March 15, 2026, hit Chicago with a wind that nearly took the roof off our small bungalow in Logan Square. Inside, the chaos was even louder because my twins, Logan and Leo, were turning 12. Twelve is a weird age where they still want a party but think everything is “cringe” unless it involves a…
My kitchen floor currently feels like a sticky wasteland of spilled blue Hawaiian Punch and crushed Goldfish crackers, but honestly, it was worth every chaotic second. Last Tuesday, March 24, I hosted my son Leo’s 5th birthday party in our slightly too-small living room here in rainy suburban Portland. With my 7-year-old, Maya, trying to…
Austin mornings usually taste like cold brew and breakfast tacos, but on June 14, 2024, my backyard smelled like SPF 50, spilled IPA, and pure, unadulterated competitive spirit. We were hosting a massive watch party for the Euro Cup opener. I had fifteen adults crammed onto my patio, three dogs pacing the grass, and a…
My son Leo turned eleven on March 14, 2024, and I decided, in my infinite wisdom as a single dad in Atlanta, that a “Quiet Party” was for cowards. I wanted noise. I wanted sugar. Most importantly, I wanted a way to combine the two so the kids could destroy my eardrums while simultaneously rotting…
The sky over the West Hills was that specific shade of Portland gray that promises rain but delivers a misting so fine it just makes your hair frizz while you’re trying to hang streamers. My youngest, Leo, was turning four last March, and he had decided—with the absolute, unwavering conviction only a preschooler can muster—that…
The frosting was everywhere, mostly on my favorite beige rug, but all I could look at was that tiny, perfect daisy cake topper leaning precariously to the left on top of a lopsided vanilla cake. It was March 12th, a typical rainy Tuesday in suburban Portland, and I was currently losing a battle against a…
My living room looked like a Category 4 hurricane hit a Home Depot. Sawdust coated the baseboards. Empty juice boxes littered the “job site.” It was March 12, 2024, the day my son Leo turned five, and I had sixteen kindergarteners vibrating on a sugar high. I thought I was prepared. I had the yellow…
My living room smelled like blue raspberry frosting and desperation last Saturday morning. Leo and Maya, my nine-year-old twins, were vibrating with that specific brand of pre-party energy that usually ends in a broken lamp or a trip to the urgent care clinic. Twenty-one kids were descending on our Logan Square two-flat in exactly two…
Seven-year-olds are basically tiny, caffeinated raptors. Last Saturday, March 28, 2026, my son Leo turned seven, and my living room in Denver became ground zero for a prehistoric stampede. Seventeen kids arrived at 1:00 PM, and if I hadn’t spent three weeks obsessing over the structural integrity of our dinosaur party backdrop set, the whole…
My living room still smells like burnt hair from the Great Marshmallow Incident of 2024, a memory that haunts my nightmares and my security deposit. Being a single dad in Atlanta means I’m constantly oscillating between “Hero of the Year” and “How did I let the cat get stuck in the chimney?” When my son,…
