writing

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.

The Semi in Semi-Retired

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

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

And yet, I haven’t done it.

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

Yes, Andy, you’re old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s probably my problem, not hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That last part may take a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If You’d Be in Walmart, I’d Marry You

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

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

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

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

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

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

How This Started

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

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

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

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

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

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

English Is a Strange Language

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Don’t Always Stay on Topic

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Why Do We Keep Doing This?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandpa’s Job Description Is Still Under Review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I May Have Been Too Excited About This

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

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

That day was Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it worked.

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

I really can’t explain this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hockey House Is Cursed

Sometimes, when you’re writing something, you get the feeling the end hasn’t happened yet. As I was writing my most recent hockey installment, that is how I felt. It just seemed like there were a couple of threads that hadn’t quite finished unraveling. My intuition isn’t always right, but when it comes to hockey boys, I seem to have developed a pretty good feel for when the next shoe is about to drop.

Our newest hockey boy has been with us for two weeks yesterday. While that easily works out to 14 days, he has not actually been here for 14 days. Less than a week after he arrived, he left for Minnesota for the NAHL Showcase. With driving time included, they were gone for more than five days. Now that the season is getting into full gear, the volunteering has started to kick in, too. So, while we have been a place for his stuff for two weeks, Judy and I have had exactly one true sit-down meal with him. Apparently, we are running a hockey-themed storage facility with occasional breakfast service.

Three weeks ago, our present hockey player was a potential captain of his NAHL team. He had what he thought was a good relationship with his coach, and he was excited about the season. He had been committed to an Ivy League school for almost four years, and even though there had been a coaching change at the school, he was excited to finish this season and start that part of his life. Then life decided it had other plans. He was traded more than two weeks ago, completely out of the blue. Then he caught a stick in the eye and needed stitches. If the stick had hit him just a little lower, it could have blinded him. So, even though the rules don’t require it, he wears a full mask instead of just a visor when he plays. Then he got stuck living with us and our somewhat boring form of existence.

Until this past weekend, he at least had a buddy at our house. That “buddy” told the coach he wanted to be traded over the weekend and left first thing Sunday morning. While our current boy had already started connecting with the other guys, that accelerated the process. Then came Tuesday’s big bomb. The Ivy League coach de-committed him. In English, he won’t be going to that school to play hockey. If he wants to play hockey in college, he and his advisor now have to start from scratch to find the right school. And he had nobody at our house to really discuss it with beyond Judy and me. With our exposure to hockey only beginning when we started billeting seven years ago, I’m not sure we were equipped to provide the kind of support he needed.

On the good side of the equation, he has played a lot of games in the NAHL, and he continues to get opportunities here. He was selected as one of the captains earlier this week. In only two weeks, he has established himself as an important part of the team. His coach let him know he has his back and won’t let him finish his junior hockey career without a D1 commitment. So, after getting the news, he let us know he was going to hang out with one of his hockey buddies for the evening. That eventually evolved into, “I’m just going to go ahead and spend the night at his place.” This is where the previous version of this tale ended. Except, apparently, it wasn’t the end.

There were clues that things were moving toward us having an empty house. The night before, I received a text from the man who is now the “billet dad.” He texted me, “I contacted the coach about him staying the night. The coach said it was fine.” I knew he was spending the night at the other house, but getting the coach involved did escalate the possibility that their house might become the permanent solution. Then there was the sausage. When I was at the store yesterday, I was picking up a few things to make sure my daughter’s family had some variety for dinner. I already had regular andouille sausage at the house. But knowing our billet boy might eat some, I grabbed turkey sausage as a substitute. As I put it in the cart, I actually asked myself, “Will it even matter?” At the time, I thought I was wondering whether he would eat any of it. Looking back, I think part of me was already assembling the evidence. Turkey sausage may have been my subconscious filing a missing-person report.

Since then, I received a call mid-afternoon from the billet coordinator. There was a poor attempt at small talk before I finally asked, “Good news or bad news?” Good news would have translated into finding out whether a new player was a fit for our house. Bad news would involve a player leaving. My pause earlier in the day suddenly seemed a little more prophetic. Judy doesn’t remember me mentioning it to her, but maybe she wasn’t paying close attention. “Well, it does seem like your house is cursed. With the news he has gotten lately, the coach thinks he should have a house where he has a buddy.”, said the billet coordinator. And so it went. We were told we had done nothing wrong, and I said our only concern with him was the pork allergy. It was cordial. Nobody was mad. Nobody was blaming anybody. But I can’t lie. It hurts a little.

Presently, we still plan on having our breakfast on game-day Friday. But if there are no replacement boys in the house two weeks from now, Judy has already said she doesn’t want to do it anymore. And I get it. After being assigned five boys and losing all five, it starts to feel like we are the hockey version of the last apartment available after the good ones have been rented. We have had some fine young men in our house. But based on the coaches’ evaluations, more than half of them weren’t good enough to play hockey for him. The other one didn’t get enough playing time, and the one who hasn’t quite cleared out his stuff yet wants a house with a buddy.

I understand that not all houses are for all hockey boys. Our tolerance for some qualities probably isn’t as high as it is at other houses. If we are rejected for that reason, I can take it. There are worse things than finding out that your house isn’t the right fit for a teenage hockey player. There are also fewer teenagers involved.

If this stretches out for too long, we can start planning our lives a little differently. Judy wanted to take a cruise this winter. If we go too many weeks without boys, it will allow me to start thinking we are ready to retire from the chaos and planning they bring into our lives. We can still go to all the games if we want. It is just different when you are watching games where it isn’t “our” boy or boys playing. If I don’t feel invested in the players, it is hard to feel invested in the whole hockey package.

After losing five kids, I am very jaded. Getting emotionally involved with another kid takes effort. Last year was easy compared to this. We had one boy for the whole season, and the other two split the season. Three kids. Very manageable. This year, we have already exceeded that, and we aren’t even six weeks into the season. So, if it seems like my opinion of billeting hockey boys has flipped to a “no” vote, it isn’t far off.

When things go smoothly, or at least have some amount of stability, it really isn’t a bad gig. I enjoy ratcheting my age back a few years and talking strategy and life with the boys. There is something pretty cool about having a teenager sitting at the kitchen counter one minute talking about hockey and the next minute asking you about life. But when they move on so quickly, the effort just barely outweighs the “Why bother?”

Tomorrow, my opinion may change. I know myself well enough to understand that another hockey boy could walk through our door, fit into the house, eat my food, make us laugh, and completely ruin this carefully constructed argument. Right now, though, it would have to be a pretty good fit to convince me to disrupt our lives again.

Next year was going to be our last year anyway. Maybe we are just meant to bow out a little sooner. It seems our kids and grandkids need us more than the local NAHL team does this year.

The Great Stone Heist

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across the sales guy for our subdivision—the guy who “lives” in the model home. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so we had a few things to catch up on. I needled him about whether the stuff he was throwing into the dumpster from the back of his truck was all work-related or whether he had snuck some junk from home into the truck purge. He admitted there may have been a little of both.

Whether the guilt was the reason he told me about a pallet of free stone sitting on the corner or whether it was just friendship, I didn’t think I was a candidate to use any of it. We did our typical fist bump and headed our separate ways—me on foot and him in his truck.

I mentioned the stone to my son as a possible landscaping option, but he couldn’t figure out how to use it either. Then I realized there might actually be a project for me. With almost no rain over the past few months, I had nearly forgotten about my ongoing “mulch sliding into the street” problem around our newly planted tree. I was confident it would eventually rain again, because apparently God has a sense of humor when it comes to landscaping.

I picked through the pile and found some ugly stones along with a bunch that were a pretty consistent thickness. I was still a little timid about reacquiring my old “stone whisperer” skills, so I went to Home Depot for a few supplies. Up to this point, the project had cost me exactly $0.

I needed gravel, topsoil and a stone hammer. The first two were easy. The hammer was more complicated. I looked through their entire inventory of hammers, searching for something with a square striking head and a backside that looked like a normal hammer, except without the part designed to pull nails. I wanted something solid that could chip a stone if reshaping became necessary.

Their selection was inadequate, but I found one that offered a few advantages over the hammers I already owned. And honestly, since the project was still practically free, the hammer was going to be my trophy of accomplishment.

At checkout, I mentioned the project to the clerk. He showed me where I could order the proper stone hammer through the service desk and handed me his business card. He later explained that he wasn’t blatantly soliciting customers for his side business while on the Home Depot clock, but he wasn’t opposed to it if the situation could be justified.

I admired the entrepreneurial spirit.

With the supplies in my trunk and my new hammer arriving by UPS the next day, I could see the project coming together.

Because I was still a little timid about my stonework, I texted the Home Depot guy about helping me. He had told me he was a stone mason, and I figured if I was going to do this, I might as well have someone around who actually knew what he was doing. I also mentioned the “stone stash” that would be his for the picking.

He came over the next day and said he could easily help. I offered to ride with him to the pile, but the pictures I had sent him apparently gave him enough confidence to find it himself.

Everything was fine until I got the text a few minutes later.

The supervisor had spotted him picking through the stones and thought he was some guy trying to scrounge free material without authorization.

Technically, he was.

He just had a better story.

I sent a few texts to my subdivision sales guy—the same guy who had originally told me about the stone—and got the situation cleaned up. It turned out nobody cared who took the stone. They just wanted the stone to disappear.

So the great stone heist was really just a communication problem.

This morning, my stone mason showed up promptly at 9:30. I had done some pre-work. I pulled back the weed mat and made sure the stones I had already hauled home were visible. Comparing the thickness of one stone to another was important, which was exactly the kind of highly technical responsibility I was hoping to avoid.

Our first goal was getting the wall about four inches above the curb. Once we established that height, we put the thickest stones on the bottom. That required some digging to get everything level, although the trick was not digging any deeper than necessary.

Once the foundation was established, we started on the cap—the top course of the wall. The stone mason ran his hand over the stones, feeling for changes in thickness. I pulled out my long level, because apparently I still had something to contribute.

The biggest challenge was keeping the cracks from lining up. The stones needed to overlap like Legos, with each piece connected to two or more others. That way, the wall gets stronger as it goes up instead of becoming a very expensive pile of rocks.

The final product wasn’t perfect, but considering my trophy hammer was the most expensive part of the project, I was happy.

My stone mason gave me a quote on replacing the plastic retaining wall in my flower beds. Then I went with him to pick a few more stones while providing cover from any supervisors who might need to boost their egos. Eventually, he headed out.

I cleaned up the area and made my wife put her shoes on so I could brag about the job we had done.

In my younger years, I would happily spend a few days doing a project that someone else could have completed in a few hours. Those days are behind me. I’m now perfectly happy to pay someone a fair wage to help preserve two things: my body and my self-esteem.

Preserving my body is obvious. The self-esteem part is a little more complicated. My wife has strong opinions about how certain things around the house should be done. I haven’t mowed the grass myself in years, and I have discovered that outsourcing a job comes with a valuable side benefit. If I don’t build the stone wall, any criticism Judy may have about the wall doesn’t stick to me. “Boy, I wish he had done a better job,” I can say, and suddenly, I’m on the same team.

I’m not afraid of the work. I’ve simply reached an age where I appreciate the strategic value of having someone else hold the hammer when the final inspection takes place. A good contractor saves you time. A great contractor gives you someone to blame.

A scapegoat for hire is a cheap version of marital bliss.

Yes, you can quote me on that one.

The Plans Could Wait

As my daughter and the twins prepared to spend their first night together outside of a hospital, my daughter’s body was remembering that it was no longer pregnant. Her body was rushing back toward its original configuration, and she realized it would be helpful to have a support parent nearby, just in case. Judy also fulfilled an earlier request from our daughter by delivering a French toast casserole for breakfast. Evidently, postpartum support now comes with catering.

When Judy returned around 8:30 in the morning, she wasn’t alone. Ellie was with her. I had been given a few days off from grandpa duty, so I was mentally prepared to give up whatever part of my day was necessary to keep her entertained. After our usual clementines, with the optional dried mango, I was ready to reacquaint myself with my granddaughter. The plans I had for the day were only marginally important anyway. The next few hours were a blur.

We walked to a different, more toddler-friendly playground about a mile from the house. Ellie was a little timid at first, but she eventually dove in. The slide was better than our usual one, and the tunnel was perfect for a game where Grandpa reached through one opening while Ellie crawled toward another. This qualified as premium entertainment. We wandered around the open area near the park, where one of Ellie’s favorite words, “doggie,” quickly became relevant. We found a dog in the backyard of one of the houses. He looked old, and I was initially concerned about his temperament. Then I noticed he had three legs. He didn’t look threatening, and he certainly wasn’t a threat, but we still had to return to that yard several times so Ellie could announce “doggie” to the appropriate recipient.

The playground also contained a pair of socks and shoes that appeared to belong to the same person. There was a small water playground nearby, but the water had been turned off for more than a couple of weeks. I have no idea how someone could leave their shoes there for that long without realizing they were missing. I know Ellie wouldn’t. The mile home was a different story. Ellie was ready to be home shortly after we left, which meant Grandpa eventually carried her for a significant portion of the trip. When she was walking, however, she was busy collecting weed samples from the yards along the sidewalk and dropping them into the storage compartment underneath the stroller. Eventually, she realized she would have to run tests on all of these samples and had failed to document where each one came from. The scientific process demanded that she throw them out.

She was more successful with some of her field research. At one house, she insisted on completely denuding a birch tree of its bark from about her shoulder height to her knees. She peeled off each piece, scrunched it in her hands, and moved on to the next piece. There was a “For Sale” sign in the yard, and I don’t think I saw any cameras capturing my discomfort. If this had been my child, I would have bolted her into the stroller, smiled through the screams, and kept moving. I am, however, a grandfather. Grandfatherhood has given me a remarkable ability to redefine questionable behavior as “a learning experience.”

Even dogs that showed no particular interest in participating from the other side of the street were awarded the title of “doggie.” I had to keep Ellie from hopping the curb and attempting to catch them and give them a hug. The dog walkers generally understood the situation and kept their doggies moving. The “Grandpa-carrying” portion of the walk introduced another concept: touching trees that hang over the sidewalk. Ellie saw no meaningful distinction between those trees and the trees that required Grandpa to walk across the brown stuff formerly known as grass. Grandpa won that battle, barely.

We share water on most walks. I tolerate a higher degree of floaties and crusties on my straw than many people would find acceptable. Ellie especially likes it when I drink a small Gatorade and leave a little in the bottom. I fully tighten the lid, then back it off just enough that she can unscrew it herself. She then buries the mouth of the bottle in her mouth and works diligently to extract every molecule of flavor remaining. This is one of the privileges of being a granddaughter.

Lunch was spaghetti, and its journey from plate to mouth was not especially efficient. Her clothes provided the clearest evidence. The bib captured what it could, but the fork-and-fist feeding techniques still have some limitations. The backup plan of peanut butter and toast also experienced some logistical challenges. When Ellie finally went down for her nap, I ran to the store for a couple of things we needed for dinner.

At WinCo, I ran into someone buying what appeared to be every bulk bay leaf in the store. “We live in the country,” she explained. “Our neighbor likes to make curry, so she always has us buy them when we come to WinCo.” There was obviously a reciprocal agreement involved, but I didn’t dig into it. Some relationships are best left to the bay leaves.

At Sam’s, I needed two bundles of flowers. Pink roses for our daughter and a nice arrangement for Judy. The woman handing out chip samples next to the flowers wasn’t having much luck. “I’m not moving any chips, so I might as well help you out.” She proceeded to help me pick out both flower bundles. She also showed me that there are bags on the side of the flower station to cover the bottoms of the stems. I have purchased flowers for decades and had somehow missed this entire system. I scanned everything with the app and checked out. I also avoided the chip samples. There are some sacrifices a man must make.

I wasn’t home for long before Ellie wailed. She had been talking to herself before I left, so I have no idea how long she actually slept. My attempt to watch our hockey boys play the Cow Punchers in Minnesota didn’t get very far. It wasn’t quite snack time, but Ellie had reviewed the schedule and decided it was. With Judy gone to take our son and daughter-in-law to the airport for their long journey to India, and me trying to keep a toddler entertained until her parents returned from doing “new baby” things, I didn’t make much progress on the dinner I was preparing for them.

Eventually, Judy returned, and everyone else left. I started prepping onions and stew meat for what I eventually called “Hungarian Beef Fajitas Pasta.” It isn’t the real name. It just seemed to best describe whatever combination of ingredients ended up in our bowls. Judy looked at the pile of dirty dishes and temporarily transformed into her alternate form: Dish Fairy. I’m not a Pokémon person, but the description seemed appropriate.

Between now and whenever our daughter’s life settles into some sort of manageable rhythm, Judy and I are going to be a couple of the lackeys who help make that possible. It isn’t exactly the vision I had for retirement, but I wouldn’t choose any other path. I get to attempt mind melds with my granddaughter. I get to watch two tiny babies begin their lives. I get to see our daughter figure out what it means to be a mother of three while knowing she doesn’t have to figure it out alone.

I’m learning that being involved isn’t a scheduled activity. There isn’t always an appointment on the calendar or a defined block of time where Grandpa is officially on duty. Sometimes it’s a casserole. Sometimes it’s flowers. Sometimes it’s carrying a tired toddler home while she collects weeds for a scientific study she will never complete. Sometimes it’s just being there.

I’m still working on the flexibility part of this retirement thing, especially when it involves putting my own plans aside. But there are worse things to learn how to do.

And right now, I’m in a pretty happy place.

Two More Players

Yesterday, I had no babysitting duties and no expectations to spend time with my pregnant daughter. It was the big day. Those creatures she had been supporting for a few months were finally going to come out, breathe their own air, and circulate their own blood. Her headaches, swollen legs, and all the other things I had heard about secondhand would either disappear forever or eventually convince her that her house needed more humans to love.

This left me with a rare set of circumstances. How was I going to spend a long day without something involving my family? Of course, Judy is family, but she is a big girl and can take care of herself. After the morning routine, where I refill her coffee a couple of times, she puts on her headset and goes into work mode for most of the day. Until dinner, I am only slightly more important than a piece of furniture.

Grandpa 2.0 was planning a more relaxed introduction to the new additions. I was excited to meet them, but with our first grandchild, we may have been a little closer to the smothering end of the spectrum. This time, we were more chill. We had been doing the “old, but still nimble enough” routine for a few months, and we knew our daughter had a much better grasp on parenting than we did when we first became grandparents. She was going to be locked into full-on mom mode. Beyond some tag-teaming of Ellie and a few nights when Momma Judy would stay over to help get the babies on a schedule, my role would remain at home with the hockey boys. I had my own small population to manage.

So, what did I do with this rare free day?

I did one really dumb thing.

My email is hosted at Google, and I decided I would play IT guru and clean up a few things. My email was working fine, but Google suggested a couple of tweaks that would supposedly make things better. After dipping my toes in the water and not breaking anything, I dove in. The result was that my usual ton of slightly-better-than-spam emails became almost nonexistent. The actual spam dried up, too. The only emails making it through were being forwarded from my Yahoo account.

I don’t need spam emails to feel popular, and I don’t need much of my regular email either. With all my bills on autopay, I can go days without an important email. So, while I am a little mad at myself, I suppose I have given myself the gift of not having to create new rules for the new breed of incoming emails or spend time deleting them. I will take the gift and thank myself.

You’re welcome.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw the guy who “lives” in the model home in our subdivision. With all the new construction going on, he told me about a pallet of rock that was free for the taking. I noodled on it for a while but couldn’t think of anything I could use it for. Then I noticed the tree near our mailbox was living with a ridiculous grade between the sidewalk and the street.

Obviously, the solution was free rocks.

I made two trips to gather enough stones to try to build a little stone wall around the tree. Many of the rocks were ugly, misshapen things, but as I dug through the pile, I found some pretty good ones on the bottom. Nothing worthy of its own photo shoot, but if I can pull this off, the tree should be happier. I also won’t have to buy any more “mulch glue” to keep the mulch from being sucked into the street. If the whole idea goes wrong, my biggest problem will be figuring out what to do with all the rocks I gathered. They’re pretty heavy, so it could become a multi-week project of selectively dropping them into the rolling trash bin. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Since the hockey boys had blown us off for sushi the night before, and Judy and I don’t love garlic bread quite as much as they do, we didn’t bother making it for our Italian meal Sunday night. That didn’t mean it couldn’t become French toast. Judy cut the leftover bread in half and set me up with eight slices, which would get me through two meals. There was still some leftovers from Sunday, so Judy ate that.

We like breakfast for dinner. It just doesn’t make for much conversation. When two people are eating different things with limited options, you can’t say, “Give me another small serving of watermelon,” or whatever else might fill that little empty space in your belly. The plates were cleared, Judy headed to her bike for a few laps around the neighborhood, and I put my AirPods in and listened to my book while doing what I hope was the last watering of the year. I’m happy the heat is gone. I’m also really tired of watering every other day.

At some point during the day, one of our brief interactions produced the question, “I’m really hungry for some custard. What do you think?” Judy didn’t disagree, so I pulled up a recipe that has appeared on my Facebook feed approximately seventeen thousand times. While I finished watering and she got back from her bike ride, she jumped in and made it. After it went into the oven for 55 minutes with a water bath, we climbed into the hot tub. After the hot tub, we had time to start watching our shows before we even had the custard. Did we already watch the second season of The Pitt? Darn. I was looking forward to that.

We eventually ate the custard.

We both had seconds.

It was a pretty normal evening.

Except that somewhere in the middle of all this very important business, we were tracking the progress of our daughter delivering twins. We had been getting updates by text. Pitocin. Epidural. A trip to the OR. More waiting. More texts. We didn’t know exactly how things were going, but we knew enough to know that things were moving.

And then they were here.

Two healthy baby girls.

Our daughter didn’t need a C-section.

Just like that, the most spectacular thing happening in our family was unfolding while I was fixing email, collecting rocks, eating French toast, watering plants, making custard, and watching TV.

I’ll take a month of boring. I’ll take a year. I’ll take years where nothing particularly exciting happens and still call myself fortunate if days like this occasionally show up.

At our age, things happen. We don’t sweat every detail. Our kids are adults now. We get to cheer for them and give honest answers when they ask. We get to watch them navigate their own lives without feeling like we have to jump into every problem and solve it for them.

Before the kids were adults, one of my fears was, “What if something happens to my wife or me?” Now they’re out of the house, building families, solving adult problems, and occasionally making us grandparents twice over in a single evening.

We get to cheer. We get to compliment them when they handle something well. If they have a rough time, we can ask, “What did you learn? What would you do differently if something like that happens again?” We get to meet them wherever they are.

If we did our job well, maybe that’s what this stage of parenting is supposed to look like. Less hands-on, more coaching. We get to watch our kids use the skills they learned while they were living under our roof and hope they realize we weren’t completely clueless.

And if one of the benefits of being a coach is getting to interact with the second team, I’m pretty excited about my new roster.

Two more players.

I can’t wait to meet them.

Monday Had Other Ideas

Monday started like it normally does. Well, not completely normal. As the sun rises later, my requests for blackout curtains become less of an issue. Sleeping past 7:00 is something I take full advantage of this time of year. If daylight saving time ever gets the boot like my married son wants, I don’t care to know what that will do to my sleep. I’m already lucky if Judy wakes up before me and makes the coffee once a week. Breakfast lately has been homemade bagels, thanks to Judy’s new hobby. They aren’t perfect, but they’re getting there. Some could rise a little more. We’re also still figuring out whether freshly ground flour, which requires the flour mill that was part of the hobby, plays by the same rules as regular flour. Yesterday’s experiment was cinnamon bagels. So far, nobody has been hospitalized.

At 9:00, I had my regularly scheduled meeting with a friend in Asia. He listens to me overtalk, and I try to ask questions that help him with his English. He thinks he’s getting the better end of the deal, but I genuinely enjoy our conversations. He knows all about our hockey players, the Oklahoma heat, and the upcoming babies. I know about his son’s health challenges, his mom’s gardening, and life as a college professor. We talk about spiritual things, too, but we could easily fill an hour with random questions and whatever happens to be going on that week. It’s an hour well spent.

After that, I was surprised when my daughter wanted to hang out with Dad/Grandpa for a few hours. This was supposed to be the day she was induced, and she was ready to get those babies out of her belly. She had skipped church the day before because, according to her, she had an overwhelming desire to have them born. She stopped for coffee on the way over and announced that she had now carried the twins longer than she carried her first child. If Ellie were a casserole, she seemed to be baked just fine. Our plan was simple: pick up a few groceries so we could feed the hockey boys before they left for the showcase in Blaine, Minnesota.

The Walmart trip went pretty smoothly, other than deciding whether Ellie wanted to push the cart from the bottom rack or be carried. The part that nearly brought me to violence was installing the “I am not a baby anymore” car seat in the back seat. Between the cumbersome seat and the retracting seat belt, it took me nearly ten minutes to get it attached to my daughter’s standards. There are moments when you realize parenthood doesn’t end. It just eventually involves more complicated car seats.

When we got home, my daughter informed me that she had basically nothing to eat at her house. “Surely you have more food here than we do,” she said. With church people planning to provide meals after the babies arrive and regular donations available from our kitchen, she had wisely left room for the coming food influx. Her cupboards had become a nutritional wasteland by design.

Ellie happily took care of the mashed potatoes, corn, and watermelon. My daughter helped eliminate some of the leftovers the boys had brought home from restaurants and never eaten. We had chicken, steak, and some good roasted carrots. I even patted myself on the back for clearing enough containers out of the refrigerator to create the possibility of cooking something new. I confirmed that my son and daughter-in-law had received their invitation to dinner and started looking forward to making some fresh leftovers.

That lasted about five minutes.

The hockey boys texted to say they were going out for sushi with another player. Suddenly, dinner depended entirely on whether our son was coming over. Eventually, his text arrived. We had someone to cook for.

For dinner, I was primarily the sous chef. I chopped the broccoli so it would roast properly. Sam’s has stopped carrying the bags of broccoli that used to cost around $4, and now the quality has gone down while the price has headed toward $6. I’m not sure what corporate executive decided that was a good trade, but I assume he doesn’t eat broccoli. Since Judy has officially designated me “The Meat Trimmer,” I prepped the chicken breasts for their Shake ’n Bake treatment. She handled the eggplant Parmesan. The rest of us enjoyed it. She did not seem particularly interested in joining us on that opinion. I also picked basil from our volunteer plant out back, and Judy pulled together my favorite pasta to finish the meal.

Even without the hockey boys, our son brought his appetite. There was a little pasta left, but everything else was within one meal of disappearing. We caught up over dinner, and I got the update that their trip wasn’t canceled, just delayed until the paperwork and travel schedule cooperate.

Meanwhile, after numerous questions about my daughter’s Monday night trip to the hospital, my repeated text response of “She’s getting induced tonight” became an innocent lie. It turns out there was a rush on delivering babies before fall arrives. There were no beds.

So much for the scheduled induction.

A scheduled induction is a great idea in theory. In practice, the hospital gets to schedule the schedule. I let everyone know the arrival would be postponed about 12 hours, give or take. Really, the babies will arrive whenever they decide the accommodations are acceptable.

Before bed, we got our final updates from the boys. Of course, the $400 sushi dinner was the best sushi they had ever had. Our age-out boy informed us that the peptides he had wouldn’t get him through Sunday, so he would have to reduce the daily dose a little until he returned. The other boy, who had been concerned about his playing time, let us know that he had talked to the coach and was told that if he still felt the same way in a couple of weeks, they would work through it. We mixed in some encouragement and affirmation, knowing we wouldn’t be up to see them off before they left at 7:00 the next morning.

A little chaos mixed with a little resolution. That seems to be how life works when you live close to some of your adult children and invite a few extra adults-in-training into your life. We pause our shows for updates. We adjust our viewing expectations. We listen to what they’re thinking and occasionally discover that their problems have become our problems simply because they happened to mention them in the kitchen.

Every once in a while, I find myself wondering, “Is this what we signed up for?”

Then I remember the alternative.

Nothing happening. Nobody needing anything. No car seats to fight, no hockey players to feed, no babies refusing to follow the hospital schedule, no refrigerator full of mystery containers, and no reason to pause the show because somebody just walked through the door with an update.

Boring may be somewhere in my future. I’m just not in any hurry to meet it.

I’d rather be disappointed that I didn’t get everything done than pleased with myself because I never left anything on the To-Do list.

Yeah.

I agree with that most of the time.