My living room looked like a pirate ship exploded in it last March, and honestly, I wasn’t even mad about it. My middle kid, Leo, turned seven on the 12th, and he insisted—with that toothy, missing-front-incisor grin—that we needed the “coolest ship ever” in our suburban Portland split-level. I spent three hours on a Tuesday…
My son Leo turned eight on March 12, 2026, and his only request was a “Stardew Valley” farm party in our Denver backyard. I am the kind of dad who spends three hours reading the fine print on plastic resin codes before buying a single water bottle. My wife calls it “analysis paralysis,” but I…
Seventeen six-year-olds in a single classroom have the collective energy of a small nuclear reactor, especially on a Friday in Houston when the humidity is 98 percent and the “blue” behavior chart is the only thing standing between me and total anarchy. Last March 12th, I decided to host our annual Royal Literacy Gala, and…
My kitchen floor in Atlanta still has faint pink glitter trapped in the cracks from March 14, 2024. That was the day my daughter Chloe turned ten and I learned that being a single dad means you either sink or swim in a sea of pastel frosting. I chose to paddle frantically. I stood in…
My kitchen floor in Chicago was a disaster zone on March 14, 2024. Red frosting everywhere. Pink streamers tangled in my hair. My twins, Leo and Maya, were turning six, and they had one demand: Peppa Pig. I looked at our bank account and saw exactly sixty-two dollars for the “fun fund” that month. My…
My kitchen counter looked like a crime scene involving a glitter factory and a very confused rainbow on the morning of June 14, 2025. It was my middle daughter Maya’s sixth birthday, and she had spent the last three months insisting that her party be a “flying garden” filled with butterfly balloons for kids. Living…
The smell of glitter and fish-shaped crackers lingered in my classroom for three days after the Great Carp Caper of 2025. It was a Friday afternoon in Houston, the kind of humid day where the AC struggles and twenty-two fifth graders start vibrating with chaotic energy. I had decided, in a moment of questionable sanity,…
My daughter, Chloe, looked me dead in the eyes last Tuesday and told me that seven is “actually the peak age for Cocomelon.” I live in Denver, where we take our craft beer and our kid’s safety seriously. I spent three hours researching the chemical composition of cheap plastic tablecloths before I let her pick…
My living room looked like a strawberry milkshake had exploded by 7:00 AM on March 12, 2024. My youngest, Lily, was officially four, and she had spent the last six months insisting that her “big girl” birthday had to involve tutus, tiaras, and absolutely no boys (sorry, Leo, my eleven-year-old was relegated to the kitchen…
My nephew Jax was turning three, and he was currently obsessed with two things: my golden retriever, Buster, and the giant “moon ball” in the sky. Living in South Austin means we take our celebrations seriously, but when my sister asked me for help, I knew we had to go big on the theme without…
