My living room looked like a Marvel movie exploded in a suburban Portland cul-de-sac last March. It was raining—standard for Oregon—and my four-year-old, Leo, was still wearing a tattered red cape while trying to eat a Go-Gurt. The mud from fifteen pairs of tiny boots had somehow migrated from the back deck to the kitchen…
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 second-graders come back from summer break as one person, and they leave in June as someone completely different. Nine is the year that really does it. I’ve been teaching for sixteen years, and nine-year-olds are my favorite age to watch — they’re old enough to have real opinions, real skill, real humor. They will…
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…
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 Pikachu exploded in it by 11 PM on March 11, 2025. I was standing on a shaky kitchen chair, holding a roll of yellow crepe paper in one hand and a half-empty glass of lukewarm Chardonnay in the other. Sophie was turning six the next morning, and I had…
The smell of burnt popcorn and the high-pitched squeals of eight girls under ten are the sounds of my Saturday nights in Atlanta these days. Being a single dad means I usually spend my weekends trying to figure out if I’m winning at parenting or just barely surviving the chaos. Last October, I decided to…
