Family

Mostly Harmless: A Defense of the Kind-Hearted Annoyance

This is a further explanation of one of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Reminder Wrangler)

My wife has a habit of looking at me and saying, “Can you remind me to call so-and-so tomorrow?” or “I have a doctor’s appointment; don’t let me forget.”

She seems to believe I have a dedicated “Spouse Schedule” processor running in the background of my brain at all times. In her mind, she’s delegating a task. In my mind, she has just hit “Install” on a piece of high-persistence malware.

Being a human reminder is a high-stakes game. It comes with two distinct curses: the crushing dread of forgetting, and the social suicide of over-reminding.

The “Nag” Sacrifice

Admittedly, smartphones have chipped away at my market share. But even in a world of haptic feedback, I still find ways to offer my “invaluable” services. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become so committed to the role that I have officially slipped into the “nag” category.

I am a human pop-up ad. I am the “Update Required” notification that you can’t swipe away. I have willingly tanked my reputation, descending into that murky social basement occupied by influencers and other bottom-dwellers of the untrustworthy food chain.

Why do I make this sacrifice? Because when she says “Remind me,” it is a binding contract. That initial charge supersedes any later, frustrated comments like, “Okay, you can stop reminding me now!” I bought in until the objective was completed, honey. I’m a shareholder in this phone call now. Why can’t you stay as committed as I am?

The Glory of the Checkbox

I understand she has a full-time job and “life distractions” that are several priority levels above our current joint focus. But for me, the task stays on my mental dashboard until the very last second.

I can’t take it off the list until I look at her and start to open my mouth. Usually, before a single syllable escapes, she snaps: “It’s done. Okay?”

Victory. With that comment, I get to check two boxes. First, the “self-tickler” part of my brain finally stops itching. Second, and more importantly, I go to Google Tasks and watch my “Completed” count climb from 627 to 628. For a semi-retired grandpa, that is a statistical triumph worth celebrating.

Bring Back the Nag

My life isn’t overly complicated, and I like it that way. It’s these small, irritating transactions that give me value.

While your phone may give you a reminder from the cold obscurity of a pocket, you should consider bringing a kind-hearted nag back into your life. We are mostly harmless, we take your chores more seriously than you do, and we only want the best for you—mostly so we can finally stop thinking about your dentist appointment and move on with our lives.

The “Get-To” vs. The “Have-To”

I’m currently coming off a 60-day streak from my other blog, and I’m protective of that momentum. With “Grandpa’s Daycare” eating up about 30 hours of my week, I never truly know which day will be the one where the wheels fall off. My goal for this past weekend was simple: bank a three-day buffer of posts so I could breathe.

I missed that goal by 100%.

It started Saturday at 4:30 AM with an airport run for my wife. Here’s what 4:30 AM looks like: three cars on the road, darkness that makes 7:30 AM look like high noon, and a version of me with zero sarcasm loaded. I’m a sarcastic person by nature — it’s basically my factory setting — but apparently it doesn’t boot up until after sunrise. My wit didn’t come back online until I was halfway home, alone, with no one to appreciate it.

That low-grade exhaustion shadowed me the rest of the day. My son and his fiancée came over for quality baby time, and my job quietly shifted. My future DIL is anxious to start her own family, so when she’s in the room, my grandpa instincts take a back seat. My real role became reading the baby’s cues and redirecting — making sure the DIL banked every possible minute of the Ellie experience she craved. I’m not just watching my grandkid grow. I’m watching my future family grow.

I wasn’t exactly winning “Host of the Year,” but the baby stayed alive, so I’ll call it a win.

Then came Sunday. And the Eggplant Experiment.

My son wanted to make Eggplant Parmesan, which — fine. Noble ambition. The problem was his vision was… limited. One small eggplant will not feed a crowd. Bread it, fry it, done. No sauce. No provolone. No oven time. Now, most of his cooking lives in the Instant Pot or air fryer, clean and contained. Hand him a pan and grease, and you’ve introduced variables: splatter, smoke, and a look on his face that says he’s improvising in real time. Sensing a nutritional void and a quiet anti-eggplant contingency in the house, I scrambled. I resurrected some chicken parm from Thursday night, prayed I could add enough juiciness to make the “recycle” respectable. By then, the endless volley of “Where is the…?” and “How do I…?” questions had made any hope of retreating to my den to bank those blog posts evaporate.

Dinner blurred for me. After the dishes were cleared, my reward for the day was another airport run to pick up my wife. I felt a little guilty about leaving the house mid-activity, told the kids so, and then spent the drive enjoying fifteen minutes without anyone asking me where anything was. Getting her home before 8:30 PM is a world better than an 11:00 PM pickup. Some wins are quiet.

Later, sitting with zero banked posts and approximately zero relaxation, I chewed on that question from my future DIL — something rooted in our faith, about whether certain things we’re called to do feel more like obligation than privilege. “Do you get it?” The contrast she was drawing: some things in the Christian life aren’t always fun, but with the right mindset, you get to participate in something most people don’t even realize is available to them.

As I thought about this question, I reviewed my weekend. Do I get it?

Yes. I get a life so full of stories I don’t have time to write them all. I get to be a dad and a granddad multiple times a day. I get to cook for people I love — and not every time I do, do I feel grateful, I’ll be honest. But if I have to cook anyway, I might as well frame it as a “get to” rather than a “have to.” The food tastes the same either way. The choice is just which version of yourself shows up at the table.

When you’re exhausted, it can all feel like a “have-to.” But it’s a “get-to” that most people would pay a premium for.

The Price of a Name (and a Perk)

I proposed to her on my birthday thirty-five years ago. It was the best gift I ever got, but it also kicked off a season of high-stakes negotiations. Back then—before kids, mortgages, minivans, and the general sense that I should stretch before standing up—we hit the big question: What are we calling ourselves once we’re married?

She was a freshly minted attorney, which meant this wasn’t the old-fashioned “she’ll take your name” layup I thought it might be. I tried logic. I tried the “think of the children” argument. I probably even tried sounding worldly and modern, which I absolutely was not. But attorneys don’t accept logic as payment. They want terms.

So, I started mentally inventorying what I could offer in a trade. She didn’t smoke, so I couldn’t nobly quit smoking. She wasn’t a vegetarian, so I didn’t have to pretend tofu was a personality. But there was one thing she loved with the kind of devotion usually reserved for religion or college football.

Coffee.

She treated coffee like a constitutional right—after dinner, with dessert, on weekends, on weekdays. Meanwhile, I had never intentionally purchased a cup in my life. The only coffee I’d ever choked down was during an in-home sales job when a customer brought me a piece of apple pie and a black coffee. I wanted the sale, so I drank that lukewarm battery acid like it was a dare, praying my stomach wouldn’t stage a coup on the drive home.

During those months of seating charts and cake tastings, I figured coffee might be the ultimate bargaining chip to seal the deal on the name. It turns out there was no real wrinkle at all; she would’ve taken my name without requiring caffeine-based reparations. She just wanted to see me sweat a little.

But here’s the twist: I ended up liking the stuff.

Thirty-five years later, I like it for breakfast with my peanut‑butter bagel. I sometimes like the quiet of an afternoon cup with something sweet. And most of all, I like bringing her morning refills. It feels like one of those tiny, everyday vows you keep long after the wedding is over.

In the end, she got the name, I got a lifelong habit, and we both got the better end of the deal.

The Fridge Commissioner (Revised Season)

My wife is definitely trying to lose weight, and I’m always “open to the idea” myself. That’s the problem with warm-ups — leftovers, for the uninitiated. They’re the enemy of dieting. They sit there in the fridge, looking innocent, but they know exactly what they’re doing. They whisper. They tempt. They multiply.

And because I hate throwing food away, I’m the one who ends up eating them. I haven’t had a protein shake for lunch in over two weeks. Not because I’m committed to a new lifestyle, but because I’m cleaning up “a little of this and a little of that” like a man who’s been drafted into a war he didn’t sign up for.

This is how I became the Fridge Commissioner — the guy who makes the final call on what gets saved, what gets pitched, and what gets eaten out of sheer guilt. It’s not glamorous work. No one thanks you for it. But if the containers start overflowing, I’m the one who has to step in before the fridge becomes a crime scene.

Meanwhile, the hockey boys are still here. They like home-cooked meals, and we like cooking them. The day of preparation is never the issue. It’s everything after that.

In past seasons, the boys helped with warm-ups. They’d eat anything. They were like friendly garbage disposals with good attitudes. And here’s the thing I didn’t realize at the time: an empty fridge meant something. It meant we’d made something worth eating twice. It meant I was good at this.

This year? Different story.

Unless it’s pizza or a particular favorite, the containers just sit there. The boys seem to have more money for eating out than I ever did at their age. They roll in with bags from places I didn’t even know teenagers frequented (Still plenty of Chipotle, too.) . And they shower constantly — ten times a day, by my estimate. If they get up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s apparently grounds for a shower. If they breathe wrong, shower. If they think about showering, shower.

We’re compensated for feeding them and providing water access, but still — the warm-ups remain untouched. Which means I have no idea if Tuesday’s chicken was actually good or just good enough to eat once.

It wasn’t always like this. When our kids were younger, we had a whole system. If we cleaned out a bunch of warm-ups in one night, there was a reward. Empty containers meant progress. Some of the food combinations that ended up in the same bowl should never have been introduced to each other, but it didn’t matter. Dad was happy, the fridge had breathing room, and the kids got Dairy Queen or homemade blizzards. Warm-up bait worked every time.

These methods do not work on hockey players.

The only strategy that works with them — and with my wife dieting — is simple: only make what will be eaten that night. No leftovers. No warm-ups. No fridge archaeology. It does mean that someone wandering downstairs at 9:30 (usually a hockey boy) won’t have many options, but that’s what chicken nuggets and the air fryer are for. They’ll survive.

I’ve also had to accept that I sometimes care about the meal more than they do. Hockey boys don’t always say “great meal” or “thanks for cooking.” They’re not rude about it, they’re just teenagers. But I used to get the feedback anyway. Empty containers were the review. If the warm-ups disappeared, I’d won.

Now I make one meal and move on. No encores. No second-day votes of confidence.

Still… some of our meals make really good warm-ups. And that’s the tragedy of it all.

The Ellie Effect

Being a grandpa to a granddaughter who’s still measured in months is not a role for anyone who enjoys a slow pace. Ellie is almost nine months old, and she’s developing so fast that last month’s toys are basically wall décor. Her mind is making these huge leaps, and the adults in the house are scrambling to keep everything one step safer than it was yesterday. We never know when the next mental or physical jump is coming, only that it’s coming sooner than we think.

Right in the middle of our living/playroom sits a table that has become Ellie’s personal stage. It’s the perfect height for a pre‑walker with ambition. She’ll grab a hand, a toy, or just her own determination to hoist herself upright. Once she’s standing, her eyes sweep the surface like she’s conducting a security inspection. What can I reach? What belongs to me now? Does that orange thing look like it might taste good?

I used to think she was studying the objects. Now I know she’s studying us. She’s calculating whether she needs to stretch a little farther — and whether we’ll stop her before she claims something she shouldn’t.

For the past few weeks, my wife and I played a ridiculous game of “table shuffle.” Candles, screwdrivers, pens, coasters — anything remotely interesting or dangerous — got nudged from one side of the table to the other depending on where Ellie approached. We convinced ourselves this was a strategy. Really, it was two adults procrastinating while a baby outsmarted us.

Eventually, we surrendered. The table was cleared. A clean slate. A blank canvas for Ellie’s daily experiments. Every morning when she arrives — and I’m with her 25 to 30 hours a week, so I’ve seen this show plenty — we scatter her growing collection of pre‑toddler toys across the surface. Her eyes light up as her fingers make contact with whatever object she has decided she must possess. It’s her stage, and we’re the stage crew.

But the table era won’t last forever. I got a preview of the next chapter the other day. I was helping her walk — hands in mine, feet doing that determined little stomp — when she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She planted her feet, put her hands on the first step, and looked all the way to the top like she was sizing up a mountain she fully intended to climb.

That’s when I realized it: the Ellie Effect isn’t slowing down. As she gets stronger and braver, the house will get safer for her and a little less convenient for the rest of us. And honestly, that’s fine. She’s not going to savor this moment for long, and neither should I. She’s training for her next adventure. I’m just lucky enough to have a front‑row seat.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

Reunions, Regrets & Redemption: A Farm, a Will, and a Trust Walk into a Field…

The Family Reunion I Almost Didn’t Go To (Again)

Every year, they host a family reunion. Every year, I come up with 37 excuses not to go. I live a thousand miles away, it might rain, and honestly, there’s some 30-year-old emotional tumbleweed I still haven’t cleared.

Let me explain.

When I was a kid, my dad died in a car accident. Thankfully, thanks to his planning, we were financially okay. Fast-forward a decade, and his mom—my grandmother—passed away. When her will was read, everything went to my aunt and uncle. My siblings and I? We got a polite “we didn’t forget about you” check that wouldn’t cover a decent pair of work boots. It felt like my dad had been erased from the family tree—just a footnote, if that.

I was hurt. Deeply. I even wrote a letter to the family, probably powered by equal parts early adult rage and grief. I’m not even sure if I sent it. This was pre-email, so hitting “Send” meant licking an envelope and risking real-world consequences.

That’s the baggage I’ve carried into every reunion invite since.

But last weekend, I went. And I talked to my cousin—the one running the family farm. We talked land, legacy, and something called a Family Farm Preservation Trust. It’s a plan to protect the land for future generations, keeping it in the family—even the asterisked ones like me.

It’s not a magic fix, but it was a meaningful moment. One that maybe—just maybe—makes next year’s reunion a little easier to show up for.

Because sometimes healing starts with a conversation… and maybe a trust.

Confessions of a Title Tinkerer: How a 40-Year-Old Business Card Inspired My Latest Obsession

The card that I have been thinking about the past few decades. How could I put my spin on it?

When Inspiration Strikes (And My Family Worries)

Sometimes, I get so laser-focused on a project that my family starts giving me that look. You know, the one that says, “Are you okay, or do you need an intervention?” Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve finished the 1.0 version of my latest obsession. And no, it’s not a new app, a groundbreaking invention, or even an NFT. It’s… a business card.

But not just any business card.

Blast From the Past: The Original Card That Started It All

Back in the good ol’ days of selling cell phones—closer to 40 years ago than 30—I came across a business card that stuck with me. It was a bold, hilarious card with no contact information, clearly a joke (or maybe a way to avoid being constantly called). But it wasn’t just a joke—it was art. It described someone’s services in a way that was both ridiculous and oddly compelling.

Fast-forward to today, and this quirky little card still “lives” rent-free in my brain. So, naturally, I decided to create my own version—a card that reflects my personality and skill set, but with a nice guy twist.

The Creative Process: When Chatbots and Family Weigh In

Crafting my own version of this card wasn’t as simple as slapping a few titles on a piece of cardstock. Oh no. It became a full-blown project. Here’s what went into it:

  1. Family Feedback:
    • I tested multiple titles on my family, only to get vetoed with comments like, “That’s not you,” or “Please don’t put that on a card.”
  2. Chatbot Creativity:
    • I fed some titles into a chatbot, asking it to come up with catchier versions. It responded with alliterative gems and ideas that screamed, “Include me!”
  3. Trial and Error:
    • I experimented with formatting, swapped titles in and out, and gauged success based on whether a title made me laugh or at least smile.

The result? A business card brimming with quirky, creative job titles that feel just right.

What’s Next: Titles and Their Stories

The card itself is done, but the project isn’t over. Each title on my new business card represents a different facet of who I am, and I plan to write a post about each one. These posts will:

  • Explain why I chose the title.
  • Dive into how it reflects my personality, skills, or sense of humor.

It’s a mix of self-reflection, storytelling, and (hopefully) entertainment. Entertainment or not, I am going to write them anyway. 🙂

The card I ended up with. It is the 1.0 version. I may shuffle a title in or out. Wherever the 2.0 version goes, I have a good start!

Father’s Day: Same Tune, New Dance Steps (and a Double-Fly Finale)

Father’s Day this year had all the usual suspects—family, food, and a flurry of “Happy Father’s Day” messages—but also a few new twists that made it stand out. Here’s the recap from the Dad’s-eye-view:

Family Greetings: The Modern Medley

  • In person: Two kids, now in the same city, delivered their best wishes face-to-face—always a treat.
  • Remote: Another kid texted (he’d visited the day before, so he gets partial credit).
  • Combo platter: The youngest offered a text/phone hybrid greeting. Due to half the family being present during her call, her full “Father’s Day” enthusiasm was politely restrained. (I’m saving up for the encore performance.)

Highlight Reel: Dad’s Day Moments

1. The Double-Fly Clap of Legend

With my son as witness, I pulled off an Olympic-level “clap” maneuver—taking out two flies at once.

  • No fly swatter, no problem: Just raw dad reflexes and an innate sense for dramatic timing.
  • Aftermath: Flies disposed of, hands scrubbed, and my son reminded that Dad’s still got it.
  • Flies’ perspective: Worst Father’s Day gift ever.

2. The Men’s Choir: Not Quite the Tenors

At church, all the men got a front-row seat in the choir area.

  • Songs sung: Zero, unless you count my “joyful noising” (which the congregation might not).
  • Dress code: Just face forward at an awkward angle—wide shoulders are a blessing and a curse.
  • Practice required: None, unless you count my wife noticing my unorthodox posture.

3. Wicker Assembly: Dad vs. The Allen Wrench

Outdoor furniture assembly—round two, or, more accurately, round two out of four.

  • Muscle strain: Apparently, the Allen wrench is mightier than the sword…and my lower back.
  • Recovery time: Longer than it used to be, but I still have two chairs left (and plenty of excuses).
  • Note to future self: Next time, consider a nap before assembly.

4. Grandpa Duty: The Sleep Whisperer

After grilling chicken and enjoying dinner, I settled into my most important role—grandpa.

  • Game night: The rest played “Exploding Kittens” while I deployed my legendary baby-rocking skills.
  • Battle of wills: Granddaughter resisted, but ultimately surrendered to sleep, confirming my status as the Baby Whisperer (Retired, but still active).

Looking Ahead: Future Traditions

  • More grandkids? Bring them on—there’s always room for another lap.
  • Father’s Day traditions: If assembling wicker furniture is required in the future, I’ll propose that as my only contribution (with a generous side of supervision).

Here’s to Father’s Days that are the same, but a little different, every year—just the way I like them.