Not Grandpa Joe

For as long as I can remember, I had my grandfather model all figured out.

Me with Shep at six months (2023)

The moment one of my children handed me a grandchild, I would become Grandpa Joe, Roald Dahl's irrepressible, bedridden patriarch from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, who springs to life at exactly the right magical moment. Pure delight. No discipline. No logistics. Just wonder and stories and the unearned credibility that grandfathers seem to accumulate simply by existing. I've been quietly rehearsing the role for decades.

Then it actually happened. Kailey and Matt gave me Shepherd in 2022. Then Sadie in November 2024. Then Faith and Will gave me Philip Joseph in January 2026. Kailey will bring a fourth grandchild into the world: baby Bo, due early in September. Four grandchildren in four years. The role has arrived.

There's just one problem. Grandpa Joe lives in the same house as Charlie Bucket. I live in Syracuse.

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Sadie at one year (2025)

Before I go any further, I should acknowledge what I glossed over in my romantic vision of Grandpa Joe: his actual track record isn't great. The man spent twenty years in bed while his family lived in grinding poverty. He shared a mattress with three other grandparents and apparently never once thought to get up and find work. Then the moment a golden ticket materialized, he was on his feet, tap-dancing around the bedroom, ready for adventure. By any reasonable standard, that's not a role model. That's a cautionary tale.

And yet. When Charlie needed someone to walk through those chocolate factory gates with him, Grandpa Joe showed up completely, with every ounce of joy and wonder he had. You forgive a lot in a grandfather who can do that.

I've always wanted to be the grandfather who shows up completely. The problem is that "showing up" has been my whole identity as a father, and it requires a geography that my children, sensibly and lovingly, declined to provide.

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I told them to do it, of course. I've now given four wedding toasts, which either speaks to my eloquence or my stamina. In each one, I told my children that nothing of any value or magnitude tops family. Build your home around the people you love. That's the whole instruction. Kailey and Matt built theirs in Nashville. Faith and Will have started theirs in Albuquerque. Teddy and Taylor, still early in the process, are down in NYC. These are good choices, and I am proud of them for making them.

I am also, let the record show, in Syracuse.

The distance has a particular texture when you're a grandfather. Shepherd, I know. I held him before his sister arrived, watched him develop opinions and preferences, and that specific toddler confidence that makes you wonder where on earth they get it. But Sadie has been on this earth since October 2024, and I haven't yet been in the same room with her. PJ arrived in January 2026, and same story. Some of my grandchildren don't yet know my face, the way I tell a story, or that I have very specific feelings about what they should be called.

Which brings me to the name situation.

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Kailey's family calls me Grandpa Boeke, or sometimes G'Pa. That's the name my own kids used for my father, Richard. I didn't plan it that way, but when it happened, something quietly settled in my chest. A name passed forward like a piece of furniture you didn't know you wanted until it appeared in exactly the right room.

Faith went her own direction. Faith always goes her own direction. It's a defining characteristic, well established over twenty-plus years of loving her, and I say it with complete admiration and only mild exasperation. She has decided I am Opa.

I want to be clear that I have expressed my feelings about this. I want to be equally clear that my feelings have not moved the needle whatsoever.

PJ at six months (2026)

Opa is a perfectly fine name for a grandfather. In Dutch tradition, it's warm and familiar and carries real history. My family does have Dutch roots, so Faith has done her homework. I understand all of that. I am still not thrilled. Partly because no one consulted me, and partly because the same daughter who named me Opa also decided to call her son (Philip Joseph)...Flip.

Flip.

I have a grandson named Philip Joseph Witherow. It's a good, strong name with real weight to it: Philip Joseph, which also happens to share a middle name with his grandfather, a fact I will not pretend I didn't lobby for... Faith sees this name and thinks: Flip. I see this name and think: PJ. We are currently at an impasse on two fronts. This is, I have come to understand, simply what it is to be Faith's father: you negotiate, you persist, and eventually you just call the boy PJ and wait.

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My own father was Grandpa Boeke. He taught me through presence, not lectures, not grand gestures, but the quiet accumulation of ordinary moments. The Cub Scout Jamboree at Moraine State Park. The patience he showed when I didn't recognize the lesson for decades. I wrote about him when we lost him in 2020, borrowing Kierkegaard's line: life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward. Looking back at Dad now, I see that he laid the foundation for everything I became as a father. The road trips. The scorecards at Ted's Little League games. The Thursday mornings I spent volunteering in Faith's computer lab, showing kindergartners that a mouse works better when it stays on the desk.

It all came from watching him show up. All of it assumed I would be close enough to show up the same way.

What nobody told me is that the children you raise to build their own lives will, with some regularity, build them somewhere else. You were right to encourage them. You meant every word of it. And now Kailey is in Nashville, and Faith is in Albuquerque, and I am in Syracuse, counting the days until a September due date and wondering when I can get on a plane.

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So I've been rethinking what it means to show up.

This blog started in 2008, when Kailey was in high school. I wrote then that she and Ted and Faith were the reason I write: that these pages were a record of where we'd been, what I'd learned, the laughter and heartbreak and hope we'd accumulated as a family. I meant it as a letter to them. What I'm realizing now is that it was also always a letter to whoever comes after.

Shepherd and Sadie and PJ and future Bo, and to those whose names we don't yet know, will grow up hearing stories about people they never met, places they'll have to imagine, a family history that stretches back through Dutch grandparents and Chicago Cubs loyalty and Christmas elf traditions and a man named Richard who showed up without making a speech about it. These posts are part of that record. They'll be here long after I'm gone, waiting for a grandchild, or a great-grandchild, who's finally old enough to be curious.

But lately I've been thinking about doing something more. I want to record some of our traditional Christmas stories, not just my own, but the ones we've read together for years. The Polar Express. A Christmas Tree in the White House. The classics that found their way into our family's rotation and never left. I want Shepherd and Sadie and PJ and Bo to hear them the way their parents heard them, with exactly the pauses I mean and the voices I can't help making. And yes, I also want to record the story about the year Santa couldn't find Flipper. That's the dolphin, not the grandson, and it belongs to our family in a way no published book ever could. Text on a screen is one kind of presence. A voice reading a beloved story to a child who isn't in the room yet is something else entirely. A voice can travel to Nashville and Albuquerque and wherever they end up building their own lives years from now, and it will still sound like G'Pa Boeke at Christmas.

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Grandpa Joe waited twenty years for his golden ticket. I'm not built for waiting. Anybody who has met me knows this. But I am learning what patience looks like when you don't have another option. And in the meantime, I'm writing, recording, planning visits, booking flights, and calling PJ by his proper name, knowing full well Faith may never stop calling him Flip.

The golden ticket, it turns out, comes in different shapes. Sometimes it's a visit to Nashville when Sadie is old enough to know my face. Sometimes it's a FaceTime call where Shepherd holds up a drawing and waits for my reaction. Sometimes it's a September due date circled on a calendar and a plane reservation I haven't made yet but absolutely will.

In 2008, I wrote that Kailey, Ted, and Faith were the reason I write. They still are. But now there are four more reasons, and counting. And whether they call me G'Pa, Grandpa Boeke, or, God help me, Opa, they are going to know exactly who I am.

I'm going to make absolutely sure.

The Right Galaxy for the Right Movie (REVIEW)

The Mandalorian and Grogu
Directed by Jon Favreau

My rating: 3¾ of 5 stars

My step-daughter gifted me the ticket. She knows I am a fan of old-school Star Wars and figured I'd appreciate the excuse to go. She was right. To be honest, after The Last Jedi and The Rise of Skywalker, I have felt like Disney Star Wars has something to prove to me. The good news is that I just needed a good seat so they could show me the proof.

Favreau and Filoni earned real goodwill with the first two seasons of The Mandalorian on Disney+. They took a franchise that had lost its footing and reminded everyone what Star Wars could feel like when the people making it cared about character. Season three was uneven. The show spread itself thin and lost the intimacy that made the early episodes work. But the foundation they built was solid. I walked in with that history in mind.

The movie delivers. However, if you read the critical reception, you'd think that was somehow a problem.

The complaints run together after a while. Too simple. Low stakes. Doesn't advance the larger story. My answer to each: that was the design. This film wasn't built to carry franchise weight. It was built to spend two hours with characters audiences already love and give those characters something worth doing. Judging it against The Empire Strikes Back is like penalizing a relief pitcher for not throwing nine innings. He came in, threw strikes, and did the job he was asked to do.

The sequel trilogy is worth a brief detour, because the contrast matters. Those three films were genuinely trying to move the story forward, to land a forty-year franchise, to satisfy an impossible set of competing demands. Together they felt like a franchise committee that couldn't agree on a direction. The seams showed badly. The Mandalorian & Grogu carries none of that. It knows what it is.

Pedro Pascal plays Din Djarin with the same constrained warmth that made the first two seasons work. Favreau pushed him further here, and the physicality shows. Where Din Djarin operates from stillness and economy, the Hutt Twins fill every room they're in. Jabba's cousins, massive and imperious, they operate from a palace on Nal Hutta with the casual cruelty of people who have never once doubted their own importance. Their scheme is a double-cross layered inside a favor. They send Mando to rescue Rotta while planning to have him deliver the boy straight into a trap. When that unravels, they don't rage. They pivot to humiliation, forcing Din's helmet off in front of his captors because they know exactly what it costs him. It's a deliberate act, and it hits harder knowing that Season 3 was largely about Din redeeming himself for a previous helmet removal. That's smart villain writing. They're not just obstacles. They understand their enemy well enough to hurt him in the right place.

Favreau built the entire film for the largest available screen, designing shots using an Apple Vision Pro app that simulated the full IMAX aspect ratio on set. It shows. AT-ATs on an ice planet. A gladiator pit on Nal Hutta. Over half the film expands to fill the IMAX frame, and those are the sequences that justify the trip to the theater. Then there's Sigourney Weaver. She plays Colonel Ward, a former Rebel Alliance fighter pilot now operating inside the New Republic, and she hadn't even watched the show before Favreau called. She watched it, fell in love with it, and signed on. That matters. Weaver built her career on the best science fiction has produced: Alien, Avatar, Galaxy Quest. Serious actors don't attach themselves to projects they don't believe in. Favreau knew exactly what her presence would signal. When someone with that résumé shows up in your Star Wars movie, it tells the audience that the people making it are trying to get things right.

The part that stayed with me came in the second act, when Mando is poisoned, and Grogu takes over.

Three seasons of television, four if you count The Book of Boba Fett, built on one dynamic: the Mandalorian protects the child. Din Djarin finds Grogu, loses him, gets him back, and spends most of the series putting himself between that small green creature and everything trying to harm him. Then Mando takes a wound from a Dragonsnake and tells Grogu to leave. Grogu doesn't. He stays behind, hides his father, and goes looking for a remedy on his own, finding it through a stranger willing to help. When the roles reverse, and Grogu has to show up, to act, to refuse the order to go, the film earns something no plot mechanic could manufacture. Favreau and Filoni built toward that moment across two seasons. The movie is where it lands.

Grogu's growth doesn't feel sudden. It feels accumulated. He's been learning slowly over years of storytelling. The second act isn't a twist. It's a recognition. You're watching a character arrive somewhere he's been heading for a long time.

There's something familiar in that feeling. Pride mixed with surprise when someone you've watched grow up handles a hard moment without being asked. The relationship between Din Djarin and Grogu has always been built on a sense of parenthood more than anything else. When Grogu refuses to leave, you recognize something true: you don't raise someone and then get to be surprised when they show up.

Any parent watching that second act knows exactly what Favreau is reaching for. You spend years being the one who protects. Then the child grows into someone who protects back. Judge a thing for what it set out to do. That's always been my rule. But this film reminded me it applies to people too. Not an accident. That's the whole point of raising someone.

Is The Mandalorian & Grogu a great film? No. The plot is thin in places, but it doesn't pretend otherwise. However, it's a solid one. The bar was a summer movie that rewards years of investment in these characters. It clears that bar.

For most of the critics who've piled on, that wasn't enough. I think they were judging the wrong thing.

The Mandalorian & Grogu set out to make you care about two characters you already loved, earn a moment of real growth, and send you back into the summer heat feeling like it was worth your afternoon. This blog has always been about showing up: for the people you love, for the stories worth telling, for the moments that matter even when nobody's keeping score. Grogu showed up for his father when it counted. That's the whole point.

Read more of my reviews.

The Art of Being Lovably Flawed

What Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster Taught Me About Building a Life

I am part of the Sesame Street generation, not the nostalgic, "remember when" generation, but the actual first one. I was there for the beginning, sitting cross-legged in front of our wood-grain Zenith television in 1969, watching something that had never existed before: a show that talked to kids like we had brains, that mixed education with pure silliness, and that populated a neighborhood with characters who were unapologetically, authentically themselves.

Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster. Those were my guys. Don't get me wrong - Big Bird was sweet and Kermit has great moments. But Oscar? Oscar got it. Some days you just feel grouchy and that's that. And Cookie Monster, the way he'd completely lose his mind over cookies, cracked me up. Still does.

Decades later, as I reflect on the life I've built, the career choices I've made, the way I've tried to parent, the relationships I've formed, I realize how profoundly those fuzzy philosophers shaped my understanding of what it means to show up authentically in the world. More importantly, they taught me lessons I hope I have passed on to my own children.

The Grouch's Gift: Permission to Be Real

I didn't know why I loved Oscar so much back then, but looking back, it makes perfect sense. Every other character on TV was happy all the time - big smiles, cheerful voices, everything's wonderful! Oscar was the only one who said, 'You know what? Today sucks and I'm not pretending otherwise.'

He wasn't a jerk about it. He wasn't trying to ruin anyone else's day. He just sat in his trash can, owned his bad mood, and didn't apologize for it. That was huge for a little kid to see - that you didn't have to be sunshine and rainbows every single day to be okay.

When I found myself translating between temperamental programmers and impatient fundraisers, Oscar's influence was there. When I chose to sit in the political middle seat while others retreated to comfortable extremes, that was Oscar's gift at work, when I admitted to my team that I was struggling after losing my dear friend and colleague Yoko, rather than putting on a professional mask, I was practicing what the grouch had taught me: that authenticity creates deeper connections than any performance ever could.

To my children, I hope you've learned this lesson through watching me navigate both my good days and my difficult ones. When I write about feeling like Charlie Brown most days instead of pretending to be someone more optimistic, that's not pessimism, that's honesty. And honesty, even when it's not pretty, builds trust in ways that false cheer never can.

Cookie Monster's Chaos: The Power of Unfiltered Enthusiasm

Cookie Monster was totally different from Oscar. Oscar sat there being grouchy, and Cookie Monster went gaga over cookies (well, mostly cookies). He'd shove them in his mouth, crumbs flying everywhere, half of the cookies ending up on the floor... 'om nom nom nom.' It was always complete chaos, of course, that's what made it funny. Most characters would eat cookies politely. Cookie Monster attacked them like his life depended on it, and somehow that made him impossible not to love.

Cookie Monster taught me that passion doesn't have to be polite, a lesson that became the foundation for some of my most meaningful choices. When I decided to bring donuts to a struggling database conversion team on Fridays, that wasn't strategic planning. That was Cookie Monster-level enthusiasm for simply showing up and caring about people.

I see his influence in my obsessive Cubs fandom that defies all mathematical logic. I see it in my willingness to drive cross-country with the dogs in a U-Haul, turning a practical move into an adventure. Or volunteering in Faith's computer lab, even though I probably wasn't the best choice, I just really wanted to be there. Cookie Monster taught me that caring too much about something beats not caring at all, even if you make a mess doing it.

Kids, you've seen this in action, whether it was our elaborate Christmas traditions born from last-minute improvisation, or my insistence on keeping score at your baseball games when everyone else was just watching casually. What I hope you learned is that it's better to care too much about the things that matter to you than to care too little about anything at all.

Building a Career on Beautiful Disasters

I built my career primarily as a translator. Not like French to English - more like translating between programmers who think in code and database schemas, and regular people who just wanted the computer to spit out useful information. I got good at taking what the tech guys were saying and explaining it in a way that made sense to everyone else, and vice versa. Turns out there aren't that many people who can do both sides of that conversation.

When I started PRSPCT-L, it wasn't because I was some expert. I just figured that if I was confused about something, other people probably were too. That simple acknowledgment of shared uncertainty became one of the field's most valuable resources.

My weekly donut tradition at Caltech exemplifies this approach. My team was getting killed by deadlines and technical problems that seemed impossible to solve. I should have taken a more official approach, brought in consultants, reorganized workflows, or whatever managers are supposed to do. Instead, I started bringing donuts from Foster's every Friday. For years. This wasn't a grand strategy; I thought people needed something good in their week, and donuts seemed the easiest way to do that.

That tradition worked not despite its simplicity, but because of it. Like Cookie Monster's single-minded pursuit of cookies, the gesture was so genuine, so unfiltered, that it cut through workplace cynicism and created real connections.

Parenting Through Imperfection

These same principles shaped how I tried to raise you. When Faith worried about how Santa would find us in California without a chimney, I didn't have a perfect answer ready. So, we invented the Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key traditions, born of improvisation and sustained by enthusiasm rather than expertise.

When my attempts to get Kailey to eat everything on her plate led to the notorious episode of hiding sweet potatoes in milk, I learned that being lovably flawed meant acknowledging my mistakes, laughing at them (eventually), and adjusting course. Some of my best parenting moments came not from having all the answers, but from being willing to figure things out together with you.

The St. Nicholas tradition we maintained wasn't about creating perfect memories; it was about showing up consistently, year after year, with both celebration and honest reflection. The "however" paragraph in St. Nick's letter, acknowledging that we all have room to grow, became a family touchstone because it made space for the full spectrum of human experience.

Through watching me coach Ted's Little League teams, volunteering in your schools, and navigating the various crises and celebrations of family life, you've come to realize that parents don't have to be perfect to be good. In fact, the opposite might be true: perfection creates distance, while lovable flaws create connection.

The Wisdom of Messes

What Oscar and Cookie Monster understood and what I've tried to practice throughout my life is that our flaws aren't bugs in the human operating system. They are features. The grouchiness that makes Oscar lovable is the same quality that allows him to cut through false cheer and speak uncomfortable truths. Cookie Monster's chaos creates joy precisely because it's so genuinely enthusiastic.

When I lost my temper on the baseball field, made mistakes as a parent, or had relationships that didn't work out, I wasn't proud of those moments. But they were real. And in that authenticity, followed by genuine apology and growth, I hope you learned something more valuable than you would have from a father who never made mistakes.

Look, I hope you guys figure out what took me way too long to learn: nobody's got it all figured out, and that's actually okay. Your weird quirks and the stuff you're not great at - that's not something to hide. People connect with real, not perfect. Show up as whoever you actually are, even if you're having a bad day or you're obsessing over something stupid. That's way better than pretending to be someone you're not.

Looking back now, I think Oscar and Cookie Monster taught me how to be a decent person. Sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud - two puppet characters on a kids' show. But they showed me it was okay to be grumpy sometimes and to get way too excited about the things you care about. That's pretty much how I've tried to live ever since.

They taught me that authenticity isn't just more honest, it's more effective. More connecting. More human. And maybe, if we're lucky, more fun.

A Letter to My Children

Kailey, Ted, and Faith: you've watched me practice this art your entire lives. You've seen me succeed and fail, show up and stumble, get enthusiastic about things that probably didn't deserve so much enthusiasm. What I hope you've learned is that this is what love looks like in practice, not perfection, but presence. Not having all the answers, but being willing to ask the questions. Not avoiding mistakes, but owning them, learning from them, and moving forward together.

The art of being lovably flawed isn't really about being flawed at all. It's about having the courage to be seen as you are, the wisdom to know that everyone else is just as beautifully imperfect as you are, and the grace to build relationships and a life around that fundamental truth.

My hope is that I pass on to you not a roadmap to perfection but permission to be gloriously, beautifully, lovably yourselves. To care deeply about the things that matter to you, even when others don't understand. To be grouchy when you need to be and enthusiastic when something deserves your enthusiasm. To make messes in pursuit of what you love and clean them up with humor and grace.

In a world that increasingly rewards performance over presence, I hope you'll remember what those fuzzy philosophers taught us: that the strongest relationships aren't built on mutual admiration of each other's perfection, but on shared acknowledgment of each other's beautiful imperfections.

Because in the end, the best version of yourself isn't the most polished version, it's the most honest one. And honesty, even when it's messy, even when it makes mistakes, even when it sprays metaphorical cookie crumbs everywhere, is always worth more than the most perfect performance.

Even if it makes a mess.

Especially if it makes a mess.

To Dream Impossible Dreams

In my sophomore year of high school, I saw two musicals. The first was A Chorus Line, on a double date with friends. The second was Man of La Mancha.

Man of La Mancha is the one that stuck.

I came by my love of the form honestly. My mom was a theater kid in high school and in college, and she made sure my brother, sisters, and I were exposed to the art form whether we asked for it or not. My dad was considerably less enthusiastic about the genre, which meant taking us to see shows fell almost entirely to my mom. I never wanted to be on stage myself (despite a turn as Otto Frank in an eighth-grade production of The Diary of Anne Frank), but in high school I worked crew — sets, lights, props. Our school put on Godspell my junior year, and I spent more evenings than I can count in that theater without ever saying a word from the stage. I didn't mind. Something about being in the building when a show comes together suits me better than the spotlight.

In college, I took a history of musical theater course to fulfill a humanities breadth requirement. The kind of course you sign up for because you need the credit and stay for because it turns out to be the best class of the semester. It connected my love of history to something I'd always enjoyed without being able to say why. Musicals, at their best, are documents. They tell you what a culture was worried about, what it needed to believe, what it wanted to hear sung back to it.

I never lost that thread. Man of La Mancha has been with me since my sophomore year. My mom put me in that theater. I don't know if she understood what she was handing me — probably she just loved musicals and wanted her son to love them too. But something about Don Quixote settled into me at fifteen and shaped how I've looked at things ever since. The willingness to see what you choose to see. The refusal to stop before you're finished.

Which is why, forty-some years later, I took Faith to Pasadena on a Saturday afternoon. And why I wrote the check for her summer theater program. You can't give a kid what a single experience gave you. You can only open the door and hope the right thing is waiting on the other side.

A Noise Within, on Foothill Boulevard in Pasadena, was running a production. It's a serious theater, a repertory company that takes classic texts seriously and draws audiences who come to be moved. Faith had been on stage in church Christmas pageants, high school productions, and at summer acting camps before, but this was different. This was the two of us and a story I'd carried for forty years.

She loved it. That didn't surprise me.

Faith is a theater kid the way my mom was a theater kid — the way some people just are, from the beginning, without needing to be talked into it. She's done every school production available to her and has made no secret of her desire to pursue acting professionally. As a freshman, she told her mother and me that college was probably unnecessary, since she planned to move to Hollywood and become an actor. We had many conversations (and therapy sessions) about that. She came around about college. She has not come around about acting.

What Man of La Mancha did that afternoon was confirm something she already knew about herself. I watched her watch the stage. I recognized the look.

A few weeks later, we signed her up for Summer With Shakespeare, A Noise Within's youth acting program. Six weeks of real work: movement, language, stagecraft, the business of what professional actors actually do. Not a drama club. Not a school showcase. She came home from each session exhausted and talking faster than usual.

Following the program, the theater held auditions for its fall season. One of the productions was A Tale of Two Cities. Faith auditioned. She got cast.

She plays a member of the mob. It's not a large role. But it is a professional one, in a real production at a theater that gets reviewed. The show runs through November. Her first professional credit.

A Noise Within ran a short interview with her on their website. She told them, "This is my first time in a professional production. I want to be an actress, and having the experience of working with Julia and Geoff [Elliott] and also with all the other super talented actors on stage is the very best part." She also said something I keep returning to: "If I had not participated in the education programs at ANW, I would never have had the chance to audition."

That sentence is the whole argument, as far as I'm concerned. You can't hand a kid a dream. What you can do is put them somewhere the dream becomes possible. You take them to see the show. You pay for the summer program. You drive them to auditions. Then you get out of the way while they figure out whether this is who they are.

Maybe she becomes an actress. Maybe she doesn't. What I know is that this fall she's standing on a professional stage for the first time, working alongside trained actors, learning what the work actually requires. She got there because a door opened, and she'd been given the tools to walk through it.

Don Quixote spends the whole play insisting the world is not what the world insists it is. The play doesn't ask you to agree with him. It asks what it costs to stop.

For today, I'm not going to be the one to tell her the windmill is a windmill.

You can read the interview A Noise Within did with Faith on their website. A Tale of Two Cities runs through November 19th. Go see it.

Editor's Note: In a more recent post, I wrote about how my mom's love of musical theater, my time on stage crew, and those years sharing shows with Faith all came together around a very different kind of theatrical tradition. You can read it here: Liberty in Three Acts.

The Last Game

Last night, May 26, 2017. I'm sitting in my living room in La Crescenta, laptop open, watching a grainy live stream of the West Coast Conference tournament. Six hundred miles north in Stockton, my son Ted is warming up in the bullpen for what has just become the final game of his college baseball career. The Loyola Marymount Lions are facing elimination against BYU, and I was supposed to be driving up today for the championship game if they could pull this one out.

The Lions are down 5-1 in the seventh inning. It doesn't look good.

Then Ted gets the call.

Where It All Began

The journey to last night in Stockton began on a different field entirely, decades earlier, with a bucket of tennis balls and a toy wooden bat that looked enormous in four-year-old hands. I bought him his first glove and baseball the day he was born. I know that was more about me than it was about him. But before he was old enough for organized teams, we were out in the backyard, me pitching underhand, him swinging with all the ferocity a preschooler could muster.

That little boy who slept with his glove under his pillow became the kid who mimicked batting stances he saw on TV, who lived and breathed Cubs baseball like his dad. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn't just play baseball; he loved it. He studied it. From the time he started in Tee Ball, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure, but more than that, he wanted to be better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready.

His first Little League hit was an RBI triple off Nate Rousey. I still remember that poor Nate cried afterward. His first home run came the next season. With each passing year, the instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he was a senior in high school at Crescenta Valley, he wasn't just a good player; he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments.

And then came that magical evening against Arcadia High four years ago. Two outs in the bottom of the seventh, the Pacific League title hanging in the balance. CV down 4-2. Ted stepped up to the plate and launched a three-run homer into the night to give us a 5-4 victory and the championship.

Crack.

That sound, you know the one. The sound that makes a stadium rise as one. The ball sailing high over the left-center-field fence. But this wasn't some major league park. This was a high school diamond where my son had just become a legend, where years of backyard practice and Little League dreams crystallized into one perfect swing.

The College Years: Learning to Let Go

When Ted committed to LMU, it felt like the natural next chapter. Division I baseball was his dream realized. But it also marked a profound transition for me: from the sidelines coach who knew every pitch and every at-bat to the distant observer, I was lucky that he was close by, so I could watch home games, and I went to as many away games as time and schedule permitted. I followed LMU's box scores online, and loved the chance to take him to dinner after games.

But college baseball is different. The talent gap narrows. The stakes feel higher. And parents have to step back, to trust the coaches, to let their kids figure it out on their own. The intense involvement of Little League and high school gives way to something more like faith. Faith that all those years of instruction, all those conversations about effort and attitude and what it means to be a teammate, have taken root.

For four years, I've watched from afar as Ted found his place on the team, from third base his freshman and sophomore years, and an injury that sidelined his junior year, then as a pitcher in his senior year. I watched while he learned what it meant to compete at the highest amateur level. There have been highs and lows, moments of brilliance and stretches of struggle. The typical arc of a college athlete learning that talent alone isn't enough, that consistency, mental toughness, and team-first thinking separate the good from the great.

Last Night

Which brings us to last night in Stockton, to that elimination game, to Ted jogging in from the bullpen with the season on the line.

Down 5-1 in the seventh, facing a BYU rally with runners on base, this was exactly the kind of pressure moment we'd talked about since he was little. Not the glory moments, not the home runs or the strikeouts that make highlight reels, but the quiet, crucial situations where everything you've learned gets distilled into execution.

He shuts down the scoring threat in the bottom of the seventh. It wasn't perfect, but it was good.

Then, he pitches an almost spotless eighth inning.

Watching from six hundred miles away on that grainy stream, I can feel something building. The Lions start scratching and clawing in the ninth, mounting a comeback that brings them to within one run. Tying run at third base, two outs... For a moment, I can see it all unfolding: the impossible rally, the championship game I'll drive to today, one more chance to see him pitch at this level.

But baseball doesn't always deliver the endings we script in our heads. The Lions fell short, 5-4. The comeback comes up just shy. Ted's college career ends not with a championship, but with 1⅔ innings of relief, one strikeout, no runs allowed, and a team given every chance to win.

It was a beautiful ending, even in defeat.

What I'm Realizing This Morning

I had hoped to see Ted play live one more time. To make that drive to Stockton again, for the third time in four years, for today's championship game, to sit in the familiar bleachers and watch my son take the mound in the biggest game of his college career. That's not in the cards.

But as I watched him walk off that field last night for the final time, something unexpected happened. Instead of disappointment, I felt overwhelming gratitude. Not sadness that it's over, but appreciation for what we've shared.

I don't need one more game. I have a lifetime of them.

I have those early backyard sessions with tennis balls and patient instruction. I have Little League memories of a gradual transformation from enthusiastic kid to serious ballplayer. I've coached him, watched him grow, seen him develop not just as a player but as a young man who understands what it means to be part of something bigger than himself.

He has high school glory, that championship-clinching homer that still gives me chills, the no-hitter against Loyola High earlier that spring, and the Pacific League MVP award. The moments when talent met opportunity and created magic.

And now I have this: watching him finish his competitive career with grace, professionalism, and the kind of performance that reminds me why I fell in love with this game in the first place. Two crucial innings when his team needed him most. No fanfare, no headlines, just a job well done when it mattered.

The Gift of the Last Game

The thing about being a baseball parent is that you spend so many years living for the next game, the next season, the next level. You mark time by tournament weekends and playoff runs. Your calendar revolves around practice schedules and game times. And then, suddenly, it's over.

What I'm learning this morning is that sometimes the endings we don't choose are more meaningful than the ones we plan. I thought I wanted one perfect final game, one last chance to see him pitch with everything on the line. Instead, I'm getting something better: the realization that Ted has become exactly what we hoped when he first picked up that toy wooden bat.

A player who can be counted on. One who can handle pressure. One who will leave everything on the field, whether the lights are bright or dim, whether the crowd is thousands or just a few parents and coaches watching a live stream. Someone who understands that how you finish matters as much as how you start.

Ted's baseball career has taught him about effort, teamwork, resilience, and what it means to be reliable when others are counting on you. It's taught me about patience, pride, letting go, and the beautiful complexity of watching your child pursue their dreams at the highest level they can reach.

What Remains

Now he's moving on to a career, to a life beyond the diamond. But somewhere in him will always be that four-year-old swinging the big wooden bat, that Little Leaguer crossing home plate after his first homer, that high schooler rounding the bases in triumph, that college pitcher walking off the mound after giving his team every chance to win.

And somewhere in me will always be the dad who got to watch it all unfold, one game at a time, one memory at a time, grateful for every single pitch.

Even the last one.

Especially the last one.

Because that's when I learned that the end of something beautiful isn't always sad. Sometimes it's just complete.

I'm grateful, too, that I was able to capture last night's game. That live stream, which I managed to grab, now holds Ted's final collegiate performance. Having it preserved means our family can revisit this moment, not just the statistics or the outcome, but the grace under pressure, the professionalism, the way he carried himself in those crucial innings. Years from now, when the details start to fade, we'll be able to watch again and remember not just what happened, but how it felt to witness the beautiful completion of a chapter we'd been writing together for over two decades.

Sometimes the most precious gifts come in the form of technology we take for granted until it captures something irreplaceable.

Trains, Presidents, and Baseball

A Cross-Country Road Trip with My Daughter

Earlier this month, Kailey and I packed up a rental Toyota Corolla and pointed it East—driving from La Crescenta, California, to Philadelphia, where she would begin medical school at Thomas Jefferson University. It was a practical trip on paper, but we planned to make use of the time to hit touristy things along the road. However, the trip soon became something more: a chance to share time, places, and stories with my oldest child in a way we hadn’t for years.

We set off under the California desert sun, bound not just for Philly, but for a series of mutual passions we’d charted together, natural wonders, national parks, presidential history, and baseball among them. First stop: the Grand Canyon. A classic detour. Entering the National Park, we were greeted by the sight of a family of Moose. We hurried to reach the South Rim of the canyon in time for the "Golden Hour," where I was able to snap a photo of her with the majestic vista of the canyon as the backdrop.  We continued our drive with the intent of seeing the Four Corners Monument, but we misjudged the distance and arrived too late to visit. We continued driving to our first overnight stop in Durango, Colorado, where I talked Kailey into indulging one of my more niche interests, the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Museum. She was a good sport, smiling as I nerded out over old locomotives and track gauges. She even asked a few questions, humoring me like I must have done with my own dad at some point.

The proprietors of the hotel we stayed at directed us on a scenic route through the high desert of the Colorado Plateau, driving through valleys flanked by Colorado's 14ers. We made our way to Salida for lunch beside the Arkansas River’s headwaters, at the Boathouse Cantina. As we enjoyed our lunch, we watched as tubers and a Black Labrador frolicked in the river's gentle rapids before making our way through Monarch Pass and over the Continental Divide, down the Front Range, and across the plains via Interstate 80 to Kansas for our second night on the road. The next morning, we detoured off of I-80 to Abilene. Here we really hit our stride at the Eisenhower Presidential Library. This wasn’t just a dad stop. Kailey and I both have a deep respect for American presidents and the stories that shaped their legacies. We lingered over Ike’s leadership in WWII and the 1950s’ transformation of America, taking it all in like two history buffs on pilgrimage.

After a couple of hours at the library, we decided to push on to St. Louis. Arriving in the early evening, I bought us two tickets to ride the tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, where we caught a few innings of a Cardinals game far below. After a quick stop in the museum gift shop beneath the Arch, we rushed to our car to avoid a thunderstorm rolling in. As we crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, the heavens opened up with some of the heaviest rain and most intense thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. Slowly making our way, we realized we had totally forgotten about dinner.  Kailey found a Steak 'n Shake near our hotel outside Springfield, Illinois, and we enjoyed a meal of burgers and shakes before calling it a day.

The next morning, we made another joint stop: Abraham Lincoln’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery, the Lincoln Home Historic Site, and the Illinois State House. This was holy ground for both of us. Lincoln has always been my hero, and Kailey has always been thoughtful and intellectually curious, and watching her engage so seriously with Lincoln’s legacy reminded me of how much we truly share values, interests, and a reverence for history that runs deep.

That afternoon, July 20, 2016, we reached Chicago for a highlight we’d been looking forward to since planning the trip: a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Colon vs. Hendricks. The Mets vs. the Cubs during what would become their curse-breaking championship season. It was sweltering, the energy was electric, and we soaked it all in. Sharing that game with Kailey, shoulder to shoulder in the Friendly Confines, was one of those moments you don’t fully appreciate until much later.

After the game, we cruised through the University of Chicago campus, then headed east again, spending the night in Ohio. The next day, crossing the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line, we neared my last wishlist item: the East Broad Top Railroad in Rockhill Furnace, Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, it had been closed since 2011, something I hadn’t realized until we arrived. Ever the trooper, Kailey gamely followed me to the Friends of the East Broad Top Museum in Roberstdale, but it too was closed. We laughed off the failed detour and made our way to Duck Donuts in Mechanicsburg to regroup, ice cream and donuts lifting my spirits.

Eventually, we arrived in Philadelphia. Kailey was eager to move into her new apartment and begin this next chapter of her life. Thankfully, her grandparents lived nearby and had furniture to spare. We picked up a U-Haul, conquered IKEA, and even caught a glimpse of the SS United States docked along the Delaware River, a quiet, majestic piece of history just waiting to be remembered. One last fitting tribute.

It took a long day, but between her grandparents and me, we got her settled. I stuck around just long enough to see her begin her journey to becoming a doctor. Not quite ready to finish the trip and return home, I decided to take a walk through Washington Square, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell, sites I’d visited before, but which now carried a new emotional weight. They reminded me not just of America’s story, but of mine and Kailey’s.

This trip didn’t just deliver my daughter to medical school. It delivered us back to each other. In between the national parks, presidential libraries, the baseball stadiums, and yes, even the train museums, I saw how deeply we were connected. Kailey may not share my passion for narrow-gauge railroads, but she shares so much else: a curiosity for history, a love of learning, and a reverence for the moments and people that shape our world.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch, Ike and Lincoln, Hendricks and Colon, I realized the rift that had opened between us during her teenage years had quietly begun to close. Not through a single conversation or dramatic reconciliation, but through something much simpler: miles on the road, shared passions, and time.

Magic Reindeer Feed: Our Christmas Tradition

"But how will Santa know where we are?" Faith's voice carried that particular mix of worry and wonder that only a child facing their first Christmas crisis can muster. We'd recently moved to Southern California, no snow, no chimney, no clue how Santa was supposed to make it work.

Hanging Santa's Magic Key, Christmas Eve 2004

"And how will he get in without a fireplace?" she added, her brow furrowed with the kind of serious concern that makes you realize your five-year-old has been thinking this through.

At the time, Teddy was still a true believer, full of wonder and ready to defend Santa's honor to anyone who dared question him. Kailey, on the other hand, had already been quietly inducted into the fraternity of elves that knowing, magical role older siblings step into when they learn the truth but choose to protect the magic for the little ones. That Christmas became a turning point. The questions were real, but so was our response.

So, like any good parent backed into a magical corner, I improvised.

The Solution

Kailey, Faith, Madison, and Teddy making
Magic Reindeer Feed, Christmas Eve 2008

2004 marked the beginning of our tradition of Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key. Standing in our California kitchen, we gathered around the counter. The kids stirred the oats and sparkles, the gentle sound of ingredients hitting the mixing bowl creating its own kind of Christmas music. Faith added a healthy scoop of Christmas hope with each stir.

The mixture was festive and fun, but more than that, it was purposeful. I told the kids the reindeer would be able to see it glimmering from the sky, guiding Santa straight to our home. It was a homemade beacon, one part snack, two parts signal, and all heart.

And the key? Oh, the key. Growing up, my mom had her own ways of making Christmas magic work, no matter where we lived or what challenges we faced. She taught me that the best traditions aren't the ones you inherit perfectly, they're the ones you adapt with love. Our first Magic Key was humble and homemade, an old house key we weren't using anymore, decorated with a red yarn lanyard and absolutely smothered in as much glitter as we could glue on. It looked more like a kindergarten art project than a piece of North Pole tech, but it worked.

A few years later, one of Santa's "elves" (with an Amazon account) upgraded us to a more elegant skeleton key, something shiny and antique-looking, worthy of the North Pole. But I still keep that original glittery mess tucked away with our decorations. It was the key that started it all.

Magic Reindeer Feed Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/4 cup red and green sugar sprinkles
• 1/4 cup edible glitter or colored sanding sugar
• A pinch of belief (the secret ingredient)

Instructions: Mix all dry ingredients in a large bowl until evenly distributed. The mixture can be stored in an airtight container for up to two weeks before Christmas Eve.

The kids spreading the feed, Christmas Eve 2006

On Christmas Eve, give each child a small handful to scatter on the lawn, porch, or even a balcony. If rain is in the forecast, place small piles under covered areas or on windowsills. Reindeer have excellent eyesight.

Notes: Back then, we used regular craft glitter, thinking more about sparkle than sustainability. But over time, as the kids got older and more aware of the world around them, we made the switch to edible glitter, a small but meaningful change to make sure the reindeer (and the North Pole) stayed microplastic-free. Magic shouldn't come at the planet's expense.

The Ritual

The kids scattered the feed on our lawn with the gravity of an ancient ritual, whispering instructions to Dasher and Dancer and all the rest. Their voices carried across the California evening air, mixing with the sound of distant neighbors and the unfamiliar hum of our new neighborhood. I remember thinking how different this felt from the snowy Christmases of my childhood, yet somehow just right.

The next morning, we'd find the sparkles mostly gone (thanks to birds, wind, and morning dew), evidence enough that the reindeer had found us after all.

The Evolution

Now, years later, the kids are older. The questions have changed. Kailey is getting ready for medical school, Teddy is in college, Faith has taken her place as an elf, and all the kids know the secret. But the magic? It lingers.

However, I've learned something important about traditions: they're not museum pieces to be preserved exactly as created. They're living things that grow and adapt. Some years, we've added different colored sugars depending on what I had on hand. One year, we made extra bags so the kids’ friends could join in “our” ritual. The tradition became less about the exact recipe and more about the moment of connection that Christmas Eve pause, where we acknowledge wonder together.

Every Christmas Eve, I still see that first night through Faith's eyes, the worry, the wonder, and the moment I realized that magic isn't something that happens to you. It's something you create, one handful of sparkly oats at a time.

If Yes, Virginia was about believing in the unseen, this tradition was about doing something to make that belief real. And maybe that's the greatest kind of magic there is, the kind that starts with a parent's quick thinking and becomes a memory none of us will ever forget.

Merry Christmas, and may you always find just enough sparkle in your yard and your heart.

Green Beans, Chicken & Potatoes

Over the years, I have come to realize that each of my children can be a very picky eater. One often repeated conversation starts...

Dad: "What do you guys want for dinner?"
Child 1: "In-N-Out"
Child 3: "No, I hate In-N-Out, let's go to KFC..."
Child 2: "Yuck, they are both disgusting, I want barbecue..."
Child 1: "I asked first..."

       ...and so on, until:

Dad: "...Enough, we are stopping at the grocery store for TV dinners."

Most parents can relate to some form of this conversation. Having one picky eater can be challenging, but having three ends up being an argument. It has taken me lots of time to realize that I can not force the kids to like (or even eat) the foods that I think they should.

But coming to this realization was challenging, and I haven't always earned my "best parent of the year" trophies when it comes to getting my fussbudget eaters to "come around"...there was the (now) notorious episode of my oldest hiding sweet potatoes in her milk (and me then trying to force her to drink the concoction). Then there was the Tuna Helper riot of 2007, with my youngest (only slightly exaggerated for comic effect...) throwing her pasta at me, from across the table, and me responding that she could have it for breakfast too...

At the end of the day, I do realize that I can't force my children to do anything, especially eat, so I have (for the most part) just stopped trying. The best I can do is offer them nutritious, varied foods—and eat them myself. The kids can have theirs, or not, and the best I can do is model the behavior I want them to emulate.

So, I put the food on their plates, if it stays there, I don't push them (too much, but is a "no-thank you" bite too much to ask?!). Really, I try not to stress over it too much (to varying degrees of success). Unfortunately, none of them seem to like the same foods at the same time, which can make family dinner time a pretty stressful situation for everyone involved.

But I finally found a one-pan meal that they all tolerate (some might even say that they like...). Presenting Italian Chicken:

Ingredients

• 6 small to medium red potatoes, cut
• 8/9 oz package of frozen cut green beans
• 1 1/2 lb chicken breasts (3-6 breasts)
• 1/2 c. butter
• 1 package Italian dressing mix

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Lightly grease a 9x13" (3-quart) baking dish with butter.
3. Line one side of the baking dish with the cut green beans.
4. Line the chicken breasts down the middle of the baking dish.
5. Cube the potatoes and line the opposite side (from the green beans) of the dish with the potatoes.
6. Cut the stick of butter into small pats and layer over the green beans, potatoes, and chicken. 
7. Sprinkle Italian dressing over the entire pan. Cover with foil.
8. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes (or until the chicken breasts reach 165 degrees internal temperature).

There isn't anything here that any of the three kids hate (in fact, they love all the ingredients, although just last night my youngest says she doesn't like the green beans with the Italian dressing mix...sigh). 

I serve this meal with a fruit salad, or even some canned pears or peaches, and voila, dinner time is solved (at least two times per month).

It took time, some trial and error, and a few tears (mine and the kids), but I learned that by continually offering them choices, I was finally able to hit upon something that appeals to all of our tastes (well, for the most part)!

The Swing That Sealed It

Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.

May 2013 is a month I will never forget for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.

Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant, she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve, only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.

And then came the game...

It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.

I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day, a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.

It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball; he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.

When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure, but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player, he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.

And there he was on the biggest stage of his high school career.

He took the first pitch. Then came the second.

Crack.

The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence as a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The visitor's side of the stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.

I stood there, still, trying to take it in, so buoyant I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that, something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”

It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.

Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”

And she was right.

Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High, striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University, realizing his dream of playing Division I college baseball—so LMU is a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.

It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.

The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes, grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.

If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:

And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Peeps, Patience, and the Problem with Preferences

Every Easter, like clockwork, I buy Peeps.

These neon-colored marshmallow bunnies and chicks go into the baskets cheerfully nestled between chocolate bunnies, Cadbury eggs, and Brach's "All Reds" Easter jellybeans, not because my kids like them (they don’t), but because I do. I’ve long since accepted that, come this afternoon, I’ll be the only one finishing off the sugar-dusted leftovers while everyone else picks around them like they’re radioactive.

But I still include them. Every year. Why?

Because Easter, like parenting, is not always about efficiency. It’s about intention. It’s about tradition. And sometimes, it’s about small, ridiculous acts of hope like believing that maybe this year one of the kids will discover the joy of stale Peeps the way I did back in the 1970s.

The Peeps Paradox

The whole Peep situation got me thinking about preferences, how strongly kids develop them, how wildly they differ, and how we as parents sometimes wrestle with honoring those preferences while still keeping a little space for our own.

Take dinner, for example. One kid wants tacos, another votes spaghetti, and the third insists cereal counts as a balanced meal. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to cook one thing that everyone will eat without negotiating like I’m at a G7 summit.

It’s the same with movies, music, road trip snacks even the car temperature. Parenting often means navigating a minefield of opinions, all while keeping the van moving forward and your own sanity intact.

Putting the Peeps in Anyway

Sometimes, putting the Peeps in the basket is my quiet rebellion against the tyranny of consensus. A reminder to myself that my preferences don’t have to disappear completely just because I’m the parent.

It’s also a reminder to my kids: you won’t always love everything that shows up in life or in your Easter basket. And that’s okay. You don’t have to eat the Peeps. But you can appreciate the thought behind them. The effort. The love. Even if it comes in the form of fluorescent marshmallow poultry.

The Bigger Picture

Faith and Kailey decorating eggs, circa 2005

Parenting isn’t always about creating a curated experience that hits everyone’s sweet spot. It’s about showing up. Consistently. Lovingly. Sometimes goofily. With jellybeans, chocolate eggs, and yes, even with Peeps.

This year's Easter baskets will be full. Maybe not perfectly tailored. Maybe a little sticky. But filled with good intentions, and just enough sugar to remind us all that life and family are messy, colorful, and best approached with a sense of humor.

And if no one eats the Peeps again this year? That’s fine. More for me.