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.

If You’d Be in Walmart, I’d Marry You

“You are smarter than me. You are more beautiful. You speak better. Your voice is more beautiful.”

This was Fabiano’s assessment of me during one of our weekly Zoom calls. I was beginning to wonder what he wanted from me. Then he answered that question.

“If you’d be in Walmart, I’d marry you.”

I explained that I was already spoken for, but thanked him for the offer. A guy doesn’t get that kind of attention every day, particularly from a guy who lives in Brazil.

For the record, I pointed out that I was probably cooler than he was, too. My air conditioning was on.

Fabiano is working on his doctorate at a Brazilian university. I am a retired-ish American with a blog, a landscaping habit, and a remarkable ability to wander off topic. Somewhere along the way, we became friends. I suppose there are stranger things in the world, but this ranks pretty high on the list of things I didn’t see coming.

How This Started

I began volunteering with an organization called Let’s Start Talking before COVID. The organization uses English as a Second Language as a way to share the gospel with people who might not otherwise have much interest in it. I read with people from Vietnam, Ecuador, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and other places. The format was straightforward: talk about our lives, read something, work through vocabulary, answer questions, and discuss the ideas. The trick was getting people comfortable enough to keep coming back.

When COVID arrived, my in-person reading arrangements went away, and I shifted to online conversations. I now meet with three readers. I’ve been talking with Fabiano for close to three years, although I would not bet money on the exact anniversary. We have bigger problems to solve, such as why English needs so many words that mean almost the same thing.

Fabiano already spoke English fairly well when we started. He is also harder on himself than he needs to be. I regularly remind him that his English is much better than my Portuguese. This is not a particularly high bar, but I mean it as encouragement.

Our calls are supposed to last an hour. For the first forty minutes or so, we generally talk about whatever has happened in our lives. Eventually, I try to steer us toward the lesson. That is the plan, anyway. Plans are useful things, provided you don’t get too attached to them.

Fabiano sometimes forgets it’s our meeting day. I give him ten minutes before sending a WhatsApp message to see if he’s still alive. Other weeks, we have no trouble filling the hour. He has plenty of opinions and curiosity, along with enough confidence to tell me things that probably wouldn’t occur to a more cautious person.

For example, he has joined our calls without a shirt more than once. He knows to put one on when I point out the situation. I appreciate his casual approach to life, but I have no particular interest in conducting an English lesson while staring at a hairy chest.

English Is a Strange Language

Once we get around to the lesson, we read a short passage, discuss its meaning, and work through any words or expressions that give him trouble. Sometimes we can figure out a word from context. Other times, we consult a dictionary or find an online pronunciation. Occasionally, a word refuses to cooperate, and we have to give it more attention than either of us thinks it deserves.

Recently, we spent time on the difference between “seek” and “look for.” Another week, we talked about “maybe” and “perhaps.” You might think those are simple distinctions, but try explaining why two words that seem interchangeable aren’t always used in the same way. English speakers absorb a lifetime of these little rules without realizing how odd they can sound to someone learning the language.

I get to rediscover my own language while trying to explain it. This is educational for both of us, although I’m not sure the original lesson always gets the attention it deserves.

One of my favorite examples was the word “hangry,” a combination of hungry and angry. I used it spontaneously near the end of one lesson, when it was also getting close to Fabiano’s lunchtime. He loved the word and immediately understood the concept. He left the call promising me he wouldn’t be hangry much longer.

Then there was the discussion about his academic paper being “camera ready.” Fabiano was proud that his paper had reached that stage. I understood what he meant, but I didn’t immediately recognize the expression as academic terminology. To me, camera-ready sounded like something you would say about a person who had finally combed his hair before a photograph.

Fabiano had to explain the usage to me. This was a refreshing change from our usual arrangement, in which I get to explain English to him. I am not in academia, and I don’t pretend to understand all its terminology. I was happy to let him have that one.

Of course, the conversation eventually returned to my superior intelligence and beauty. I try to remain humble about these things.

We Don’t Always Stay on Topic

The truth is that Fabiano and I don’t have many conversations that follow a predictable path. We talk about his studies, his life, my family, my landscaping projects, and the hockey players who live with us during the season. He asks about my granddaughter Ellie and likes to see her on camera when she’s around. I ask about his life in Brazil, his interests, and whatever he has been doing since our last call.

He has told me about Brazilian beaches, including the unpleasant experience of visiting one when the weather is cold and rainy. We’ve discussed religion, missionaries, books, music, and the dirty sodas that have become popular around here. I have explained some of the oddities of American culture, and he has helped me understand parts of Brazilian life that I would otherwise know only through travel stories or the internet.

There are weeks when I have to carry most of the conversation because he’s tired. Other weeks, I have trouble getting us back to the lesson. Neither of us is a particularly good actor, so there’s no point pretending a conversation is fascinating when it isn’t. We show up as ourselves and work with whatever we have that day.

I sometimes dread these calls before they begin. I look at the clock and think, “What am I doing? What am I going to talk about for an hour?” Then we connect, get past the first few minutes, and usually find our rhythm. If I find myself looking at the clock too much, I often think I could have prepared a little better. On the days we run over, I know I did just fine.

I don’t know whether Fabiano would say he gets as much out of these conversations as I do. He has told me he would be happy to meet twice a week, but I haven’t figured out how to add another hour to my schedule without inconveniencing the rest of my life. We make adjustments when babies, academic demands, or other obligations get in the way. Otherwise, we keep showing up.

That’s how a friendship can sneak up on you. You start out with a purpose and a schedule, and then the person on the other end of the screen becomes someone you genuinely want to hear from.

So Why Do We Keep Doing This?

I didn’t go into online English reading expecting to become friends with people scattered across the planet, but it has happened with several of my readers. One of them, a young man from Poland, has become almost like a grandson to me. Fabiano and I took a little longer to find our groove. During the time we’ve known each other, he finished his master’s degree, began his doctorate, and moved through some significant changes in his personal life. As he became more comfortable with himself, our conversations became easier and more relaxed.

I like hearing about his life, and I hope he likes hearing about mine. He gets to practice English with someone who will slow down, explain a word, or ask whether I’ve understood what he meant. I get a window into a life and a culture I wouldn’t otherwise know nearly as well. We don’t have to share all the same interests to enjoy each other’s company.

One thing I’ve learned is that people like to feel needed and appreciated for who they are. That sounds simple enough, but it’s easy to forget when we’re busy with our own routines. I may not be able to help Fabiano with his doctoral research, and he probably isn’t going to ask me to coach his favorite sport. But we can give each other an hour of attention every week. We can ask questions, share stories, laugh at each other, and occasionally learn something useful.

Near the end of one recent call, Fabiano said he didn’t know why he liked me. I suggested that it was a character flaw. He assured me he wasn’t teasing me that time. I reminded him that he keeps showing up every week, which seems like fairly compelling evidence.

My social circle in Oklahoma isn’t enormous. Add the people I talk with online, though, and I cast a pretty wide shadow over this planet. I like the idea that a few conversations can make somebody’s week a little better, even if all I’ve contributed is a vocabulary word or a questionable explanation of American culture.

And if all else fails, I can tell Fabiano I’m drinking a dirty soda while he works on his doctorate. I may have the air conditioning, but he’s the one working toward a doctorate. I’m not sure which of us has life figured out.

Grandpa’s Job Description Is Still Under Review

Two days in a row, I got to help my daughter with a different assortment of kids. Both adventures were worthwhile, although one definitely fell more in the grandma column.

On Wednesday, with very little notice, Abby let Judy and me know that the twins’ echocardiogram appointment was in just over an hour. Could one of us go with her? I’m pretty sure this was the first I’d heard of the appointment, but my schedule was more flexible than Judy’s. Rather than have me drive to her house and leave from there, Abby swung by to pick me up.

As we drove, Abby caught me up on her week. With her mother-in-law in town, we hadn’t seen as much of her or the kids. Their house isn’t that big, and we wanted to make sure the other grandma, who lives out of town, had plenty of time with her son and family. Living with an in-law can be challenging in unexpected ways. Abby may have shared a couple of examples, but I’ve forgotten the details. Since I’m also somebody’s in-law, I’ll stick with the unofficial motto: “Smile, nod, and pretend we didn’t hear that.”

The underground parking garage threatened to delay us further. Drivers waiting for a space could block the entire flow of traffic until they gave up or attempted to squeeze into a spot clearly designed for a smaller vehicle. After watching three or four of these negotiations, we finally got lucky. A truck pulled out of a space that required no complicated maneuvering, but a couple of cars coming the other way seemed to think they had dibs. We’d traveled all the way to the end of the garage and back, and I wasn’t about to let somebody who hadn’t earned the spot take it from us. After briefly considering a career in parking enforcement, I removed my male-Karen hat and returned to Grandpa mode.

Once we found the right office and entertained the waiting-room crowd with a few peeks at the twins, we got down to business. Incredibly, they had two echocardiogram setups, so Abby could stay with one baby while I handled the other. Newborns can have heart murmurs, and since the insurance was available and my daughter is thorough, we were there for the full experience. The technicians examined the little hearts from several angles. Not much real estate to look at, but the technician knew what she was doing.

Twin A, the second one born, was a little more restless than her older sister, Twin A. Abby started feeding Twin B while I stayed with Twin A. When Twin B finished eating, I walked the halls burping Twin A while Mommy took care of the other end of the operation. Abby was grateful they gave her a place to feed the girls. I just looked like a lost grandpa with reasonably good baby skills. We hit traffic on the way home, but since this was Abby’s old commute to work, there weren’t many surprises. One appointment down, two babies cared for, and no one had to explain the burping procedure to me.

Thursday’s mission was more straightforward: spend time with Ellie while Mommy ran errands. My first assignment was to get the garage-door guy taken care of, which requires a little background.

I have one rule for airport transportation: Make your reservation so I don’t have to leave the house before 6:00 a.m. Judy was heading to North Carolina to see her parents, and her sister had arranged the flight using points. Judy’s 4:20 Uber pickup had been uncertain the night before, so I’d removed Ellie’s car seat in case Judy needed to take my car and park at the airport. When I woke up, the car was still there, but the front door and light were on. Judy had successfully escaped without my assistance.

All week, she’d told me her flight was sometime after 8:00, so I’d prepared for a 6:00 wake-up. Four o’clock was another matter. My taxi service has limited operating hours, and sleep deprivation isn’t covered by the family discount. Book an early-morning flight at your own peril.

After taking nearly ten minutes to reinstall Ellie’s car seat, I was ready to ask the garage-door guy to do it for me. His online bio mentioned six kids. Surely, a man with six children could handle a car seat faster than I could. I agreed to new garage-door rollers and the maintenance we’d already discussed, paid him, locked the doors, and headed out before he finished.

Abby had a few stops on her list. First was Carter’s, where she wanted to find clothes for the first professional family picture with all three kids on Saturday morning. While Mom shopped, Ellie and I wandered the parking lot collecting a few “balls” from the cypress trees. An older couple had deliberately parked under one of the trees, despite the threat of dripping sap. They were wiser than I was. At least they had some shade. I was more concerned about the paint job than the people inside the car.

Next came Walmart. Abby had a few things to pick up, and I needed baking soda, the bargain-priced version of the pool chemical that pool stores are happy to sell for five times as much. Both raise the alkalinity just fine, but one costs a whole lot less. Ellie, meanwhile, seemed determined to pull as much Gatorade and peanut butter off the shelves as we would tolerate. The glass jars of jelly were where we drew the line. Grandpa has his limits, and they include broken glass in the grocery aisle.

Costco was our final stop, and that’s where Abby had a realization: “I should probably teach her how to better drink from a cup.”

With all the samples available, Ellie got to try several different drinks. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the bottom lip of the cup above her tongue. She drank every sample like a butterfly extending its proboscis into a flower. It was an impressive demonstration of how to get liquid into your mouth while bypassing most of the equipment designed for that purpose. Her shirt left Costco considerably wetter than when she arrived.

Then the hangries hit. After tracking down the new location for the freeze-dried mangoes, we ripped open the bag right there in the cart and bought ourselves enough peace to get Mom and Ellie home. Ellie’s hands and cheeks were sticky, her shirt was wet, and she’d consumed enough mango to make the rest of the trip manageable. By the time we arrived, she was no longer my problem. She was the other grandma’s problem, because Abby had twins to feed. That’s what I call a successful handoff.

When I was raising my own kids, I generally knew my lane. As a grandparent, particularly one in a semi-retired state, I’m still looking for the lane markings. I get a request and enthusiastically embrace it. I want to help, and I appreciate Abby giving me the opportunity to make her life a little easier. Whether that means accompanying her to a medical appointment, walking the halls with a baby who needs burping, or supervising a toddler’s experiments with drinking cups, I’m happy to pitch in.

If Abby is nearby, I don’t even have to be the responsible party. I can concentrate on the fun stuff or the burping. I know what to do with both ends of a baby, so there isn’t much I’m going to walk away from. Some requests might require a deep, cleansing breath. Others will get an enthusiastic, “I was hoping you’d ask.”

I’m still learning the grandpa job description, but the basic requirements are simple: show up, pitch in, and don’t be afraid to get your fingernails a little dirty. I’ll keep enrolling students in Grandpa’s Diaper Rash Academy for as long as my kids keep giving me the opportunity. Tuition is free, the hours are flexible, and graduation usually involves somebody handing me a baby who needs changing.

I May Have Been Too Excited About This

As I’ve described before, the hot tub was not supposed to become my weekly chemical experiment. My years of playing chemist with our pool in Texas were supposed to give me substantial credit on any outdoor full water immersion projects for a number of years. When the hot tub arrived, I encouraged my wife to use the chemicals as directed. The problem was that the chemicals were dropped off with the hot tub, while any meaningful support apparently took a different delivery truck. The hot tub slowly spiraled downward until we decided a random lagoon would probably be more attractive. Judy eventually transferred some of her many wife credits into one of my individual virtual bank accounts, and I became responsible for water quality. I may not have excelled, but things have been improving.

With hockey boys and family using the hot tub, the chemistry is no longer my biggest concern. The bigger problem has been opening and closing the lid and, more specifically, clipping and unclipping all the latches. Early on, my daughter failed to unhook one of the back corner clips, and it snapped right off. Disappointing, but not worth making a fuss over. I figured I would probably be responsible for breaking one eventually, too.

That day was Tuesday.

After we had gone through a few hockey boys who had no interest in clipping all of the available clips on the hot tub lid, our newest boy, with my knowledge and encouragement, was determined to do a complete job. That included clipping the last back clip, which had rarely been used during the previous year. The only time we really needed it was last winter, when the wind was blowing hard enough that we needed the back clip secured to keep the back of the lid from flipping over the front and turning our hot tub into a very expensive outdoor cooling device.

Tuesday, while I was cycling through the series of chemicals necessary to maintain a happy hot tub, I popped that last back clip. At first I thought, “Why is it so hard to flip the lid off?” Then came the pop, and I knew the clip had given up the good fight.

When my daughter popped a clip, I thought, “Oh, darn.” When I do it, it needs to be fixed immediately so I’m not reminded of my stupidity every time I look at the hot tub.

The problem was that the existing clip was on a strap sewn directly onto the cover. Replacing it the traditional way would mean cutting the strap that was sewn into the cover or figuring out some other solution. I was a big fan of the “some other solution” option. This led me to a video featuring a guy with an English accent replacing the same type of clip without cutting the strap. I don’t know why an English accent makes a repair seem more trustworthy, but I was willing to accept the evidence.

The replacement clip has a small opening in an otherwise solid piece that allows the existing strap to slide into place without cutting it. The video sent me to an eBay listing, but after some significant trepidation, I eventually found what appeared to be the same thing on Amazon.

This is the important part if you have the same problem: look for replacement male clips that have slots for attaching the strap without cutting it. (see image below) That allows you to remove the broken clip and install the replacement without cutting or sewing the existing strap. Even better, the male portion of the replacement clip fit into the existing female portion already attached to the cover.

That meant I didn’t have to replace the entire latch assembly. I just had to replace the broken male clip.

And it worked.

In fact, it worked so well that I decided to fix the two clips that were already broken. Then, apparently overcome by the thrill of my own success, I decided to cut one of the perfectly good clips and replace it, too.

I really can’t explain this.

I was so drunk with success that I broke another thing just so I could fix it again. At some point, I need to develop hobbies that don’t involve destroying things that were working perfectly well five minutes earlier.

Still, there was something satisfying about solving the problem myself. Usually, Judy is the one who finds the part, orders it with complete confidence, and eventually fixes the recliner or whatever other household problem I have probably helped create. I’m perfectly happy to watch her do this because she has a much better track record.

This time, though, I found the solution, ordered the part, and actually fixed the problem. I may not be ready to become the primary “Maybe Amazon has a kit to fix that” shopper in the family, but I’m willing to volunteer as the more enthusiastic second-stringer.

I take disappointment pretty hard, especially when the disappointment is something I created myself. But there’s something pretty satisfying about finding the right solution, making the repair, and watching something that was broken work again.

Even if you did have to break one more thing to celebrate.

The clip on the left is the replacement clip. The clip on the right is the clip that came with the hot tub cover. (I cut the plastic and removed it from the strap to properly contrast the two pieces.) The top gap in the clip on the left is how the clips can be replaced without cutting the sewn strap. The part name is: “4 Sets Spa Hot Tub Cover Clips Latch Replacement Kit”.

This is the Amazon link to a set of 4 of the clips as shown on the left: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BM5DLT2B?ref=ppx_yo2ov_dt_b_fed_asin_title

Technically, I Had a Day

I don’t have an exciting life.

That isn’t necessarily a complaint. I’ve actually worked pretty hard to get here. My problem is that I write about my life, which means I occasionally need something to happen. Not anything dramatic. I’m not looking for a house fire, a police chase, or an unexpected invitation to appear on national television. I just need enough stimulation to convince my brain there is a story hiding somewhere in the day.

The trick is getting the right amount of input. Too many new things and I’m outside my comfort zone, where my brain starts throwing warning lights. Too few, and I stare at a blank page waiting for a thought to develop a pulse. Ideas are ultimately supplied by my brain, but sometimes the poor thing needs a spark. Too much input, though, and I blow a fuse and lose the ability to organize any of it into something resembling a coherent thought.

Yesterday may have been one of those days.

I ran errands with my daughter and Ellie, and I was convinced I had enough material to put a story together. My daughter’s mother-in-law was staying with the twins, so we had temporarily reduced the number of children requiring adult supervision from three to one. Someday we may attempt a trip to the store with all three girls. That day will not be tomorrow. We were trying to be home by noon because 12:30 was the next feeding, and there is a very specific point at which “we’re running a little late” becomes “the babies have threatened to fire you.”

At Sam’s, I picked up my usual supply of vitamins while Ellie treated the bottles like toys. She moved them from the bulk displays to the floor as though Sam’s had thoughtfully installed a vitamin-themed play area for toddlers. We already have an empty Omega-3 bottle at home that has become a miniature storage facility for golf balls and various other small objects. If you put the objects into the bottle correctly—or incorrectly, depending on your definition of success—a simple tilt won’t empty the contents. I keep thinking I need to find something long and skinny to control the flow. A few weeks ago, this would have been a much bigger issue with Ellie because she would have been emotionally invested in immediately solving the problem. Now she still loves the bottles, but she has matured enough to accept that sometimes the contents of a bottle remain in the bottle.

I was also planning to pick up some country-fried steak for our hockey boy’s dinner. If Sam’s still sells it, I couldn’t find it. Then the hockey boy texted to say he was going to Top Golf with a teammate, which eliminated the need for a dinner plan. One text message and my culinary responsibilities disappeared. With my wife gone, I would eat whatever was easiest.

The rest of the Sam’s visit consisted mostly of chasing Ellie during the moments when she wasn’t providing the muscle necessary to keep the shopping cart moving. She gets behind that cart, gets low and drives her feet with the determination of a high school football player hitting a blocking sled. Her technique would probably result in a holding penalty if she were doing it during a football game, but at her age and gender, I’m reasonably confident she’s safe from those particular flags for the rest of her life. When she wasn’t pushing the cart, Ellie was wandering into the pathway of other shoppers. My daughter and I were on constant tag-team duty, making sure she didn’t exit an aisle directly into the path of an unsuspecting shopper who had come to Sam’s for toilet paper and was not prepared to participate in a toddler obstacle course.

My final contribution to the outing was mistaking the Iranian employee checking us out for an Indian. This was less about geography than conditioning. My son is in India for the next few weeks, so my brain has temporarily decided that everyone from South Asia is Indian. I spoke to my son on FaceTime Monday night, and he told me that in the ten days he’s been there, he has seen only four other white people. Most of those were at the Taj Mahal. He’s getting used to being stared at. I’m guessing I would be getting used to it, too, although I would probably assume I had spinach in my teeth.

After Sam’s, my daughter decided she needed a “dirty soda” before I dropped her off at home with her three-pack of pumpkin and container of Medjool dates. Fortunately, there was a Swig on the way. There weren’t many cars, but there was a surprisingly slow-moving line. This was my first Swig experience, and given the limited number of flavors I am willing to voluntarily suffer through, my daughter suggested something with root beer. I was tempted to stop right there, but eventually settled on the Butter Beer. Root beer and butterscotch are two of my favorite flavors, and I figured the vanilla crème probably wouldn’t be enough to ruin it.

My daughter went with the “Spice, Spice Baby,” which contained Dr Pepper, vanilla, cinnamon, pumpkin pie sauce, half-and-half and a cinnamon stick. I tried it. It was better than I expected, but I don’t think I could have made those 24 ounces disappear.

The ordering process was interesting. Someone would walk out the back door, take the order on an iPad, collect payment and then tell you, “I’ll meet you at the window.” We watched two cars ahead of us go through the same process, so by the time it was our turn, we were practically veterans. Then the employee told my daughter they were out of cinnamon syrup.

Did she still want the drink?

She did.

The employee explained that this was the reason the line was moving so slowly. Her manager had gone to another store to get the cinnamon syrup. Meanwhile, the line at our store continued moving at the approximate speed of continental drift. When it takes more than 15 minutes to place an order with four cars in line, my Butter Beer is probably not going to become a regular habit.

It was pretty tasty, though.

Ellie slept in the back seat the entire time, which should have been relaxing. It wasn’t. My daughter was slightly concerned because her normal nap time is after lunch, and her sleep schedule has become considerably less predictable since the twins arrived. Apparently, even babies have organizational meetings.

After I dropped them off, I headed home to a house my wife would soon be vacating for the night. The hockey boy made a brief stop, then asked if he could spend the night with the teammate he was going to Top Golf with.

So there I was.

Alone.

I wasn’t particularly in the mood for a solo night, but that was what had been offered. Warmups and a solo walk around the neighborhood weren’t my first choice, but sometimes you don’t get what you want. You get what you need.

I prefer a light social schedule. I just don’t prefer a non-social schedule. There is a sweet spot somewhere between a trickle and a hydrant. A trickle leaves me wondering where everybody went. A hydrant makes me want to go to my room and wait until the excessiveness of life has drained out of the house.

My wife knows the balance. She doesn’t know me perfectly, but she knows me very well. She knows when I need people and when I need fewer people. She knows when I need a little space and when too much space starts to feel like nobody is around. She also knows that I am considerably more entertaining when someone is nearby to appreciate the entertainment.

Most importantly, she gives my brain a reason to stay awake.

Judy is mostly the straight man in this little comedy routine, although she would probably dispute the word “mostly.” I spend a ridiculous amount of my day looking for something unexpected that might make her smile. Sometimes it’s a story. Sometimes it’s a comment. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the look I give her when one of us realizes we have once again made a completely unnecessary decision.

That is probably why yesterday felt a little incomplete. There were plenty of things happening. A toddler nearly became a Sam’s Club linebacker. I confused an Iranian with an Indian. I waited 15 minutes for a soda containing enough ingredients to qualify as a chemistry experiment. I watched my son describe what it feels like to be one of four white people at the Taj Mahal.

Technically, I had a day.

But Judy wasn’t in it.

And as much as I enjoy the occasional quiet night, I’m reminded that I don’t really need an exciting life. I need someone beside me who makes the ordinary parts worth noticing.

Tomorrow, I’ll have something to look forward to.

Judy will be home.

A Night in the Life of a Penalty Box Attendant

Saturday night was a hockey night. Friday night had not gone particularly well for the home team. A three-minute stretch early in the third period pretty much sealed it. After that, we decided the first break past the 10-minute mark would be our time to leave. We weren’t alone. With the team struggling, the people who stayed were probably doing so more out of loyalty than any expectation that the evening was suddenly going to turn around. The coach seemed to share our assessment. At 11:00 that night, one of the captains contacted the boys and told them they needed to be at the rink to help some young kids skate. This wasn’t a few guys volunteering for a community activity. It was the entire team. The coach had apparently decided the best way to disguise his frustration with a loss was to make the boys do community service while calling it a team bonding. I respect the creativity.

When Judy and I entered the rink Saturday night, we were hopeful the boys would be a little more locked in. In fairness, the coach had been bouncing the lines around quite a bit, and the other team had gotten its first victory of the season the night before. I was pretty confident our boys weren’t going to help them make it two in a row. After I cleared the ticket check with my season pass, I was approached by the guy who was now the billet dad for our recently departed hockey boy. He had a job for me in the penalty box. He was very focused on getting me properly set up for my new responsibilities, so there wasn’t much time for conversation. He took me into a room, handed me an official game vest and gave me some basic instructions. He also warned me that the entrance to the penalty box off the ice could be slippery. This was apparently important information. I tipped my Warriors hat at him before calculating that, based on my age and my newly elevated position within the organization, I should probably use the bathroom before the game started.

The penalty box is right there on the ice, so the view is excellent. The only problem is that the home hockey boys tend to lean out from the bench and occupy approximately 73 percent of the visual field. With a better view comes greater responsibility, and I was careful to keep that in mind. I had also forgotten about the smell. From our regular seats on the other side of the rink, I had largely forgotten what comes out of a hockey locker room. Really, “smell” doesn’t adequately describe it. It’s more of an atmosphere. A heavy, humid fog of fermented effort, sweat, equipment and several things that probably shouldn’t be combined in the same zip code. I hadn’t missed it, but I recognized it immediately. There was also no bench for me. I assume this was intentional. The penalty box is designed to make the boys feel guilty about their actions. I quickly discovered there is no guilt taking place in the penalty box. There is sitting, drinking water, laughing, watching the game and occasionally wondering why you were given a penalty. Guilt was not on the agenda.

My job description was pretty simple. When a boy came into the box, I handed him a water bottle and asked, “Do you want me to open the gate or are you going to jump it?” I was relieved to discover that, over three periods, I only had to open the gate once. Every other boy cleared it easily. In my mind, this was perfect. If they chose to jump the gate themselves, I couldn’t be blamed for putting them back on the ice too early. I had essentially delegated liability. There were probably three or four guys in the box during each period, so there was plenty of opportunity to practice my gate-management strategy. I was also responsible for the replacement pucks. This was a revelation. The pucks were stored on ice in a cooler. As I thought about it, this made perfect sense. A warm puck would bounce differently than a cold puck. Why introduce an unnecessary variable into a game where near-grown men are already skating around at 20 miles per hour trying to hit each other with sticks? So every period started with a fresh puck from the cooler. We went through about four pucks a period, which meant I was basically the cold-chain logistics manager for the Oklahoma Warriors. I had not prepared for this level of responsibility.

Beyond the water and gate questions, there was very little conversation. I had been told, “If they want to talk, they will talk to you.” If I knew their first name, I used it. Other than that, I was much more quiet than usual. That may have been the biggest sacrifice of the evening. The first period was pretty uneventful. The second period got worse. Or better. I’m still trying to decide. I did go visit Judy during the first intermission. I felt bad that she had to sit alone, although she was a good sport about it. She had actually snuck into the bench area before the game and gotten a picture of me wearing my official vest. I’m pretty sure she was documenting the moment in case my new career suddenly took off.

The biggest challenge after the first period was the photographer. During the first period, I had mostly been standing at the front of the box, watching the game at eye level. Then the photographer arrived and my job description changed from “penalty box monitor” to “avoid becoming a human obstacle in a professional sports photograph.” The photographer was constantly moving around me, and the only place I could retreat was toward the stats booth on my right. I could back up about a foot and watch the game through their somewhat cloudy plexiglass. This created a problem. At one point, the photographer was snapping pictures while a Warriors player was serving a penalty. Suddenly, I heard the Rhinos making a huge commotion. It sounded exactly like they had scored a goal. I did what any highly trained penalty-box professional would do. I opened the gate. The player looked at me. I looked at the player. He did not move. This turned out to be fortunate because there had been no goal. I had simply confused excited hockey players with an actual hockey event. The player had apparently decided to save me from myself by not immediately sprinting onto the ice. That was the last time I acted on instinct. From that point forward, I committed to only responding to the referees. No more gut feelings. No more reading the room. No more interpreting crowd noise. If a referee didn’t move, I didn’t move.

The same little cubbyhole that made me think a goal had been scored also made it difficult to see pucks that flew out of the rink. Most of the time, when I handed a puck over, I received a polite “thank you.” A couple of times, I had no idea what was happening until a referee came skating toward me. That was my cue. I also pulled pucks out a couple of times when they didn’t actually need them, all while trying to avoid the photographer, the boys waiting at the door and the sticks that seemed determined to occupy whatever space I was currently using. As the boys increasingly hogged the front of the box, my available space became whatever area wasn’t occupied by a hockey stick. More than once, sticks were resting across the front gate while I was wedged into the corner like I was part of a Kerplunk game. It was an impregnable trap, but it was a battle I chose not to fight. At one point, the photographer and I nearly shared our little space with a Rhino who took a hit right in front of us. That was exciting. But the real scare came when the puck hit my empty water bottle tucked into the front corner of the box. The bottle fell over. The puck slid into its place. And for a second, that puck just sat there looking at me. It had the expression of a puck that was disappointed it hadn’t been allowed to cause more trouble.

By the end of the game, I had survived three periods, several hockey boys, a photographer, approximately a dozen sticks, four million flying pucks and one gate that I now considered a professional responsibility. And, as is often the case, the thing I’m grateful for isn’t really what I did. It’s the opportunity the thing gave me. There were the little exchanges. The thumbs-up to the kid on the bench who had just scored. The boy who came into the box and told me, “I don’t always deserve a penalty, but I did that time.” There was the player who had been suspended and got to hear me say, “Good to see you out there again!” And there were a few boys who had to suffer through my highly sophisticated hockey analysis. “You guys are looking pretty good tonight.” I didn’t overwhelm them. That would be irresponsible.

But I did take the opportunities when they presented themselves. Because of our breakfast club, I have a little more permission to talk into the lives of these guys. The penalty box gave me even more. These boys have coaches. They have teammates. They have parents. They have plenty of people telling them what to do. I’m not trying to become another one of those people. I’m trying to become someone they’ll listen to when I have something worth saying. That’s the part I don’t want to lose sight of.

The penalty box gave me a chance to hear a little more of what they were saying, see a little more of what they were feeling and have a few conversations that probably wouldn’t have happened from my regular seat across the rink. For one night, I wasn’t just a fan. I was a fan with special privileges. Would I want the job every game? Probably not. I could see Judy sitting alone for an entire season while I played professional penalty-box monitor. But I did come away with something valuable. I learned a little more about the game. I gathered enough information to continue pretending I’m more hockey-smart than I was the previous day. And if asking better questions gives me more credibility with these boys, I’ll happily learn a few more rules.

I’d do almost anything in the hockey world to gain a little more permission to speak into their lives when something matters. Referee? Absolutely not. Those guys are hated no matter how good a job they do. Although, from the penalty box, I will admit something I didn’t expect. Sometimes it looked like the players actually respected them. Of course, I’d have to learn all the rules first. And that seems like an unreasonable amount of work just to be yelled at by teenagers.

The Billet Gods May Have Made Their Decision

Our philosophy with hockey players, and any other strays who may wander through our front door, is pretty simple: If we have an open bed, you are welcome.

We don’t always know how long that welcome will last. Some boys fit into our house easily. Others discover that living with us isn’t quite what they expected, and sometimes we discover the same thing. We like having people to cook for, though, and hearing, “Wow, that was pretty good. What was it?” will always score more points than, “I only eat pizza and hamburgers.”

After the rapid departure of our previous hockey boy, I tried to process things from his side a little more. For four years, his identity had been, “I am wanted by an Ivy League school to play hockey.” When that suddenly disappeared, I could understand why he needed to make a change. I stopped taking his departure quite so personally.

Then, because apparently the best way to deal with one hockey boy leaving is to put another one in his room, NEW showed up.

Our EX, who is also one of the team captains, seems to have been keeping track of the other boys by creating his own unofficial “billet happiness” spectrum. He apparently knows which players are happy, which ones are less happy, and which ones might be one bad dinner away from packing a suitcase. When he left Wednesday evening for his new home, he casually mentioned, “I was talking to another player who is really unhappy at his billet house.” I thought, “Great. I’ll believe it when I see it.” I assumed he was just trying to say something nice on his way out the door. A little verbal reassurance that his leaving wasn’t personal.

Then he texted me the next morning. EX gave me more background on a particular player and suggested I contact the billet coordinator about him. My text to her was simple: “Yeah, we are interested if this kid is looking for a place.” Her response came shortly afterward: “This wasn’t supposed to be communicated at all.” That seemed like a strange way to respond to someone volunteering to take a hockey player off your hands. Despite her frustration, she completed the transaction. By “transaction,” I mean she sent us his paperwork and let us know we could go ahead and contact him. Her terseness left me wondering whether she was simply having a bad day or whether there was more to the story than we were being told.

When NEW arrived before dinner that night, he volunteered to fill us in on “the rest of the story.” Before he got very far, though, his previous billet’s social media post told us most of what we needed to know. He showed it to us. We don’t follow her, so we weren’t exactly sitting around monitoring the situation. I repeated my commitment to him, although this was the first time he had heard it: “Our job is to feed you well and do everything we can to make sure you sleep well.” He took that commitment seriously. Especially the sleep part. He took a few liberties with the upstairs thermostat. Those Minnesota boys would sleep with the window open in the winter if you let them.

NEW arrived on a Thursday night, which meant Friday was a home game. That meant I would be frying bacon. Or at least I thought it did. Since we had been hockey-boy-less for 24 hours, the rest of the hockey breakfast club had already made alternate plans. Once that little hypocrisy was cleared up on breakfast eve, I quickly graduated to putting a few trays of bacon in the oven after my coffee in the morning. The breakfast club showed up, ate well, and then I made another questionable decision. I mentioned the de-commitment story involving our EX to the early arrivals. Their dropped jaws immediately told me I had stepped into an unsafe place. This was not my news to tell. I swore them to secrecy and hoped the statute of limitations on being a bad breakfast host was shorter than the hockey season. The chatter was good, the boys were grateful, and eventually they all left with full stomachs and eyes that had narrowed to barely functional slits. The rapid eye movements were clearly getting close.

The final piece of the story came during the hockey game. We met our EX’s mom a couple of weeks ago. She had a gift bag for the twins at the game. I had told Judy beforehand that I wouldn’t be surprised if she brought something for the girls. She struck me as the kind of person who took care of billet parents in an above-and-beyond sort of way. We talked with her for close to an hour. Early on, I asked the simple question, “How is he doing?” She opened up and told us more than I expected. Then she dropped the nugget that connected everything. “You know my son played a pretty big role in getting you your new hockey boy.”

My eyebrows went up. She explained that the billet coordinator had told EX that we needed to reach out to her if we wanted NEW. My quick response confirmed what I had already suspected. Whatever drama the billet coordinator had been trying to avoid was no longer avoidable. Not surprisingly, she was considerably less chatty with us at the game that night.

The verdict is still out on whether this will be our last year billeting. I had already looked at a few trips for February, but those may have to wait until at least next year. Billeting can be a little like dating. You end up with someone who looks like a good match, hope you’re compatible, and discover a few things after they move in that probably should have been included in the profile.

NEW has a lot going for him. He has lots of nieces and nephews. He says he will eat anything. He even says he always cleans his plate. And then there’s the big one: he would rather pack a lunch than go out for lunch every day. This makes him a very rare find.

We didn’t swipe left or right on any of our hockey boys. They just showed up, stayed awhile, and eventually moved on to whatever came next. We weren’t a great fit for our EX. He was dealing with his own stuff, and we were dealing with ours. But somewhere along the way, he decided we were a good, stable place for another kid. So he did a little greasing of the skids on his way out.

I kind of like that. The boy who left our house may have helped us find the boy who replaced him. Maybe that’s how this whole billet thing is supposed to work. You open a door for one kid, learn a few things, occasionally buy 47 pounds of food that nobody eats, and eventually another kid walks through the same door.

We still don’t know if NEW will be a keeper. For now, he eats what we eat, cleans his plate, wants to pack his lunch, has his own upstairs bedroom, and apparently sleeps well enough to keep the thermostat company.

After everything that happened this week, I’m willing to let the billet gods have the final say. So far, they seem to be saying, “Keep this one.”