Family

Protecting Hockey Boys From Themselves

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

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

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

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

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

One responded, “No light necessary.”

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

Unfortunately, the evening wasn’t finished with us.

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

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

I answered.

“I got myself in a bit of a jam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naturally, we decided that wasn’t enough.

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

Better yet, why not bring three?

Old MacDonald Had a Papa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Were Getting Entirely Too Comfortable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He apologized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Birthday Thank-You Department

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Life, According to the Wrong Measuring Stick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve Stopped Helping Trouble Find Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Had Other Plans Until You Got Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner Is Served. If You’re Home

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

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

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

The Grandkids Have Opinions, Too

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

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

We Don’t Do Drama

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

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

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

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

When the Billet Home Becomes the Problem

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

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

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

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

Natural Consequences Are Still a Thing

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

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

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

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

A Few Requirements for the Next Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping the Bigger Picture in View

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.