’t biologically ours. That’s a lot of teenagers, a lot of meals, and an impressive amount of evidence that we never mastered the art of saying no.

Living near two of our adult children has created another collection of activities that wouldn’t look particularly impressive on a résumé. I can help our granddaughter with the grandkids, run an errand when someone needs me, or collect mail for a son who’s traveling. I’ve considered adding “Director of Residential Postal Logistics” to my résumé, although I would probably need to clarify that the position is unpaid and involves walking approximately 30 feet. My gym membership has been remarkably patient with my lack of participation, and there are plenty of hobbies I could pursue if I weren’t so available to everyone else. But I like being involved in my kids’ lives. I’m also somewhat amazed that after all the years we spent raising them, they still enjoy having us around. I would have understood if they’d wanted to establish a reasonable distance from the people who spent their childhoods telling them to clean their rooms and turn off the lights.

I wonder what the Andy of 20 years ago would think if I could sit him down and explain how everything turned out. First, he’d be surprised that we live in Oklahoma, where tornadoes go to mingle. He’d have a few questions about why we’ve invited hockey players to live with us for months at a time, considering that his knowledge of hockey was largely limited to being able to spell it. He’d be pleased that our children turned out well, relieved that Judy continued to put up with him, and delighted to discover that grandchildren are every bit as wonderful as people claim. He might also be impressed that we’ve expanded our cooking repertoire to include guacamole, although he’d probably wonder why it took us so long to discover avocados.

Twenty years ago, life sometimes felt overwhelming. Raising children, working, paying bills, and trying to keep everything moving in the right direction required more energy than I occasionally had available. I wondered when things would get easier. I would love to tell that younger version of myself that they do. Much easier, in fact. The kids grow up, the financial pressures ease, and you eventually reach a point where you can spend an afternoon doing something simply because you want to. You may even find yourself inviting five teenagers over for pizza without first calculating the effect on your retirement account.

I think the younger Andy would be happy with where we ended up. He might be a little confused by the older Andy’s reluctance to call himself retired, but that would probably be the least of his concerns after hearing about the hockey players. What he’d have more trouble understanding is why someone who has reached so many of the goals he once worked toward still spends time wondering whether he’s accomplishing enough.

Maybe that’s one reason I keep writing about my days. When I’m living them, they can seem pretty ordinary. A trip to Sam’s, a few hours with hockey players, an afternoon helping my daughter, or a visit from someone we welcomed into our family years ago. Writing about those moments gives me a chance to look back and recognize that they added up to something. I may not have accomplished anything that would impress a banker, but I occasionally manage to do something that matters to another person.

As I start another year, I would like to get better at giving myself credit for the life I’m living rather than continuing to measure it against the one I used to have. I doubt I’ll ever completely silence the part of my brain that wants a more impressive accounting of my time. It’s been running the operation for decades, and I don’t expect it to surrender control without a fight. But if another year brings more opportunities to be there for the people I care about, I’ll have accomplished something worth celebrating.

Even if my internal accounting department refuses to approve the expense.

I’ve Stopped Helping Trouble Find Me

I don’t know what age I was when I stopped inviting trouble into my life. There wasn’t one particular incident that straightened me out, although there were several qualified applicants. Somewhere along the way, I became more willing to consider what could go wrong before doing something that would help it happen. Trouble still finds me. I just try to make it put forth some effort.

This could be an extension of my anti-drama stance, but I think it goes a little deeper. I am not as young as I used to be. My patience, balance, and mental acuity may have lost a few ticks over the past few decades. I don’t believe any of them have reached a concerning level, but I would prefer to discover that through ordinary living rather than an incident requiring X-rays. If one way involves more steps and less luck, I generally take the extra steps.

If I need a ladder, I get a ladder. I don’t stack a couple of buckets with a chair thrown in just to make it interesting. My balance is still pretty good. However, a spider web across my face could cause me to abandon everything I know about remaining upright. Getting something solid to stand on seems like a reasonable precaution against discovering how quickly I can get down.

I learned something about trusting objects around forty years ago while leaving Cedar Point. For reasons that made sense within the limited review process I had at the time, I decided to leapfrog over a trash can. I assumed the lid would support my weight. The lid was partially broken, which was information I would have benefited from acquiring before committing to the maneuver. I made it to the other side, where my face and right elbow met the blacktop. The elbow broke. Walking around the trash can would have been a competitive option.

These days, I’m more respectful of anything I have to climb over, step across, or stand on. A bathtub deserves a little attention. So does a change in elevation that I might once have cleared while carrying something and looking somewhere else. I don’t assume my balance will rescue every poor decision I make. As for leapfrogging, I’m limiting that activity to my granddaughter, Ellie. Even that opportunity has an expiration date. She keeps getting taller, and I haven’t noticed any corresponding improvement in my vertical leap.

I have also stepped down from my position in the poor driver reeducation program. I used to believe that if a guy came up behind me weaving through traffic, somebody needed to stand up to him. On occasion, I volunteered while my children were in the car. Looking back, it is difficult to explain how involving them in a confrontation with an idiot supported my larger goal of keeping them safe. I’m sure I had an explanation. I’m equally sure it would irritate me now.

I finally accepted that fixing stupid was more than one man could take on, particularly while operating a vehicle. Now I let them pass and pray they learn something without hurting innocent people. I still notice. I still have an opinion. But I can get home without making sure a stranger knows how disappointed I am in his driving. He has probably received feedback before.

Some invitations are less obvious. A conversation can be going along pleasantly, and I will think of something I could add. Sometimes I even know, before saying it, that the contribution is unlikely to improve anyone’s afternoon. That brief moment of advance notice is useful if I’m willing to pay attention to it. I don’t always need to find out whether the subject is still touchy. The previous findings may remain valid.

This has required some adjustment with my grown children. When they were younger, I remember being able to talk about almost anything. They may remember having fewer opportunities to escape. Now they have their own lives and opinions, and there are conversational doors I know are closed. Occasionally, a lock appears on one I thought was open. I don’t always understand it, and I can’t say I never rattle the handle. But I’m trying to respect the boundaries I know about. I love my kids. I would like them to look forward to talking with me without first considering what they might need to defend.

I told my daughter recently that life feels much less stressful now. When the kids were younger, so much revolved around keeping them safe and getting things done quickly so we could enjoy more time together. In theory, that was a very good plan. In practice, I kept finding ways we could be more efficient, which kept the pressure on. There was always something to finish, somewhere to be, or a way to save a few minutes. I wasn’t giving much thought to how often my hurry introduced the possibility of a problem we didn’t already have.

With the kids grown and more control over my day, I have fewer reasons to rush and more freedom to be selective. I can take an extra minute, leave a comment unsaid, or let somebody else get ahead of me. I like the life Judy and I have. I like being available to my children and spending time with Ellie. I would prefer not to complicate any of that because I couldn’t be bothered to get the step stool or let an argument pass.

This doesn’t mean I have idiot-proofed my life successfully. The idiot still has access to all the controls. We will continue to have adventures, and occasionally I will extend an invitation bigger than I realized. Judy is still my safety net when that happens. I’m grateful for the times she has helped me through something, including the ones where I supplied a considerable amount of the problem. I would like to give her fewer of those opportunities.

There is enough that can happen without my assistance. For the things I can see coming, I’m getting more comfortable taking the precaution and going on with my day. It’s usually a pretty good day. I’d like to let it stay that way.

I Had Other Plans Until You Got Here

Most people make me happy when they leave. In some cases, I have been quietly cheering for that outcome for a while. I can like someone, enjoy parts of our time together, and still believe whatever I had planned before they arrived deserves a chance to happen. It doesn’t have to be an impressive plan. Sitting at home watching TV qualifies, particularly if I have already spent a good part of the visit wondering when I might get back to it.

Then there are a few people who make me happy to be me. When they leave, I don’t feel the usual relief of having my time back. I feel sad. I recently said goodbye to one of those people, and I have been trying to sort out why their departure leaves such a hole when so many other departures leave me looking for the remote.

Outside of my family, there are probably fewer than five people who give me this feeling. Maybe ten if I include the people I see once a year and have very little interaction with in between. I realize those are small numbers for someone who has been meeting people for six decades. I would also like to make clear that I am not accepting the challenge to identify which family members aren’t granted the immediate waiver. I have enough trouble without providing supporting documentation.

The adult version of me far prefers staying home to being in a room full of people I have no particular interest in hanging out with. I can participate. I can ask questions and make conversation. Depending on when you meet me, you might even leave thinking I am an extrovert. That just means you left before the battery died. Judy may get a different version of me once we get home.

Some visits require a walk afterward. Others require a book that doesn’t ask much of me. I need a little time when nobody expects an answer before I can get on the computer and attempt to have a thought. It is like picking up an electronic device you haven’t used in months. You plug it in, push the button, and nothing happens. It needs a few minutes before it can even display how dead it is. I understand that device.

With the people I am missing, I don’t spend our time together watching my reserves disappear. I want to hear what they have to say. Something reminds us of a previous conversation, and we wander off into that. We can talk about something difficult without my feeling responsible for finding an answer, or laugh about something that probably wasn’t as funny as we remember it. I don’t feel the need to check our memories for accuracy. We are enjoying ourselves. Let it go.

I have been trying to figure out what makes those relationships different. Plenty of people can catch me up on what has happened since I last saw them. I can provide my report, too. We cover the kids, work, health, and whatever else belongs in the minutes of the meeting. With some people, that uses up most of what we have to say. We liked each other well enough at some point, but we may be asking a previous relationship to do a lot of the work.

With these few people, I want to know more. I want to hear what they are thinking about doing and how something turned out. When we revisit the past, it is because we still enjoy what we shared, or because something we went through together still matters. The conversation has somewhere to go. So does the relationship, even if neither of us knows when we will be in the same room again.

That part can surprise me. We may have gone years without seeing each other, with only occasional contact in between. I would think there should be a little awkwardness while we figure out who we are now. Instead, we start talking, and before long it feels much like the last time. We have plenty to catch up on, but I don’t feel as if I have to get acquainted with them again.

I am comfortable being myself around them. I don’t have to work quite so hard at being a good host or wonder if they are having enough fun. They seem happy to be here. I am happy they are here. For someone who can turn a social obligation into a fairly involved internal complaint, that is a wonderful feeling.

And then they leave.

I can be grateful for the visit and still want to have a small pity party afterward. I know they have their own lives and people who are waiting for them. I don’t believe they should abandon those responsibilities so I can have someone agreeable nearby. But I do wish they lived closer. It would be nice to have dinner without knowing we have only one or two evenings available. I would like to end a conversation because it is time to go home, with the expectation that we could pick it up again sometime soon.

There is a selfish part to this, too. These people make me feel good about who I am. They see me as someone worth making an effort to visit. They value my opinion and seem to remember more good about me than I remember about myself. I know what the mirror shows me, and I have had a front-row seat for plenty of things I wish I had done better. Somehow, their assessment comes out a little more generously than mine.

I don’t think they are completely unaware of my faults. If they have spent much time with me, I have probably demonstrated several without being asked. They still want to be here. That means something. It makes me want to be a little closer to the person they seem to believe I am.

They also remind me of a version of myself who enjoyed people more easily. He is still around. I hear from him when one of these people visits. He has things to say and wants to hear the answers. He can spend an evening talking without treating it as time deducted from something more important. I like having him back, although I would appreciate it if he showed up occasionally without requiring someone else to travel first.

My birthday is coming, which may be contributing to all this thinking. I am not especially excited about it. I have enough birthdays to establish that I know how they work, and I don’t need another demonstration. But getting older does make me wonder how much of my small circle is a matter of finding very few people I click with, and how much of it is my reluctance to give anyone time to get through the screening process.

I have learned that first impressions can be wrong. Unfortunately, I can learn something and still be slow to apply it. Once I have decided a person is going to be work, they have a fairly short window to redeem themselves. It is possible a few worthwhile people have been rejected by a committee consisting entirely of me wanting to go home.

I don’t expect to start enjoying every gathering. I would like to make a little more effort with the people whose company I already know I love. A call, a visit, or an invitation would be a reasonable place to start. If I can find time to miss them after they leave, I can probably find some time to help us get together again.

For now, I am grateful for the visit and a little sad that it is over. The house is quiet, and I have my time back. Usually, that is exactly what I want. This time, I would have been happy to let someone interfere with my plans a few days longer.

Dinner Is Served. If You’re Home

After our hockey boy numbers dropped to an abysmal one, Judy and I had to examine ourselves and decide how we felt about the situation. Emotionally, we enjoy having a few boys around. They keep life interesting and prevent me from getting bored, which is important because Judy’s work has rendered her incapable of sustaining some of the conversations I would otherwise inflict on her. More boys also give us more motivation to cook. There are practical benefits to having a few extra people around, even if they do occasionally consume food at a rate that suggests they are preparing for hibernation.

The biggest challenge is knowing how much food to make. We have developed a protocol for the hockey boy who treats our house as a convenient place to sleep and do laundry while maintaining an active social life elsewhere. We will cook for you when there is a reasonable expectation that you will be home for dinner. A morning conversation in which you announce your dinner plans carries very little weight. The only reliable confirmation is your return home by 4:00 p.m., preferably accompanied by a declaration that you are taking a nap. At that point, we can reasonably conclude that dinner might actually happen at our house.

We appreciate that the boys have social lives and are exercising their social skills on a regular basis. However, their social outings do not cause the extra food we prepared to disappear when they check in just before bedtime. So, if their feelings get hurt because we’re feeding them something prepared in the microwave or air fryer, they might want to consider giving their words a little more value. When “I’ll be home for dinner” no longer requires an implied “unless something better comes along,” we’ll know we can cook for them without filling the refrigerator with containers of food that eventually become part of a science experiment. We are adapting.

The Grandkids Have Opinions, Too

The hockey dinner challenge is complicated by our efforts to cook a couple of meals each week for our daughter’s family. We want to give them some variety while providing Ellie with food a toddler can successfully feed herself. Soup isn’t a great choice unless the objective is to see how much of it can end up everywhere except inside the child. Pasta can work, and corn will always get her vote. We also get some pleasant surprises. Who would have guessed that Ellie would enjoy dipping her meatloaf bites in barbecue sauce? We may have a future food critic on our hands, although her current reviewing process seems to involve eating something and then demanding more of it.

Between the hockey boys and the grandkids, we’re doing our best to keep everyone fed. The difference is that Ellie hasn’t yet developed the ability to tell us she’ll be home for dinner and then disappear for six hours. We’ll see how long that lasts.

We Don’t Do Drama

Whether we have one boy or three, our rule about drama remains the same: we don’t do it. That doesn’t mean drama never tries to find us. Hormones spike, relationships get complicated, and people occasionally experience crises that seem to require the participation of everyone within driving distance. We simply don’t invite it into our home.

After seven years of billet parenting, we’ve heard enough stories to know that some houses experience considerably more turbulence than others. I can’t speak to every rumor or confirm every story, but I can listen when our billet son describes things happening in other homes and wonder how adults manage to make a young hockey player’s life more complicated than it needs to be.

A recent golf outing sponsored by the team provided another example. Words were exchanged, or people were accused of saying things, and the resulting complaints found their way to the coaching staff. The coach was expected to have conversations with players accused of disrespecting others, and his list of potential troublemakers began to grow. I don’t know all the details, but alcohol may have contributed to the situation. Give people a little alcohol, lower their inhibitions, and sometimes the event ends with a few more people convinced they’ve been wronged than when it started.

The boys are left to navigate the fallout. They have hockey to play, relationships to manage, and coaches to keep happy. The last thing they need is to wonder whether the adults responsible for their housing have the emotional maturity of the teenagers living under their roofs.

When the Billet Home Becomes the Problem

Our current billet came to us from one of those more challenging households. There still seems to be some lingering resentment surrounding his departure, and we’re hearing stories about disagreements involving the player, other billets, and the coaching staff. Whatever the full story, the situation has become another complication in a season that already has plenty.

Our billet coordinator has had her own challenges this year and seems reluctant to approve additional moves between billet homes. As long as a house isn’t considered dangerous, the boys’ requests to move may not get much traction. I understand that coordinating a hockey team and its billets isn’t an easy job, but I also think there’s a difference between a boy being unhappy because he doesn’t like the house rules and a player who continues to deal with unnecessary stress from the adults responsible for him.

This isn’t a billet mom deciding she’s had enough because a kid stepped over the line. We’re talking about a starting player whose life, for eight months, should be relatively straightforward: sleep, eat, practice, play hockey, and repeat. With some minor variations, that is the job. He shouldn’t also have to worry about an adult repeatedly demanding to know his exact location or trying to pressure a coach into reprimanding players over perceived slights.

These boys are young, and they still have growing up to do. That doesn’t mean the adults around them should be adding obstacles to that journey.

Natural Consequences Are Still a Thing

As a billet parent, I’m supposed to enforce a curfew. That requirement has always struck me as a little funny because I grew up without one. If my dad wanted to cut wood on a Saturday morning, I needed to be awake and ready to help. He wasn’t going to accept an explanation that my alarm hadn’t gone off or that I hadn’t realized what time it was. The wood still needed cutting.

I take a similar approach with our hockey boys. If they want to play for this team, they need to learn to manage the basic responsibilities of life. Set an alarm. Get yourself to practice. Know when you’re supposed to be somewhere. If you oversleep or miss something important, the coach is likely to be unhappy. That consequence might do more to teach you about responsibility than a billet parent delivering a lecture on time management.

If I were coaching a player who repeatedly couldn’t manage his schedule, I’d expect him to improve. If he couldn’t, we’d need to figure out what was going wrong. Moving him into a special-supervision billet home might solve the immediate problem, but it could also postpone the day when he learns to manage his own life. They won’t always have someone standing outside their bedroom door making sure they can tell time.

We’re happy to help the boys succeed, but we aren’t interested in enabling someone who refuses to learn the basics. There’s a difference between providing a stable home and becoming a full-service life-management department.

A Few Requirements for the Next Boy

If we’re going to add another hockey boy, we’d like someone who appreciates the advantages of living with us. We have a few expectations, none of which should require an advanced degree in human behavior. We’d like him to turn the thermostat back up after cranking it down at night to create a Minnesota chill-vibe in his bedroom. We’d like him to show up for dinner more often than he doesn’t. And if the grandkids are around, we’d appreciate a little willingness to play with them.

We’re not asking for much beyond that. Help clear the table. Refill your water and Gatorade in the refrigerator. Be reasonably pleasant company. If you can accomplish those things while managing to attend hockey practices on time, you may be exactly the kind of young man we’re looking for.

Of course, we have an opportunity to screen potential candidates at our Friday pregame breakfast. Some of the boys are perfectly happy, which is always encouraging. With only one player living with us, we’ve continued the breakfasts, and we had nine attendees last week, with a tenth being a realistic possibility. The more boys we house, the more are likely to attend. That also spreads my labor across more hungry hockey players instead of requiring me to produce roughly the same breakfast operation for a single houseguest.

There are advantages to having more than one boy, particularly when injuries and trades are part of the equation. I would hate to give up the breakfasts if something happened to our current player. Having at least one more boy around would give us a little insurance against the inevitable changes that come with junior hockey.

Last night, I told our player, “We’ll work on getting you a buddy.”

I think that would be good for him. He could spend more time with someone his own age without having to drive all over the place to find company, and he wouldn’t have to spend every evening hanging around with the old people. We do our best to be entertaining, but there’s only so much wisdom and questionable humor a young man should have to endure after a full day of hockey.

If the drama continues, we’ll deal with whatever comes our way. Patience will be important. Pushing the billet coordinator too hard could move us to the bottom of the list, and we don’t need to make a difficult job harder for her. Over time, the more stable homes will establish their reputations. We don’t need to toot our own horn. The breakfasts, the experience we’ve accumulated, and the way we treat the boys should speak for themselves.

Keeping the Bigger Picture in View

It’s been a tough year, but we’re hanging in there. Judy has stuck to her commitment to make the pancakes and eggs, and I’ve handled the meats. We continue to open our home, feed the boys, and try to make their time here a positive experience. If we focused exclusively on the frustrations of the moment, we’d have to conclude that this hasn’t been a particularly rewarding season.

Fortunately, we’re capable of occasionally stepping back far enough to see the bigger picture. Not every valuable thing we do in life feels valuable every moment of every day. And not every life we influence comes in groups of two or more. Sometimes the difference you make for one person is enough to justify the effort, even when that person is currently eating your food, monopolizing your refrigerator, and trying to turn his bedroom into a walk-in freezer.

We billet because we believe we can provide some stability during a period of life that can be difficult for young men. They leave home, pursue a demanding sport, and try to figure out who they are while living with people they barely know. We have an opportunity to make that transition a little easier. We can provide a comfortable home, some decent meals, reasonable expectations, and adults who don’t need to make everything about themselves.

We didn’t sign up because it’s easy, and we certainly didn’t do it because we needed someone else’s problems to work through. We are on a mission as long as this mission wants us here.

As long as that mission still wants us here, we’ll keep making pancakes, cooking meat, and trying to find another boy who understands the value of a good home. If the burden eventually becomes too much, we’ll look for another place where we can make a difference and feel that our efforts are appreciated.

For now, we have one hockey boy, nine breakfast guests, a refrigerator full of food, and the possibility of adding another player to the household. That’s enough to keep things interesting.

And if our next billet boy can tell us by four o’clock whether he’s coming home for dinner, we’ll consider that a promising start.

The Semi in Semi-Retired

Judy has crunched all the numbers, consulted our financial advisor, and reached a conclusion. My favorite AI bot agrees with her. It’s time for me to start collecting Social Security. The financial case is convincing, and the final decision is mine. Three sources of advice have reached the same conclusion, yet here I sit, refusing to complete the paperwork. It’s comforting to know that even in retirement, I can still make a simple decision unnecessarily complicated.

Judy thinks I should jump on the Social Security train and ride it as long as I can. When she retires, I may qualify for a higher spousal benefit, depending on our circumstances. We’ve done the homework, and the numbers make sense. I could take the money, save it, invest it, or eventually pass some of it along to the kids. It’s money I’ve spent a lifetime paying into the system, so there’s no reason to feel guilty about collecting it.

And yet, I haven’t done it.

The problem isn’t the money. It’s what happens when I start receiving it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve convinced myself that the first Social Security check will trigger an official change in my status. I’ll go from semi-retired to retired, and the guy looking back at me in the mirror will suddenly look a little older. My hair won’t turn white overnight, and my knees won’t immediately file for disability, but my brain may decide the government has officially confirmed what I’ve been trying not to acknowledge.

Yes, Andy, you’re old.

I realize this is ridiculous. I’ve been getting older every day since I was born, and the evidence isn’t difficult to find. I walk most days, watch my weight, and try to take reasonable care of myself. I have no particular desire to accelerate the process by accepting a government check that comes with what I perceive to be an unofficial certificate of old age.

So I’ve staged a small rebellion. The paperwork remains unfinished, and I’m protecting my self-esteem by refusing to complete a financial transaction that makes perfect sense. If this is how I intend to exercise my independence in retirement, Judy has reason to be concerned.

The irony is that I have no problem with the money itself. I’ve spent plenty of time watching Ellie, and now the twins, without receiving a paycheck. I don’t expect one, either. Grandchildren aren’t a franchise, and I don’t think the family would appreciate a billing system that charges by the hour, with additional fees for diaper changes and emergency snack delivery.

Still, there’s something amusing about spending years working for a living, followed by years providing free childcare, and then hesitating to collect money I’ve already paid into the system. I’ve developed a moral code that allows me to subsidize my family but makes me uncomfortable accepting reimbursement from the government.

The deeper I look, the more I realize that money isn’t the issue. I think I have trouble accepting that I may have reached a point where I don’t need to keep proving myself financially. For much of my adult life, there was always something to build, fix, improve, or figure out. Businesses needed attention, problems needed solving, and there was usually another opportunity waiting around the corner. Even when the opportunities were stressful, they gave me something to pursue.

Now I have the freedom to decide what comes next. Most days, that’s wonderful. Other days, I wonder whether I should be doing something more substantial with my time. I start thinking about another business, a franchise, or some other venture that might provide income and give me a new challenge.

When those feelings persist, I call a franchise consultant I’ve known for more than six years. On Tuesday, we resumed one of our ongoing conversations about what I might do next. He’s ten years older than I am and has been doing some reflection of his own. His observation was that whatever I pursue doesn’t have to be the most exciting or cutting-edge opportunity. It should be something that inspires people and makes a difference.

That gave me something to think about. My homework is to dig into the mental vault and figure out what that might look like in my life. I’m not sure what I’ll find in there. Some of the contents have been sitting around for years, and I suspect a few need dusting.

Of course, there’s the practical question of whether I should even consider another business. Do I have time for a franchise when I already have grandchildren to babysit and hockey boys to feed? Would Judy appreciate having her husband short-circuit their retirement plans because he’s decided freedom is more enjoyable when accompanied by a fresh set of obligations?

If I spend money buying myself a job, only to discover that I have less time for the people and activities I enjoy, I may have solved a problem that didn’t exist in the first place.

A few months ago, my plan was for Judy and me to hop on the happy retirement road together and see where it took us. My life has been largely retired for a while now, although I continue to cling to the word semi as though it provides some meaningful protection against the inevitable. I don’t mind telling people I’m semi-retired. It sounds as if I’m still in the game, even if nobody can quite explain what game I’m playing.

Removing the semi feels like a graduation. The Social Security check has become a symbol of that transition, even though I know it doesn’t prevent me from starting another business or pursuing something worthwhile. There’s a difference between knowing that intellectually and being comfortable with it emotionally.

I also need to be honest about something else. Judy works hard. She’s spent years earning enough to pay the bills and then some. While she doesn’t consider me a burden, I sometimes have trouble assigning the same value to what I contribute. She’s working, and I’m watching grandchildren, feeding hockey boys, and wondering whether I need another business. Somehow, the work that produces a paycheck still seems easier to measure than the work that produces a happy family.

That’s probably my problem, not hers.

When I picture Judy and me retiring together, the appeal isn’t simply that we’ll both be collecting Social Security. It’s that neither of us will be waiting for the other to catch up. We can make plans without having to work around somebody else’s schedule.

Want to take a spontaneous trip because we found a good deal? Why not? Drive around the country in a camper and visit a few national parks? Sounds good. Wake up on a Tuesday morning and decide to go out for breakfast because neither of us has anything more important to do? Absolutely.

I realize people have been doing these things for generations without requiring a government check to authorize them. Still, there’s something appealing about making the transition together, knowing we’ve reached a point where we can decide what comes next as a couple.

I don’t want retirement to feel like something that happened to me while Judy continues with her working life. I want it to be a decision we make together, trusting the financial choices we’ve made over the years to carry us into the next chapter. We can still change course if a terrific opportunity comes along, particularly if someone wants to pay me a ridiculous amount of money for a little part-time, remote work. I’m not so committed to retirement that I’ll turn down an easy buck. I’m just no longer interested in sacrificing the freedom I’ve earned to chase every possibility that crosses my path.

The truth is, I already have a pretty good life. I can spend time with Judy, help with the grandchildren, host hockey boys, and decide how I want to use the rest of my day. I can pursue something new if it genuinely interests me, or decide the opportunity isn’t worth the expense, responsibility, or time it would take away from the people I love.

That’s a level of freedom I spent many years working toward. It would be a shame to squander it simply because I’m uncomfortable with the idea that I might not need to accomplish quite so much anymore.

Perhaps I don’t need another business. Perhaps I need to learn how to enjoy the life I’ve already built without feeling as though I should be building something else. If I want to help someone or make a difference, I don’t necessarily need a business plan, a marketing budget, or a franchise agreement. And if I take on another challenge, it can be because I want to, rather than because I’m afraid of what happens when I stop pursuing things.

That last part may take a while.

A few decades ago, I was much more focused on making money and building a future for my family. I don’t regret that. It was the right priority for that stage of life. But I see things differently now. If making a few extra bucks means missing time with my grandchildren, I’d rather let someone else make the money. There are only so many opportunities to be present for the people you love, and I don’t want to spend my remaining years treating every available hour as an opportunity to produce something.

It’s a little sappy, I know. I wasn’t nearly so sentimental when I was busy raising our own children. Perhaps having grandchildren has softened me, or perhaps I’ve accumulated enough birthdays to understand that time is worth something even when it doesn’t generate income.

Either way, I need to recognize my own value without constantly looking for evidence on a balance sheet. My worth doesn’t disappear when business activity slows down, and it shouldn’t depend on whether I have another project underway. I can contribute to my family and the people around me without turning every interest into a potential source of income.

I may even be able to collect Social Security without immediately surrendering my identity to the retirement police.

For now, I still have the option of waiting. Perhaps Judy and I can make that transition together. The idea of jumping onto the retirement road alongside her is considerably more appealing than the prospect of going first and having to explain to myself what it all means.

I hope she can tolerate my hesitation a little longer. After all, the woman has put up with me for decades. A few more weeks of indecision shouldn’t be beyond her capabilities.

Besides, I have a reputation to protect. I don’t want the first Social Security check to cause some irreversible psychological change that turns me into the kind of old man who complains about the thermostat, the price of eggs, and people who don’t know how to use a turn signal. I’m already capable of doing all three, but I prefer to think of those episodes as deliberate performances rather than early symptoms.

Right now, the grumpy old man is mostly under control. I can bring him out when the situation calls for it and put him away when the grandchildren arrive. Once I accept the full implications of retirement, though, I’m concerned he might decide the cage is optional.

For the benefit of Judy, the kids, the grandchildren, and anyone unfortunate enough to share a checkout line with me, I think we should keep him locked up as long as possible.

I’ll get to that Social Security paperwork eventually. Just don’t expect me to remove the semi from my title on the same day.

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy