The Dating Dad

The Narrow Place Revisited: March/April 2018

I’d finally found a moment to take a breath, sit down for a sec, and strategize how to complete my to-do list in the next two hours, before more than a dozen guests started showing up at the house, expecting to be fed. I still wanted to run down the street to my office and print out readings I’d found, make the matzah balls for the soup, cut the crudités, and set the table.

And for the first Passover in years, I felt like I was ahead of the game.

Which was weird, because Simone wasn’t around to help me; I was doing it all myself — the cleaning, the organizing, the shopping, the prep, the cooking.

For years, Simone and I have hosted Passover seder for friends and family — we would plan together, then she’d come along to two or three grocery stores, where I’d send her on missions to track down ingredients. The day before the ceremonial dinner, I’d get started on prep while she would create our “Passover Jeopardy” board, which had become an annual tradition.

 

(Passover, 2017)

 

On the day of the big dinner, I’d work feverishly to get things in order, giving Simone her own list to get through (clear the counters, wash the parsley, set the table, unload the dishwasher, make the salt water). Every year, I’d get progressively more stressed, and every year she’d start to grouse that she just wanted to relax on the couch and that hosting a seder for 15-20 people caused us more stress than pleasure. But every year, by the time we all sat down around the tandem tables, we felt warm and happy and excited to share a festive evening with our Denver fam.

So this year, when Simone’s mom emailed me that she’d booked their spring break trip right into the holiday, I was devastated — it’s our last chance to host a seder together for a long time. I was sad that we wouldn’t share in our annual tradition once more before she left for college, I was disappointed that my friends wouldn’t get to celebrate with her, and I was bummed I wouldn’t have an extra set of hands to help me through.

On the brighter side, I thought, the celebration could be a bit more salty and grown-up without the teen, and maybe more sloshy, too.

But the way things turned out were probably a pretty decent preview of what life will be like in a few months, when Simone moves away and I’m on my own — the goodness and the grief.

First, not having the girl around may have actually helped me stay focused. I got little bits of prep and cleaning out of the way during the week, and stayed up until the wee hours the night before getting the chicken soup going and the tilapia terrine ready for the oven. And though it was a somewhat lonely time in the kitchen all the next day, listening to podcasts and multitasking was a LOT less stressful than listening to whining and chivvying the girl to get off her butt and help out.

When my friends started showing up, the initial chaos from logistical hiccups smoothed into a lovely, chill evening. We FaceTimed with Simone during Passover Jeopardy, and she loved being part of the celebration. It wasn’t the same thing as having her there, of course. But her voice and presence still added joy and playfulness to the evening, and it was good to see her face for a few minutes. I didn’t cry when we hung up, but I did take another shot of tequila with my friends.

Just like when Simone moves away, I’d expected to drink more — whooping it up and toasting friends and freedom, slowly and joyfully drifting into a happy haze of celebration. But though the wine and liquor flowed freely, nobody got too blotto, including me. By the time everyone left late in the evening, I was a little wine-happy, elbows deep in soap suds, listening to music as I washed pots and pans and set them out to try.

And that's the thing, right? I have no idea how it’s going to be when my little girl, housemate, friend, and travel buddy moves away in August. I’ll probably find it a little better than what I’m imagining, and a little worse, too.

There’s no question I’ll miss her terribly, and that I’ll have moments of deep sadness, wallowing in loneliness when she leaves. Little things will trigger heartache. Wednesdays won’t have the extra magic of being excited about picking up Simone at the bus stop and getting her back for a few days. We won’t have our Saturday afternoon reading fests at our favorite coffee shop, Simone sipping away at her earl grey tea, both of us deep in our books for hours, but joined in companionable silence, our mutual love of the written word connecting us to each other.

We won’t have our evening routine, the same since she was two years old, where she sips Yogi Tea in bed, while I read aloud another novel (doing all the voices), stopping at times as we talk about the implications and themes, laughing together before I turn out the light and we say our bedtime prayer, kissing her on the forehead, and closing the bedroom door.

Yep, yep, it’s going to crush me for awhile.

But.

I’ll no longer have to turn down a big Thursday evening foodie event because I’m parenting. I won’t have to get up before dawn to wake up Simone, pack her lunch, make her breakfast, and drive her to school.

I could go out big every night of the week, if I wanted to.

But the reality is, as fun as that sounds, I still need my hermit time. I don’t tend to get hungover, but I do find myself in need of quiet couch and movie evenings, where I trade bourbon and bluster for tea and television. It’s not like I’m going to suddenly get drunk every night, just because I don’t have my built-in parenting evenings to keep me in check.

And even if I do find myself paralyzed by the extra alone time, unable to make a decision beyond what to forage for dinner from the fridge, my friends will NOT let me drift away in a haze of self-pity. In fact, I’ll have more time for my pals than ever before. How amazing will it be to hop a plane for a long weekend of indulgent drinking and dining escapes with my friends without having to sort out if it’s a parenting weekend?

As much as my heart hurts to realize how quickly these last four months are going, and how much I’m trying to wring the most out of every remaining moment with my girl, a part of me is secretly excited about the freedom of this next phase of my life.

Will I go overboard one direction or the other? Drinking myself to oblivion several nights in a row, or not leaving my bed for days at a time? Yep, no doubt. But my motto for my adult life has been, “All things in moderation, even moderation.” So I can’t imagine drifting too far from a moderated and magical way of living, just because I no longer have a kid in the house.

I wrote years ago about how Passover celebrates the Israelites’ escape from Egypt, “Mitzrayim” in Hebrew, which means “narrow place.” Every year, during the holiday, I think about the narrow places in which I’m trapped or encumbered — a work situation that’s a source of daily stress; a way of thinking that keeps me limited to a certain path; expectations from others that I’m shouldering without knowing it.

Hosting seder this year opened my eyes to a narrow place I didn’t know I’d slipped into, which is the constant awareness that the clock is ticking, and Simone already has a foot out the door. It’s pretty much all she can talk about, and it’s all anyone asks me about lately, and it’s the thing I always bring up first when people ask what’s going on in my life. Maybe I need to stop the constant rumination and just enjoy spring and summer as much as possible — when I have Simone with me, but also when I don’t.

These next few months are going to be tough. Emotional, anxious, and full of tears. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep finding the magic in every day and doing my best to be mindful of the moment, whether Simone is part of it or not.

I’m not ready for her to go. But I’m excited for this next phase of her life.

And mine.

Doldrums Again: February, 2018

Honestly, it took Simone asking, “Dad, why are you so angry?” for me to realize just how out of sorts and not myself I’ve been the last several weeks — my seasonal doldrums had taken on a surly, frustrated shade, and I’d ignored the signs, attributing my endless internal monologues to the stress of a new calendar year.

We were driving in traffic on a wintry Thursday afternoon, coin-sized flakes of snow lazily blanketing the windshield. We weren’t in any particular hurry, but I was still grousing about the shitty Denver drivers — the car in front of us in the left turn lane not pulling into the intersection, the slow and steady station wagon going 10 miles under the speed limit, the dude in the Dodge Ram driving so close to my back bumper I could almost smell his breath.

I was cursing out loud, providing vitriolic driving instructions to the vehicles around us, and Simone cut through my fevered haze of frustration with her question.

Yeah, why was I so angry?

It wasn’t the easiest of days, to be sure — I’d gone to bed the night before thinking about my father, but it wasn’t until mid-morning that day, when I’d arrived late and out of breath to a conference and was chatting with another attendee, that I remembered it was the fourth anniversary of Dad’s passing. I stopped mid-sentence, gathered myself together, and finished my thought. Then I sat there listening, but not really, because all I could think was, four years? Four. Years?

But I had to power through the day, be productive, get my stuff done and care for Simone, shuttle her to an appointment, then brave a snowy rush hour home so I could cook dinner for the two of us. And that’s what I did, not really giving myself time to think and be sad until we were nestled on the couch in front of the fireplace, streaming “Scrubs,” with its graceful dance between slapstick and sentiment.

Just like in years past, the first weeks of February were especially difficult. And just like in years past, the realization snuck up on me before I perceived I was being such an ass to people. This time of year is historically tough, even without the added layer of anniversary grief. You’d think, by now, I’d be better prepared for it. Looking back, I haven’t written a romantic February post in years.

My seasonal doldrums aren’t consistent from year to year. Sometimes they come in thick and dark, a deep haze of sadness, where I function by rote, just keeping the wheels turning until the weather and the sunlight bring hope back. Other years, I’m just sort of blue for a couple months, more inclined to lay on the couch and watch TV from under a blanket than to go out and be social. And sometimes the deep winter months pass easily, with a few good #snowpantsTuesdays and fireplace weekends, lots of cocktails and meals with friends, mini-adventures with the girl.

But this year? I’ve been oscillating between deep anger and wan sorrow for weeks. The causes are obvious in retrospect — the constant countdown of Simone moving away to college; the return to the time of year when I woke up every morning for weeks thinking I’d be getting a call that my father had died; the feeling that, after 10 years in business, I was holding my company together with scotch tape and rubber-bands; the short, cold, lonely days where my malaise fed on itself while I did my best to maintain an optimistic facade.

Any one of those things would be a challenge. But all of them together, piled on top of each other day after day? It’s been a heavy weight. I thought I was carrying it well enough, without burdening the people around me with my heartache, but I’ve learned in the past couple of weeks that my inchoate despondency has manifested itself in critical outbursts, angry emails, and general withdrawal from (or avoidance of) important conversations.

I’ve been like a grenade with the pin pulled, always on the verge of an explosion.

Thank goodness for the kindness and generosity of my pals, always there to wrench me out of my self-centered wallowing, forcing me up the mountain or into the bar, distracting me and supporting me. They call me out (kindly) when I’m not at my best but also don’t let me beat myself up overly much.

They’re maybe the least-likely people on the planet to take my behavior and moodiness at face value, giving me leeway to be present or not as I need to, happy to keep the lighthearted banter going even as I sip at my boulevardier and withdraw into myself for a little bit. They know when to drag me to the next spot and when to let me drift home earlier than usual.

And we’re all so wrapped up in our own transitions and shenanigans, any one of us can carry the conversational slack when we need to.

Not sure how I’d cope without them.

And Simone, too, has been especially gentle, telling me often how much she appreciates me, taking responsibility for herself, and generally being the young adult she’s growing into. She turns 18 in March, and seems more and more grounded and together week after week.

I’m generally a happy person, so moments of pure joy, laughter, and love still float over the steady undercurrent of worry and depression, tugging me back into the moment (where all the goodness is) just about every day.

And those days are, finally, growing incrementally longer, the sun shining a little less slantwise. We’ve had some brutally cold ones lately, but it’s bracing to bundle up and brave them for a walk to a hot bite or a cozy cocktail. Our rare below-freezing Colorado evenings punctuate the season like a splash from a chilly stream, invigorating and revitalizing even as they make me look to the temperate summer nights that still seem far away. And they give me the excuse I need to laze away my stress in front of the fireplace, streaming series and grazing from the fridge.

Work is picking up, I seem to have survived another February, the ski resorts are finally sporting decent snow, and a sense of possibility is occasionally finding its way into my pensive first moments each morning. I’ve been given several well-deserved kicks in the ass for my curt communications, and I’m taking them to heart.

Anybody who battles the blues on a regular basis knows at some level that the feelings of hopelessness and despondency are temporary — blue skies will come, because they always do. If you’re reading this and feel like I do, I hope you can gain some small measure of optimism from my survival story. We’ll get through this.

I may have been facing March acting like an angry lion, but now that I’m awake, I’m hoping to slip into it with more of a purr.

Teapot Philosophy: January, 2018

We were cleaning up after our healthy dinner of pan-fried mahi mahi, sautéed brussels, and steamed rice — it was our first meal together in nearly a week, and our first real chance to catch up after winter break. Simone’s mom had picked her up after our NYE trip to SF, and then it was my off-duty weekend and my kid-free days, so we hadn’t communicated much beyond our daily text messages and sharing stuff that entertained us via Instagram and Twitter DMs.

I’m super-sensitive to the time I have with the girl now, and even though I try to think around it, sometimes the ticking clock grabs me by the collar, and I can’t help realizing that my remaining Simone-in-the-house time is slipping away. It makes me anxious and a little weepy, which is why I try to push thoughts of her heading off to college out of my mind as soon as they make their way back in.

So stop asking me what I’m going to do with myself when she leaves.

But there we were, Simone stacking our plates to carry them to the sink, me telling her how proud I was to see her helping the family out on our visit to my baby sister’s house. She’d been especially helpful with her younger cousins, and had even cooked breakfast for the whole family one morning.

She turned on the hot water to rinse the Valentina sauce and last grains of white rice off our plates before putting them into the dishwasher.

“I have this thing I call my ‘teapot philosophy,’” she said. “You know, when I’m making tea, I always make sure there’s enough water in case someone else wants some.” She explained that this philosophy extended into everyday life, where she tried to be aware of ways to share and be generous in general.

I’ve always taught Simone to be gracious — to be kind and smile when ordering food or dealing with a customer service rep; to be aware of the effect her presence has on others, especially when traveling or as a guest in someone’s home; to err on the side of kindness in her interactions with people (especially teachers).

But, you know, she’s a teenager, so even though she manages to be charming when we’re out in the world, she can still be a selfish kid and a pain in the ass. Hearing her talk about her “teapot philosophy” helped me realize she’d internalized my modeling and made it her own. What an awesome mindset for a teenager to have!

Think about the way the world might look if more of us lived by the teapot philosophy. Smiling at strangers as you hold the door for them, or remembering the humanity of the telemarketer who’s just trying to pay the bills. Taking a moment to see if your coworker could do with a coffee on your way into the office, or taking a deep breath before firing off an angry email, or maybe not engaging in a toxic response when asking a few questions will get you to the heart of the matter.

We’re all in a hurry. We’re all stressed. We’re all angry about the world.

But, man, how good do those small, momentary breaks from distress feel, when you’re wrapped in the mantle of kindness after a random smile from a stranger or an unexpected kind word or text message in the middle of your day?

It’s harder to seethe when the person across from you makes a conscious decision to breathe and smile and pause, rather than argue back mindlessly. Every time you’re that person, you not only open a bridge to better communication, but you feed your soul and make your heart healthier.

For me, it’s all about the deep breaths. When I’m about to lose it, if I can remember to breathe slowly and fully, I can feel the tension in my body and brain subside just a bit. A deep breath can keep you from an angry escalation, but it can also give you a moment to realize you’re in a teapot philosophy moment, where buying an extra cookie or picking up the tab could spread a little warmth around.

We need more of those moments of connection and respite. We need to be more intentional in our generosity and sharing with others.

I know I could do better on this. And thanks to my tea-loving, introverted, geek goddess daughter, I’m going to.

The Keys: November, 2017

Quick request:

Today is the last day of the month of #Movember, where I grow a big, hairy mustache to raise funds and awareness for men’s health issues — prostate and testicular cancer, along with mental health and suicide prevention. I’ve been doing this for several years, and it became more poignant for me after losing my dad. Some people love the ‘stache, and some hate it, but that’s part of the fun during the 30 days that it grows from a bit o’ scruff to a full-on disaster.

You still have time to donate into December, if you’d like to support me and the cause. I would be SO grateful. In some ways, considering the current social and political climate, it seems tone deaf to advocate for men’s mental and physical health, but with hundreds of thousands of men dying too young every single year — our fathers, our brothers, our friends — it’s still an urgent need.

Here’s the link.

Speaking of mustaches, I took mine and Simone down to the Florida Keys over Thanksgiving week for a bit of diving and a ton of seafood. I was actually concerned that my scuba mask wouldn’t seal well over the lip monster, but it was fine.

Terrible segue.

I wanted to get Simone back in the water before she forgot how much she loved diving and how good she was at it. During these stressful times, while she awaits early application responses from her two top schools, I want to do anything I can to help keep her confidence high. I know too well how it ebbs when it’s not nourished.

In fact, when I first posited a trip to Florida, Simone wasn’t enthusiastic. Our text conversation went something like this:

“But, Florida?”

“Yeah! Warm weather and beautiful dives!”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, I just found out we can dive wrecks, which is what you’ve been really wanting to do.”

“Yeah, that’s cool. But still. Florida?”

“Did I mention we can eat seafood every day?”

“Oh, you have a point. Book the tickets.”

But I knew, I just knew, that getting her in the water would be good for her soul. And mine.

So I bought our plane tickets, reserved a hotel, made arrangements with a dive shop, and then Hurricane Irma made her landing, and we waited for weeks to know if our trip could still happen. Simone didn’t have strong feelings about the adventure either way, which was maddening and, well, expected.

But by the time we’d connected through Chicago (wet Italian beef sandwich!) and picked up our cute rental car in Miami, we’d both settled back into the joys of traveling together.

So there we were, driving down the Overseas Highway with the windows open, bellies full of fresh mango and a guanabana milkshake from the Robert is Here fruit stand, a Spanish radio station’s latin pop cranked to be heard above the wind mussing our hair, Simone translating song titles and snippets of lyrics, both of us smiling and laughing.

Our first dive was cancelled the next afternoon due to high winds and waves, but not before Simone nearly had a meltdown trying on the rental wetsuit, deeply unhappy as she struggled to get the wrinkled, skin-tight neoprene up over her legs and hips. Of course, having me whisper, “Take a deep breath, please calm down,” didn’t make things any better. And then she had to peel the whole thing off when the boat captain suggested we postpone until the next day. But I noted the relief in her sigh as she yanked her left foot out of the leg of the suit.

We ended up putting away a pound or two of stone crab claws at a picnic table outside a fish market before meandering down the Keys in our little car and taking in the sights. When we found a state park full of coral fossils exposed in a defunct quarry, Simone geeked out for an hour, using a laminated guidebook from the ranger’s office to explain to me what we were looking at.

The next morning, after a Waffle House breakfast, we found Simone a lycra bodysuit (recommendation from a close friend of mine), and that afternoon she was able to slip the rented wetsuit right on without fuss or stress.

The sun bounced rainbows off the rooster tail wake behind the boat as we left the quay and headed out to open water. Our dive guide was a college student studying underwater archeology, so she and Simone bonded pretty much right away on all the nerdy things. And she was stoked to be with us on Simone’s first post-certification dives. I could see my girl getting a little nervous during the pre-dive briefing, and she balked at leaping off the front of the boat and into the water, so the captain led her around to a ladder, where she could slip in a little more easily.

And then… we were underwater, diving along the wreck of an old coal barge, and everything was beautiful. Simone’s jitters disappeared as she settled into the slow and steady breathing from her training, and of course every pufferfish was a small miracle to her. The next dive that day and the two the day after were easy and gorgeous, in warm water and dazzling sun, swimming over historical shipwrecks and exploring reefs.

Because that’s how it is with Simone — get her past that first bit of doubt, and she settles down, letting her natural gifts restore her confidence. It’s something I try to remind her of, how that initial dissonance and discomfort goes away fairly quickly, once she warms to whatever it is she’s working on. My little perfectionist doesn’t like the struggle, so I try to provide her with chances to be challenged, work through it, and thrive.

One key is to help her appreciate incremental successes (The wetsuit went on no problem! You took a big stride into the water and we’re good!) even amongst the hiccups and obstacles.

Another key is to let her fail sometimes, whether it’s in the kitchen or on a project, and figure out ways to do better the next time, learning from her mistakes along the way.

And probably the most important key is to remind her of where she excels, because it’s easy to forget when things don’t go well.

This is all very much on my mind, because Simone applied “early action” to her two favorite colleges and they’re both highly selective. Applying early demonstrates enthusiasm, but it doesn’t necessarily improve a student’s chances for admission (from what I understand). And though I hope that her top school will accept her, with less than a 7% acceptance rate, there’s a chance it won’t happen.

So it’s this balance between helping her maintain confidence but also bracing her for potential disappointment. It’s like, she loves her scuba time and feels good at it, but she also burns through her air faster than everyone else because she’s not a strong swimmer and flails around a ton. So giving her props for diving while trying to coach her on better control in her swimming is a delicate dance.

The benefit of Simone’s rapid emptying of her tank wasn’t clear to me until our final dive. We were exploring a reef system's wildlife when one of the guides we were diving with made a series of gestures to me. All I picked up was, “It’s time to go up,” so I nodded and we floated our way to the surface. It wasn’t until we were on the boat that I realized nobody else in the dive party had come up with us — the gesture had been, “Simone is low on air, so we’re going up. Do you want to stay with the party, or come with us?”

I’d had enough air in my tanks for another 20 minutes underwater, but it was too late to change my mind. Instead, I jumped off the side of the ship and splashed around in the sea while we waited for other divers to return, relishing the saltwater and sun. Because our trip had been so short, because Simone isn’t a beach person, and because we didn’t have a beach to enjoy on this trip anyway, that turned out to be my only time to be playful in the warm ocean water. When I realized this, it was a struggle to return to the boat when it was time to head back to shore.

The trip was short and sweet, giving us both a brief respite and a little time to breathe before a month of intensity begins. As we buckle up for the ride, it’s good to have another set of happy memories to help us stay positive and confident.

 

 

 

#ThisIs50: October, 2017

It’s been a tough one for me to acknowledge, and my first instinct was to slip across the threshold quietly, with minimal fuss. But my sibs and friends wouldn’t let that happen.

So there we were, in a multi-bedroom, four story mountain house in Vail, drinking cocktails, cooking together, laughing, and celebrating. My sisters teamed up with my pal Joey to find a rental, and get a crowd up the hill, and my middle sister, Sarah, and her husband raided Costco for enough food to keep us noshing all weekend long.

That Friday morning, after I dropped Simone off at school, we gathered at the house to pack up and hit the road. My sister Karen had picked up our cousin at the airport, but what I didn’t know until he magically walked through the door, was that one of my favorite people in the whole world had flown in from SF to join us.

Christopher was there at the beginning of my single days — living with Simone and me in the big blue house, his friendly Bernese Mountain Dog a constant cuddly presence in our lives. And when he moved out to California, he was roommates with my sister Karen for years. That made it awesome for my many visits out there.

He and I were the first to arrive at the mansion, hitting a fat-flaked snowstorm as we drove over the pass and down into the city. The aspens were at peak-autumn, entire hillsides aflame with deep gold and brassy vermillion. Near-whiteout conditions gave way to soap-flake flurries as we ambled up the long driveway to the massive brick and wood home.

That whole afternoon was taken up by arrivals — and surprise guests — every one of them there to help me celebrate my momentous birthday.

One of the more magical moments happened as evening approached. The sky had cleared to pure blue, and the snow had melted off the golden leaves outside the picture windows. We had a Pandora station playing Coltrane, and were drinking our first or second rounds of Manhattans when “Take Five” by Brubeck started playing — my dad’s favorite song. Just like that time in NYC, it felt like a sign my father was there with us.

The weekend was filled with long walks, multi-branching conversations with people stepping in and out of the discussion as they had something to add or take in, a constant array of food and drink on the massive kitchen island, games, a terrible jigsaw puzzle, hot tub shenanigans, and lots and lots of hugs and words of love and appreciation. 

Only a total asshole would decline an outpouring of joy and affection like that.

So rather than sublimate the emotions, I’m trying to own them. I’m doing my best to embrace being fifty.

FIFTY. 

It’s an upsetting number — it’s just so big and round, and full of implications.

I hesitate and take a deep breath when people ask how old I am. I thought about changing my age on dating apps by a couple years, just so I’d still show up in the under-50 search parameters (I’d put my actual age in the bio).

But you know what? Fuck that.

I’m fifty years old, and I know how to live well.

I’m not slowing down, I’m not giving in, and I’m not letting up.

In those first few years of my mid-30s, when I was freshly single and finding my way — as a bachelor, a father, a friend, and a man — I didn’t know what I wanted. My behavior pendulum swung wide between soused off-duty nights and attentive parenting weekends, knocking relationships sideways, swinging back through the middle ground for a short time, before drifting wildly in another direction. Was I a hard-drinking rake? A decent, but confused, single dad? Was I a dedicated entrepreneur, or an opportunistic hedonist? The answer was yes, all of those. And the more the pendulum swung, the less I was able to contain the disparate aspects of my life, embracing the highest highs and desperately sucked into the lowest lows.

But eventually, I found a way to level things off — not balancing them, per se — but moderating the extremes. In fact, my mantra became, “All things in moderation, even moderation.”  I learned a few things along the way.

It’s possible to be a joyful bon vivant and a responsible parent.

It’s possible to be a mature adult and a whimsical man.

It’s possible to make the most out of every day, but still live in the everyday.

And it’s possible to say, “Screw it” and jump the rails and surrender to whatever happens next.

So, yeah. I’m fucking 50, and that’s how it is. I joke that it’s better than the alternative, and that’s true. But it’s also better (for me) than the alternative so many people in my generation live — structured, balanced, even-keeled lives of quiet contentment punctuated by the occasional big night out or trip-of-a-lifetime. It works for them, and I respect that. I love when they come out and let loose with my band of carousers, and I love putting my feet up at their homes and watching football together.

It’s not the life for me, but the benefits are worthy and sustainable.

I know all too well the consequences of my own lifestyle — the burnt mornings; the solitary slog up my stairs to a forlorn bedroom; the days of stress and minor terror when a client goes sideways and I’m watching our revenue shift in the wrong direction; my mom asking me if I’m happy; my daughter asking if I’m lonely. Real pain, real sadness, real darkness. And I acknowledge that the life I lead can also be an obstacle to finding someone right for me.

But those rough times tend to be offset by the good stuff — the magic of a surprisingly fun date that lasts well into the next morning; all-night benders with my best friends (a lovely mix of men and women) followed by texts of bemused woe the next day; bad decisions that turn out to be ridiculously fun (or end up as cringe-worthy stories to keep my pals entertained); pj Saturdays, when I don’t leave the house or interact with another human being all day; last-minute escapes; eating my way through a foreign city; shots with the bartenders; and long, lazy, happy days with the girl, full of food and flicks and laughter.

That’s the life I choose for myself at half a century. I’m going to keep this train going.

And, yes, of course; I’d sure love to share it with that one right girl.

Failure: September, 2017

Things were going so well. Simone had already managed to drive us down the busy highway and along crowded surface streets, even picking her way through a hectic parking lot. She was finally getting it, and feeling more and more confident. Over the course of the last couple of months, the color of my knuckles had gone from icy white to a more human shade of pale.

We’d finished up at the snow sports equipment sale and had stopped in at Hmart, buying weird stuff we didn’t need because we’d made the mistake of getting there hungry. And we had another hour or so before Simone needed to be back at her mom’s house after a lovely Labor Day weekend. With our hearts set on Chinese food for lunch, Simone got behind the wheel again and made a smooth merge onto the highway.

We’ve had a long slog to get her moving on her journey toward a driver’s license. It took more than a year after Simone turned 16 to get her permit, and the 50 mandatory hours of driving are taking much longer than anticipated, with a 30-minute spin here and a 20-minute drive there. We’ve had a few hour-long jaunts, but haven’t been able to drive consistently together for longer periods of time.

She racked up only 18 hours of drive time between July of 2016 and September of this year. That’s slow progress.

I want to say that the problem has been limited opportunities for us to drive together, but it’s not at all the case. It’s more a matter of motivation. Simone doesn’t like to do things she’s not already good at, and she has no intrinsic need to be able to drive herself around. She doesn’t care that much about having a license. I’ll say, “Want to drive today?” and she’ll say, “Not really.” So unless I push her, it just doesn’t happen. It’s not fun for me, either, which makes me less likely to insist.

So we wedge in drive time here and there, when we’re both feeling up to it. But it’s not consistent.

When we exited the highway and turned left on the road, she easily stayed in her lane, and I was feeling pretty good about things. I noticed trash in the street up ahead — turned out to be a tissue box — and told her to avoid it. Neither of us noticed the car at the red light just ahead of us until it was too late.

“BRAKE! BRAKE! BRAKE!” I yelled, and to her credit, she slammed her foot down quickly. We skidded into the beat-up Volvo ahead of us hard enough to bash his bumper, but not enough for our airbags to go off, thank goodness.

“What do I do? What do I do?” Simone yelled, shaking, as the car ahead pulled through the intersection and parked on the side of the road. Calmly, I traded places with her, and drove our own car across the way.

Simone was a shaky, weepy mess, but I still made her get out of the car to assess the damage and meet the other driver. She stood there crying while I apologized (there was no question of fault) and started looking up the correct phone number to report the accident. After a few minutes, I let her go back to our car and sit down, afraid she would pass out right there on the sidewalk. It was important for her to see that the driver was okay, but also the extent of the damage, and for him to see the young student driver who’d made the mistake.

Once we’d settled things, and the other guy drove away, I walked back to the car and tried to calm Simone down. She wouldn’t have it.

“I never want to drive again,” she said.

I drove us the last few blocks to the Chinese restaurant (we were SO close!), and eventually coaxed Simone out of the car and inside. She said she wasn’t hungry, but I knew we both needed comfort food in our bellies and time to breathe. We ate our egg drop soup and beef with broccoli in relative silence, sipping at our hot tea. Nothing I said made it through her veil of shock and fear and disappointment in herself. We looked out at our sad vehicle, with the hood stove in, and she started crying again.

Later, when we got to her mom’s house, I stepped out of the car and gave her extra hugs before sending her along. But she was in her own fog, and all I could do was let her go, tears still wet on my shirt.

I made it all the way home before I let myself go, too. The stress of the day, the scare, and my apprehension of the consequences all caught up with me at once, and I curled up on the couch and lay there in a stupor, warm tears drifting down my cheeks. I looked up at the ceiling fan, slowly turning above me, and replayed the accident again and again in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. Should I have grabbed the wheel? Ignored the trash in the road? Looked ahead sooner? It didn’t matter, of course, because I couldn’t go back and fix it.

I felt like I’d failed as a parent.

My friends and family were full of silver lining reassurances — how it was good her first accident happened while I was with her, how many crashes they’d had in their first year of driving, how it wasn’t my fault. I heard them, but in the heat of my sadness, nothing really cut through the waves of disappointment.

I was suffering through one of those lonely moments when you just need someone to hug you and comfort you and handle things for a little while. Being a single dad means I’m always the caretaker, the voice of reason, the guy who fixes stuff, the problem solver. But that evening, I wished I had someone to take care of me for once. It could have been so much worse, but it was still awful, and all I could do was lay on the couch and wallow in my failure to keep her safe.

As parents, we try to always have the answers, and to be able to fix things for our kids when they go sideways. We strive to show them how to manage their own problems and take responsibility when they mess up, but it still breaks our hearts when it happens. I felt powerless that evening, like I’d failed my daughter.

But we can’t always fix it. We can’t always be there to help when they get into trouble. And part of good parenting is equipping our kids to handle the bad stuff on their own while letting them mess up so they can learn from their mistakes.

With Simone’s oncoming independence constantly on my mind, it’s hard to fight the desire to shield her just a little bit longer from everything she’ll have to face as a young adult. At the very least, you’d think I could help her not crash the car when we’re in it together.

I lost sight of the road because I was distracted by an innocuous obstacle, and missed the larger hazard. If I hadn’t mentioned the tissue box, maybe we both would have seen the red light sooner. But how many times have I missed the bigger picture because I was too caught up in something immediate, but not ultimately important? How can I teach Simone to keep her eyes on for short term situations while also looking at the larger context?

Driving, like life, is a constant push and pull of the immediate and the eventual. We learn to take in the many sensory inputs and make sense of them instantly — the weather, the traffic, the stop sign, the lady veering into our lane because she’s texting and driving. We learn to drive intuitively, knowing what’s a hazard and what’s a distraction, but we still make mistakes when we misapprehend the situation.

How do I help her understand that we all make mistakes, that we need to be vigilant but will still fuck up sometimes, and smash into the unsuspecting driver ahead of us? How do I teach her to forgive herself for messing up, when I’m beating the hell out of my own self for letting it happen?

Recounting stories from friends about their own mistakes as new drivers gives her perspective. But getting her to punch through her fear and hit the gas will be equally important.

The shock and intensity of the situation has passed, as these things do, of course. Simone still hasn’t driven again, but she says she’s about ready to…just not on the highway yet. We’ll take it slowly, and try to get that confidence back up.

Both hers, and mine.

CVRT: July/August, 2017

We were driving over a bridge out of downtown Vancouver in a borrowed Mini Cooper S, open sunroof spilling light all over us, our bellies full of Canadian poutine, snacking on local cherries from a farmer’s market and spitting the pits out the window, music from a cool French pop station on the radio. Simone was smiling in the passenger seat, her short hair whipping about, no phone in her hand, totally in the moment.

We were on a ferry from Whidbey Island to the mainland, the Mini safely parked on a ramp belowdecks, our bellies full of mussels, which we’d eaten overlooking Puget Sound. The acclaimed restaurant on the island had been 21+, but with a $10 deposit for the giant steamer pot, I was allowed to take two pounds to go, walking up the street to a picnic table Simone had found, where we feasted on the freshest mussels we’d ever had, the little meaty, briny pillows of goodness bathing in a wine and butter broth, before returning the pot and hitting the road again.

We were five or six hours into our long day from Portland to Sacramento, driving in a sleek rental car past snow-sprinkled volcano cones dressed with deep green spruce and pine trees, our bellies full of the custard buns Simone had picked out at the Asian market, drinking bottles of cold green tea and listening to a podcast about the birth of punk in 1976 London, the road a winding ribbon of sun-blasted asphalt.

We were driving across the hot, marshy farmland outside Sacramento, our bellies full of eggy breakfast, which we’d enjoyed with my mom and her new beau, and it was our last bit of serious travel, having visited four schools on our epic #collegevisitroadtrip, with one more to go the next day.

We’d had a mostly-painless and relatively stress-free nine or ten days of travel, and as much as I looked forward to getting home, I was also a little sad about winding down our summer adventure. Once we got to my baby sister’s house in Berkeley, we’d be embraced by family and chaos, and the easy quiet of our time together would be at an end.

We’d flown into Seattle on the Tuesday before, grabbing a ZipCar and driving it down to Tacoma for a tour through the University of Puget Sound (tiny, lovely, expensive). I knew Simone would be enamored with the first school we visited, of course. And with everyone so friendly, the weather so perfect, and the campus so accessible, it was easy for her to imagine herself living there. Don’t get me started on how the “I could see myself living here” refrain affected me every time she said it for the next 10 days.

By the time we’d picked up the Mini my friend so kindly offered to let us borrow for the first part of the trip, it had already been a full day of travel. And we still had the 3-hour drive up to Vancouver to go.

But we were stoked to hit the open road in “Mona,” the cutest car of all time. It wasn’t until we were about an hour from the US/Canadian border that I realized I hadn’t even thought about grabbing our passports when we’d left home that morning. It’s not like I forgot them — it’s that I forgot to even consider bringing them. They were tucked away in Denver, totally useless for crossing international borders in a borrowed car.

My stomach in knots for that full hour, I figured we’d see if we could talk our way into Canada anyway, and if we were turned back, well…we’d come up with a different plan for the next two days. It would be deeply disappointing to miss seeing our friends and their twins, plus missing out on visiting the art school there. Just as we stopped the car to wait our turn at the crossing, I remembered I had a copy of our passports somewhere in my travel bag — we never leave the country without a few copies hidden away in suitcases and backpacks. Simone and I feverishly tore my bag apart, finding the folded document just as I pulled up to the gatehouse.

The kindly border guard asked us lots of questions, but in the end let us pass. She did warn us that getting back into the US could be a hassle, but we could enter at our own risk. We went for it.

Emily Carr is a small art school on Granville Island, which is a cute, touristy shopping area with an enormous farmer’s market. Sadly, the school is in the process of moving into Vancouver proper, so a tour wasn’t in the cards. But we had a fun and quirky conversation with a dude from admissions, who gave Simone his email address on a post-it note and encouraged her to reach out if she had questions. She thought the “vibe” of the school and the people were just right for her.

Of course, touring the massive University of Washington in Seattle was impressive on a different scale.

We’d driven back to Seattle on Thursday (after spending an hour waiting in secondary screening to explain to US Customs and Immigration why we didn’t have our passports), enjoying our Whidbey Island detour before settling into the rustic Airbnb houseboat we’d booked for the next three nights. Our stay was much closer to sleeping in a trailer park than on a cruise ship. The bathroom was tiny, and the shower even smaller. Simone didn't love the boat bathroom situation (especially putting toilet paper in a trashcan, rather than flushing it), and she was really upset to find out that the wifi was broken (so was I, because I still needed to work in the evenings). The sleeping bunk had thin cushions, so we’d always wake up a bit sore. But I’d never before had an experience like waking to a cool morning breeze and drinking a cup of tea in my pjs on the back deck of a boat, swaying on the sun-dappled wake of a passing cruiser. All three mornings there were stunners.

We saw dozens of Orcas on a whale watching trip and visited U-Dub during our time in Seattle. Simone was blown away by the size of the campus, the beautiful juxtaposition of classic, old brick buildings and modern glass ones, and by the university museum, full of the kind of paleo-art (dino skulls, sculptures, and dioramas) that she wants to design someday.

I appreciated the houseboat more the longer we stayed there, and was a little sad to leave Sunday morning. But once we picked up the rental car, had a sit-down breakfast at Biscuit Bitch, and were headed south toward Portland, I felt the thrill of being on the road with the girl again.

Portland was a bit scuzzier than I’d remembered, with angry homeless people shouting and sleeping across the sidewalks as we perambulated over to Powell’s. Simone was appropriately awed by the largest independent bookstore in the world. We spent hours wandering through and sharing finds together before stopping at a coffeeshop nearby to read what we’d picked up. By the time we met our pal Eli for dinner, we were hungry and worn from the day.

Simone didn’t love Lewis and Clark College the next day, though she was thrilled by the theatre department. Something about the sense of isolation in a wooded area south of the city didn’t appeal to her. For me, it felt reminiscent of UC Santa Cruz, but without the smell of salt water on the breeze.

The drive from Portland to Sacramento was long and lovely; with a two-hour stop in gorgeous Ashland for lunch with a friend from college (thank you, Facebook!). We rolled up to my mom’s house that night, met her new man (seems like a nice guy), and were up the next day in
time to grab breakfast with them before heading west to drop off our stuff at my sister’s and turn in the car. Simone hopped BART to SFO to meet my nephews and guide them back to the East Bay, while I had the honor of collecting nieces Sydney and Clara from their respective summer camps and playing tag on the playground. The evening was a cacophony of cousins and crack-ups.

Our final school visit was San Francisco State University. The boys came along, providing editorial commentary that had all of us laughing while we toured the small and pretty school. Simone was thrilled by the foggy July chill — she loved the idea of wearing hoodies year-round, the truly multicultural feel of the campus, the proximity to the city, and the idea of family just over the bridge.

As we walked past the residence halls, she said, “I could see myself living here…” one last time, and my heart lurched one more time, and then it was the next morning and I was hugging her goodbye and on the plane back to Denver.

I didn’t cry when I left, though my heart was heavy. And if I teared up a bit when she texted me that she missed me the next day, well… of course I did. She just returned yesterday from a University of Chicago visit with her maternal grandfather, and I felt myself holding back tears as she told me about the school.

This summer of weepiness continues, and I’m powerless to resist. What kind of mess am I going to be next summer?

I’m trying not to think about it.

Father’s Day: June, 2017

It was my own damn fault that Simone was brooding and insufferable by the time we got to the brunch place on Father’s Day. With an 11:30am reservation, I was up early enough to make myself a dirty chai, but she’d slept in and literally showered and dressed just in time for us to leave the house and walk the mile or so into town.

So by the time we were seated, she was hot and sweaty, with a pasty sheen of unabsorbed sunscreen along one side of her nose and across her chin. Between the low blood sugar and perspiration, she was not a happy young lady, and it didn’t matter what day of the year it was.

But once our family friend showed up to help us celebrate, and the server had brought us tasty scones and Earl Gray tea, Simone perked up and became charming again.

It’s not like I go out of my way to honor my own self on Father’s Day — we don’t have a mom or significant other in the household to take charge and let me roll with the day, and I wouldn’t expect Simone to take that on. I’m plenty happy with her hilarious homemade cards. This year, she even made me a gorgeous piece of pottery in the summer art camp where she’s an intern.

No, I understand that, though I get to decide what we do with the day, there’s still a modicum of humility required. So my idea of a tasty brunch, followed by pedicures and a little downtown ramble, was just the right balance.

After we finished up our lamb gyros benedicts, we strolled across the street to an urban nail salon that felt more like a spa than our usual neighborhood place. The ladies who took care of us were especially sweet, even feigning disbelief (I’m fairly certain) when I told them that, no, Simone was not my sister. The experience was so relaxing, we realized caffeine would be in order before we did anything else. So, with feet smooth and moisturized, toes shiny and sparkly, the three of us wandered over to Union Station for lattes and brownies.

We spent the afternoon in the shade on the patio outside the station, watching babies totter around the field of fountains, laughing as the jets caught them in their round bellies. It felt indulgent to just sit for hours, being lazy and complacent, sipping at our drinks, and talking about nothing of deep importance. Simone was content to drift in and out of the conversation, having her own interactions on her phone, but also looking up to just be in the moment.

As the afternoon wound down, Simone and I took our leave of our friend and ambled homeward.

It had shaped up to be a particularly lovely Father’s Day, but it was also a melancholy one for me, knowing that we were headed into a time when I’d be spending fewer and fewer of them with my only child. After next summer, how often would we be in the same city for the holiday? If I felt a little weepy here and there (which, dammit, has become a recurring theme this summer), between missing my own dad and thinking about Simone’s near future, that was why.

I’ve realized that I’ve been remiss in one essential aspect of parenting—Simone can’t really cook. Sure, she can do up a killer omelet, and knows how to make ramen or mac ’n’ cheese, but she doesn’t actually have any full dinners that she can put together. It’s always just been easier for me to plan and prepare and serve up our meals, and I’ve begun to feel guilty that I haven’t put her to work in the kitchen more often. Later this summer, she’ll be responsible for one dish per week, and will help me shop for the ingredients and then cook for the two of us.

On Father’s Day, at her request, I taught her how to make Japanese curry with baby bok choy, because it’s one of her favorite things we eat on a regular basis. As we stood next to each other in the kitchen, me teaching her how to uniformly slice an onion, her asking how long the lamb needed to simmer, my heart felt buoyant like an over-inflated balloon, but heavy, too, like that same balloon filled with sand. It was so much, too much, and not enough, all at the same time.

And when it came to deciding what movie to watch together, Simone picked “Rogue One,” “because it’s a total father-daughter flick.” We crashed out on the couch, watching poor Jyn Erso get orphaned three times, our feet just barely touching. During each of those scenes, Simone would put out her hand for me to hold (which she also did when we watched another classic father-daughter flick “Armageddon” a couple nights earlier), and we’d sit like that during the tough moments of separation. Hopefully, I’ll never have to stay behind on a meteor plummeting to earth or martyr myself for the sake of the Rebellion, but Simone has no doubt that I’d do it for her (and humanity) if required.

All that afternoon and evening, the girl gave me a multitude of spontaneous hugs, asking again and again if I was having a happy Father’s Day.

Of course I was.

Passenger: May, 2017

“BRAKE BRAKE BRAKE BRAKE BRAKE BRAKE!”

Simone slammed on the brakes a mere inches from a small sedan parked on the side of the road. If she’d stopped any later, she would have taken a layer of paint and the side mirror off the other car. I caught my breath and had her get out and physically look just how close she had come to her first accident.

“Let’s switch for a second,” I said, “so I can get you out of this.”

I slowly backed the car out of danger and pulled to the side of the road so she could get behind the wheel again and drive us the rest of the way home. I had her drive around the block, just to give me time to stop shaking.

Simone has not been in any hurry to get her driver’s license. Like many teens of her generation, she’s not fussy about having a parent drive her around, or just gathering with her friends via apps on her phone. As much as she swoons over American muscle cars (she really wants a “Bitchin' Camero”), she’s just not motivated to put in the time and effort necessary to drive independently.

At 15, we enrolled her in the state-required 10-hour online course that she needed to take in order to test for her learner’s permit. It took her a full year to get around to completing it, and the only reason she did by that time was that the course was about to expire and it hadn’t come cheap. I took her to the DMV when she was 16 and change, and she aced the written exam, which meant she’d need to have her learner’s permit for a full year and drive a minimum of 50 logged hours before she could test for a license.

It was another couple of weeks before she felt ready for her first lesson, and even then she was nervous.

After a hearty breakfast at a nearby restaurant, I drove us to the end of a long, fairly untraveled street, and pulled to the side of the road. I took the keys out of the ignition, and traded places with the girl. I helped her adjust the front seat waaaaaaay up and move the mirrors around, made sure she was belted in and her foot was on the brake, and explained to her how to start the car. Because we were on a slight incline when she moved the stick into drive and lifted her foot off the pedal, the car slowly began to move forward down the road. After a series of the usual jerks and starts, she started to smooth out just as we got to the stop sign about a quarter mile down the way. A few more drives like that, and she was starting to feel confident, so I let her cross the intersection and take a shallow curve before telling her to turn right into a nearby parking lot. The car shuddered as she bounced over the curb, but I reassured her that driver proprioception —knowing where the car starts and ends — takes time.

It wasn’t a bad first foray, and subsequent drives through parking lots all over the city built on her confidence. Of course, because she wasn’t enthusiastic, our lessons happened sporadically through last summer, into fall, and over winter, and she didn’t have more than five hours total by the time we hit April of this year.

The thing about driving is that you have to master three layers of cognition just to be barely proficient. The first layer is the pure mechanics of operating a car — starting the ignition, gas and brake, signaling and turning, speeding up and slowing down. The second layer is operating the car in the world — avoiding obstacles, staying in your lane, being aware of other traffic, driving under different weather conditions, handling hazards as they arise.

And then, on top of ALL that, you have to learn the rules of the road — street signs, lane demarkations, how to handle a four-way stop or merge onto the highway, staying within a speed limit or turning left against traffic. If you’ve been driving for any length of time, you’re operating on all three of those levels more or less intuitively. Unless the weather is really awful, traffic is crazy heavy, or an armadillo attempts to cross the road in front of you, you’re not in a constant state of immediate presence.

Several misspent hours on Super Mario Kart might give a teenager a sense of what it’s like to drive, but until you put that kid behind the wheel of a 4,000 pound machine, and tell her to press the gas, she’s not going to have any idea of how much mental activity goes into just driving a car down the block.

A couple weekends ago, in an attempt to pile on some serious drive time, I had Simone take us all the way from our house to Boulder using only surface streets. What would normally be a 40-minute trek took us closer to an hour and fifteen minutes. But it was so worth it.

We left the house on a sunny Sunday afternoon, Simone immediately negotiating a multi-spoked intersection and a right turn merge, followed by heavy stop-and-go traffic for several miles. The further we went, the more comfortable she felt, and we were actually able to chat about other things, with the occasional punctation of me saying, “Red light coming up,” or “You’re drifting into the other lane.” Moments of white knuckle terror on my part were more rare than in the past, and I could see Simone’s confidence grow with every double-left-turn and sudden onset of brake lights. If she still turned too sharply and popped a curb, well, that’s just part of the learning process.

But it occurred to me, as we were finally nearing Boulder, that I’d rarely spent time in the passenger seat of my own car. I’m nearly always the driver, and the perspective from the side was a new one for me.

Simone finished her junior year, and I’m starting to realize that I’m becoming less and less of a driver in her life, and more and more of a passenger, watching her grow and make decisions from one seat over. I watch how she interacts with her significant other, I see on her anonymous Twitter account how she mines esoteric pop culture—stuff I can’t even begin to connect with, and I listen in awe as she guides me through the deep waters of her outlook and perspectives on life.

I’m often asked what I’ll do with myself after Simone leaves for school next year, and it’s easy to blithely answer that I’ll travel more, buy that beach house, and hopefully pass enough of the day-to-day management of my company to my leadership team, sharing equity with them, so that I can dedicate more time to writing.

But rarely does anyone ask what I’ll feel after she leaves for school, and I’ve become fairly skilled in thinking around that question rather than digging into it too deeply. I don’t want Simone to stay in Colorado for college, and she is already ready to be off on her own. It’s easy for me to feel excited for her foray into independence, finding her tribe out there in the big world, and blossoming into a young adult. It’s easy for me to be excited about how my own life will open up without a child in the house.

What I work really hard NOT to think about is how it’ll be to miss Simone when she’s so far away. Even when it’s just my weekend off, in the midst of enjoying a late night of cocktails and bad behavior, something will trigger a reminder, and I’ll feel a twinge of sadness and a deep rush of love for my little girl. The compressed conflict of emotions (not a new thing) won’t stop just because she’s not in the house anymore.

And when she’s thousands of miles away, I won’t be able to switch places with her to get her out of a jam like I did when she got too close to that parked car during an early driving lesson. It’ll be up to her to extricate herself from difficult situations.

When we’re babies, the first thing we learn is how to operate our bodies — we look in wonder at our own toes, and are surprised when we bite our own fingers, which somehow managed to get in our own mouths. As we grow, we begin to perambulate, interacting with our surroundings, learning the physical and emotional effects of the world around us. But unlike in driving, where the top overlay is probably the simplest to understand, the third layer in human experience, that fraught social layer, is the one that we never quite learn completely. It’s always changing depending on our surroundings. The best we can do is to keep a strong compass with us, which mostly points us to the true north of being a good person and helping make the world a better place.   

Hopefully, just like with our driving lessons, where I’ve been sitting next to Simone and actively helping her learn how to recognize hazards before they become problems, my parenting, and that of her mother, and the engagement by her larger family, teachers, and other adults, have been enough to give her a strong compass of character that’ll help her make smart decisions and creatively find her way out of the bad ones that she’ll doubtless make as she becomes the primary driver of her life.

We’re actually doing a college visit road trip this summer.

We’ll trade off driving along the way.

Sibs: April(ish), 2017

There was no escaping the spattering of spring rain as we exited the subway, the midnight dazzle of Times Square at our backs, gusts of chill blossoming our light jackets. But that wasn’t enough to hinder our decision to stop and take a selfie; my two sisters, Simone, and one of my nephews all laughing and smiling long enough to get a few shots off before hustling back to the hotel, shivering and damp.

We were in town for a cousin’s bar mitzvah, and though we didn’t get a ton of time together, the fun moments of pure sibling hilarity and love are still with me a couple weeks later.

April is a special month in my family — not only is it our parents’ anniversary (not celebrated for nearly a quarter century), but both Sarah and Karen’s birthdays are this month. I was so happy to get time with both of them, even if it wasn’t enough.

Although they look a lot alike (no question when you see us that we’re all related), each sister is wonderful in her own unique way. What they share, though, is a deep love for their family — especially their children and nieces and nephews (who are treated as if they were their own). They’re dedicated moms with very different parenting styles, and Simone is fortunate enough to have two tantes who dote on her while still not letting her get away with anything. 

That fierce love can be both overwhelming and deeply comforting for the girl, whose family lineage is 50% midwestern stoic and 50% mushy Jewish. While they’re intent on helping Simone reach her potential and be a present, engaged member of the family, and aren’t afraid to scold her when appropriate, my sisters also smother her with hugs and kisses. Aunts are the best buffer and trusted confidante for a teenage girl, and it fills my heart with confidence and joy when I see them take Simone in hand. They love their baby girl unconditionally, and she knows it, even when they make her furious. It’s awesome.

I don’t breeze through, either. Neither of my sisters is reluctant to tell me when I’m messing up. They remind me when to take a deep breath, and they’re always available for commiseration. They’re deeply loyal and protective of me — they help me through the disappointment of a broken heart, and also tell me when I let a good one get away (mostly through my own poor judgment). They’re still looking for be to bring them a sister.

They’re the ones who fell in love with my modern brownstone when they came for a visit, and they’re also the ones who made me buy racks and drawer inserts and then spent a half-day shaking their heads and organizing my kitchen for me.

They’re also a whole lot of fun.

We’ve been finding ways to have “sibs weekends” each year (and occasionally more often), where it’s pretty much just the three of us eating and drinking and laughing together.

This last one in New York City was especially fun — not only was our time together interspersed with a celebration where we got to hug on and catch up with cousins and aunts and uncles and even our very own mom, but we had just a couple of our kids along with us for the hilarity. So rather than the full brood of tweens, teens, and a baby, it was mostly just us (and our brother) and two teenagers who probably haven’t seen the three of us let our guard down and be silly (or snippy) with each other quite like that before.

What I love best about NYC is how easy it is to hoof it or hop a train and be in another part of the city within a few minutes. And because Max and Simone are both stellar travelers, the five of us could get around easily, whether it was braving the rain for cereal milk milkshakes from Milk Bar, or the longer haul down to Chelsea and a sunset walk along the High Line. If the kids were privy to a bit more grownup conversation than usual, it didn’t seem to phase them (or maybe they just weren’t paying attention).

One of the best moments, though, was truly magical. We’d gone a block out of our way and were trudging through a freezing mist down another avenue to get to the UNIQLO store when a street musician started playing the opening notes of “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck. He had a recording of the backup instruments, and was playing the melody on a clarinet. The three of us stopped and gasped.

“Dad’s here!” Sarah said. He had just happened to start playing our father’s favorite song as we were passing by. We all stopped for just a second in the rain to recognize the moment before I put a few bucks in his hat and we moved on. The music followed us down the block.

That we’re part of a larger family of beloved cousins and aunts and uncles who are generous with their affection and advice makes us even stronger.

Even though they live in other states, my sisters and I are always connected. Whether it’s frequent phone calls or ongoing text conversations, it’s rare that more than a day or two will go by without an interaction. They’re my foundation when things go sideways, and I’m slowly learning to fill my father’s role as problem-solver when they need to work through a knotty situation. They both have rockstar husbands whom I love dearly, but it’s still a good feeling to be the big brother when they need me.

As April’s cold-hot-rainy-snowy-sunny wackiness slips into the somewhat more predictable warming that is May in Denver, I can only think how lucky I am to have the stability of sisters who love me even when I’m at my most unstable. It’s not something I take lightly, though I don’t know if I say it to them often enough.

Sibs can be your biggest life challenge or the best part of being in a family. I’m happy and grateful and humbled by the loving relationship I have with mine.