In today’s world, kids are born on live stream and each milestone isn’t just in your camera roll—it’s posted on Instagram, shared in the group thread, and stored in the inscrutable cloud. And remember how old photos used to, you know, actually look old? Unglued edges, Polaroid frames, faded colors. Videos were grainy with fuzzy audio. Now? A photo of my daughter greeted me on our kitchen’s digital photo frame last week. One problem: I have no idea when it was taken, so I have no idea which daughter it was.

Every day. Every outfit. Every haircut. Every moment, good or bad. All waiting for the shutter snap and live red light. And it’s so easy. Our phones are attached at all times. Even when we try to be present, disconnected, and in the moment, it’s just a finger tap away.

But for all the effort, all the space in the cloud, all those smiles (real or fake), 95% of photos and videos are meh. No offense to all the true hidden artists out there, but this stuff is more record-keeping than art. My framing is usually whack, I talk over important sound, and I’m certainly no tripod.

But every once in a while, something special happens. Something worth sharing with the world, even with the most stubborn grandpas. It’s a full-frame, sound-up experience, and I highly recommend the extra effort.

I hope you replayed this a few times, because it happens fast. Much like the world of a toddler, I would imagine. I should also note at this time that no children were hurt in the making of this story. At least not physically. Her ego saw better days.

There are a few great things about this video. First, it epitomizes my 2-year-old (and probably a lot of 2-year-olds). Chaotic, intense, innocent, fearless. I had to capture her scooter skills in the driveway, grabbing my phone as she told me about her light-up wheels ("the “dot things” with “magic powers”).

Second, it’s all about the noise of her impact with the garage door coinciding with my reactionary, “Awh!” It’s an unscripted snippet of a second, but it’s unbelievably raw and painful. I felt it in my own face, and I was shocked she bounced up so quickly. Not only that, she continued with her story as if nothing happened, navigating our dog Charlie and the garage turnaround.

Lastly, the experience of moving so quickly across a range of emotions is something that becomes all too familiar in parenting. The pride of watching my kid do something I could never do at two years old. The abject fear of an awful injury to that kid. The heartbeat-skipping relief of seeing her pop up, and then watching the video 14 times a few minutes later, and laughing so hard you’re having trouble breathing.

It’s also the feeling of how I explain to my wife why I’m taking videos on my phone instead of carefully guarding my toddler in a supervision-mandated situation. So I immediately went to delete the video (after checking my daughter for injuries, thank you very much), but I paused. No, I said (again checking for any bruises or cuts, just to be 100% sure). This one shall go to the “Favorites” album.

Some memories were meant to be saved.

Football season is like no other. Maybe more popular than ever before, the game is watched by everyone, or at least celebrated by all. Name a better excuse to eat good food, dress up in matching colors, and yell at the TV in a totally acceptable way. Better yet, we get to do it all together. Because that is what sports is all about.

Whether it’s pro, college, Canadian, or your local town’s high school heroes, football unites us all this time of year. The brisk air and early sunsets set the stage for game day every week. Sure, Mondays can be rough, but there’s always football around the corner. We come together for a common team, or at least a dislike of another, and connect IN PERSON! It’s a mini-holiday where we toast to the wins, shrug off the losses, and remember why we do this in the first place: tradition.

My love of sports started early. I memorized the college attended by every pro basketball player in elementary school and was soon taping over family videos with my fake SportsCenter broadcasts. I fell in love with baseball, was wowed by hoops, and became captivated by golf. But football was something else: the larger-than-life players, the importance of every game, the spectrum of weather conditions. I’m originally from New England, and we had our fair share of nor’easters blow across the gridiron and December tailgates. Snow, sleet, rain, or shine, we all persevere on football gameday—an obligatory ritual that so many of us have had for so many years. This tradition only grows bigger with generations, and I’m now sharing these same experiences with my daughters.

“I love your football dress!” my six-year-old says every Sunday morning. It’s a jersey, I explain, but you can call it whatever you want as long as you root for Daddy’s team. At this point, the whole family knows the drill. For those of us who live in California, kickoff starts early (thanks, London!) and the marathon begins. The kids go in and out, catching a few downs and handfuls of snacks. I do the same, hopping from TV to kitchen for gameday fuel. My go-to? Sandwiches from Jerome’s Carmel Valley Market and an Alvarado Street Mai Tai P.A.

Or maybe it’s the Niners with nachos, the Raiders with roasted tri-tip, or whatever teams are in LA now with some birria tacos. Could even be cake with the Carmel Padres, celebrating their 2025 CIF Division 5AA state title! Whatever team you root for, we lock in for a solid five months. Late summer eases us into the season, eventually swapping sunscreen for sweatshirts through the holidays and new year. The bowls get bigger and culminate with the event of the year—Super Bowl Sunday. My daughters have it right up there with Christmas and their birthdays, and the halftime performance is mandatory viewing. Throw in some funny commercials with puppies and some pulled-pork nachos, and we officially have the best day ever.

Sports, especially football, give us temporary escape from life’s bigger challenges. For an only child of divorced parents, I had my fair share of idle time, and sports became everything to me. I played with little success, I watched as many games as my cable provider would allow, and I studied all of it before the advent of the internet. The obsession has certainly waned with age and grown-up responsibilities, but I’ve found a new joy sharing it with my kids. Now they know that each fall, football season becomes part of our daily lives. “Why do we watch football, Dad?” one of my daughters asked as I was applying the team face paint. Three things, I told her. “Fun, food, and family.”

That’s a win every time.

Here’s a hot take: grandparents don’t get enough love. They have a ridiculous amount of Earth experience, share candy without consequences, and keep the greatest anthology of our family’s stories in their mental Rolodex. They’re emergency babysitters, walking wisdom, and life’s best cheerleaders. All that said: what’s up with Grandparents Day?

We are falling woefully short on celebrating all the Nanas, Abuelas, Papas, Gam Gams, Opas, and Bubbies out there. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day carry the calendar, but the OG moms and dads need a next-level party. If we can dress like Chewbacca on Star Wars Day (May the 4th) and binge-buy candles with funny sayings on Amazon Prime Day (“My Last Nerve”—get it?), then this should be easy work.

This year’s Grandparents Day—September 7, or really the whole month if you owe them big time—I urge all of us to amp up the celebration. I’m talking a round on any one of the beautiful Monterey and Santa Cruz County golf courses with Pops. Sure, you’ve heard that almost-hole-in-one story 37 times before, but you love the guy anyway.

Grab coffee with Nanny and show off every recent photo of the grandkids, even though that results in forcing you to explain how to AirDrop in step-by-step detail. Just spend the day together, reminisce, and laugh at memories that didn’t seem too funny in the moment (like when 17-year-old Ryan backed the Toyota into our basketball hoop—sorry, mom!).

And I challenge us to find the time now. Don’t wait. Life will always be busy, no matter how much we plan. But the moments we have together ahead of us are never guaranteed. Plus, I’ve got breaking news for everyone—these are most definitely not your grandparents’ grandparents. Seventy is the new 40, the world feels so much different than a few years ago, and Grammy knows how to book an international Airbnb with roundtrip airfare using ChatGPT.

In some ways the world has become smaller since COVID and personal experiences seem to drive the human soul more than ever. My 50-year-old mom, for example, never liked driving into the grocery store parking lot, yet the 70-year-old version will soon cross the globe to visit Croatia for the second time since I’ve had kids. Bon voyage, Mimi!

And don’t get me wrong: they have earned this right. Frankly, I’m jealous. Those are the experiences I hope we all earn after raising a human and remembering all our online passwords for decades. That trip you finally make, that dive from the skies, that river you ride—it’s all in pursuit of the happiness we talk so much about. I recently spent time with both my mom and dad—Grammy and G-Pops, to my girls—and I found a spark of peace and calm in both of them that I had never seen before.

Maybe it’s being in the same room with three generations or it’s facing 40 in the mirror with a lot more wrinkles, but my appreciation and gratitude for both my parents—and now my children’s grandparents—have only grown. Only later in our lives are we clued into the real stories of our childhood, and we realize the sacrifice, love, and chutzpah needed for the job.

So let’s get the balloons, maybe a cake. Grandpa won’t pass that up. Play the hits from the good old days, talk about their favorite albums. “Gather around, kids. These are called records, cassettes, and CDs!” Eat good food and share the best family recipe, citing culinary credit to the proper Gigi, of course. Take photos and videos—this stuff will be gold for future grandchildren. And share stories of the ones no longer here in person, but always present in our hearts and minds. Then get everyone to help clean up, because this mess isn’t going to clean itself.

On September 7 and every day after, let’s hear it for the grandparents and let’s toast to the GOATs. Do everything for the people you love, live life to the fullest, and make every moment count—words gifted to me by the same Grammy and G-Pops shortly after I became a dad. Whatever their name from family to family, we all feel extraordinarily lucky to have them in our lives—candy included.

Shaved? Ah, yes: peeled.

She watches me intently, shaving the skin, perfectly slicing sweet golden crescent moons onto her plate. “Yummy!” she declares while waiting for the full meal. “I can’t wait to eat my apple.”

I shit you, not, as this child scarfs spoonfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese, along with double bites of chicken tenders—and doesn’t even look at the fresh fruit (and only ingredient that dad feels relatively good about). She politely excuses herself from the table, as if the initial mandate and preparation events never existed. “But what about the shaving, the coring, the cutting?” I plead. “After all that!?”

“I don’t really like apples,” she shrugs as the sad clown looks on.

How about them apples.

The delicate dad dance between warden, teacher and peer is incredibly complex. Some of the time, I’m the enforcer—eat this, don’t eat that, brush your teeth, go to bed. But lately, I’ve also felt like an enabler. I give up, I give in, and then I’m somehow surprised at the outcome. This is where you remind me the definition of insanity.

On multiple occasions, I have been summoned by a screaming child, only be asked to find the TV remote while they’re sitting on the couch. Yeah, I piss and moan a little, but then I fold like origami. There’s a fine line between loving and spoiling, but I have no idea where it is. Here you go, sweetie pie.

How do I give them the best life possible while also disciplining them to be independent self-starters? No, this isn’t rhetorical. Please leave your answer in the comments below. But that’s just it! There is no secret sauce or hidden hack. Here’s help, but show responsibility. Here’s how you resolve problems, but stop pulling your sister’s hair. I catch myself so often treating my kids like peers, like evolved humans, forgetting they still fear monsters under the bed and steamed broccoli.

The final step to this vicious cycle is stubbornness. Today, I’m holding strong and won’t pick up any mess, be it toys, dirty dishes or day-old clothes. Hours turn to days and days into weekends and…Ugh, we have people coming over and it looks like hoarders live here. I’ll just do it real quick.

Back in the kitchen, same old story. I struggle to make one unified meal each day. I’m a line cook taking orders from each kid. Yes, I know they should all be eating the same thing. But my vegan daughter of yesterday won’t stop hounding Ballpark franks today. And my 2-year-old just wants to eat handfuls of…shredded cheese? I quit. I’m done. This is inevitable.

And yet, I’m back, every day, like the alley dog that just doesn’t get it. I’m dad and I love them and they’re awesome and life is a beautiful crazy rollercoaster. I'm proud they depend on me for sustenance and good conversation at the counter, similar to their neighborhood convenience store. They don’t pay their tab, but it’s a few minutes when I get their undivided attention and maybe a little of bit of playful banter. Their smiles remind me of their innocence, having no idea the challenges that come with parenting. I feel instant remorse for ever being frustrated.

The house is finally quiet. I climb into bed, pulling up the covers of another day in the books. I kept them alive and relatively happy, I remind myself, trying to celebrate the moral victory of complete mediocrity. My breathing slows, eyelids grow heavy, gently drifting off to sle…. “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! DAAAAAAAD! I NEED WATER! WITH ICE! IN A PINK CUP! WITH A STRAW!

I fumble to the kitchen, committed to another decade of dad requests for three unrelenting but perfect little girls. At least they didn’t ask for an apple.

But it was one store at the mall that I never truly appreciated until now. And I’m afraid it might be too late.

The tween mecca Claire’s has been around for nearly seven decades, defining early teen social experiences in malls throughout the United States. Originally a wig store outside of Chicago in the early 1960s, Claire’s shifted to fashion accessories with the rise of American malls and really kicked into gear in the mid-1990s, specializing in on-site piercing and providing cheap, colorful jewelry to free-range mall kids everywhere. Claire’s peaked around 3,500 stores worldwide and claims to have poked more than 110 million ears.

Including mine.

But I’ll get to that later. Fast forward to last week: Claire’s filed bankruptcy and announced the closing of more than 700 locations due to a variety of factors. Stories like this have become commonplace in the shopping industry, but some strike a chord, strumming a familiar note of a time when I started learning independence and freedom. Or as free as a 14-year-old getting dropped off at the mall with $20 and five extra hits of Axe body spray. Original “girlfriends” dragged me to Claire’s, looking for matching rings to celebrate our 2-week anniversary. Our group of friends would loiter outside the store, just hoping for the chance to chat up some girls (spoiler alert: we never had the guts).

And all that is coming to an end. Let’s pour one out for an institution of human development, where mall memories were made on many a weekend night. I never truly appreciated Claire’s, but by some kind of cosmic force, I was able to experience the gift of the store one last time.

The family visited Santa Barbara for the first time a few weeks ago. Classic Southern California vibes meet solid food, boozy courtyards and palm-lined beaches. So, of course, a visitor must hit the highlights…starting with Claire’s. We found the hidden gem tucked in a downtown shopping plaza. My girls, eight and six, had been toying with the idea of piercing their ears for some time, excited about new accessories but nervous for the unknown pain variable. Walking past the store, we felt drawn to the special moment.

Today, here, now. Let’s do this.

I knew this was coming and I was beyond excited. I was also dead-set on going through the process with them. Piercing my ear was always a when, not if (especially given the last name), and this was the perfect excuse to find that rebellious nature long forgotten since my goth days. “Um, yeah,” the Claire’s associate answered after I asked if they pierced adults, too. Major ick and cringe, I knew she was thinking. But no matter, I was here for the embarrassing dad story.

My daughters were excited with the plan, wanting to see the process run through once before making the ultimate decision. I sat in a director’s chair near the storefront window. An older woman passed by on the sidewalk, expressing a confused facial expression. Smiling sheepishly, I heard a faint yell from the back of the store.

“MID-LIFE CRISIS! MID-LIFE CRISIS!”

My wife is a lot of things. One of them is a straight shooter. And as I heard her distinct voice echo through the rows of tie-dyed bangles and bracelets, I questioned the move. Maybe she’s right. What am I doing? Am I going to be the guy that gets a staph infection and a heavy dose of antibiotics for this lame dad stunt?

Yes. Yes, I am.

I picked out my stud, excited at the endless possibilities of designs and styles after the mandatory 8-week initial healing period. My girls watched in anticipation as I posed for what I assumed to be a handheld hole puncher. I felt those not-as-frequent butterflies of a new experience, something far more valued on this side of 40. Meanwhile, my 2-year-old learned eight new words and how to walk backwards since I started this post.

Then BOOM, it was over. I had an earring. I contemplated doubling down with the second ear, but I graciously declined the associate’s offer. Maybe it was my wife shaking her head with disgust in the background, murmuring, “Just please, stop.” My daughters then took turns, each bursting with jubilation as they realized dress-up will be a lot more fun from now on. Tearless and newly-blinged, they ran to the closest mirror and struck their best pose.

I peeked over at my wife, slightly bittersweet for yet another parenting milestone, slightly disturbed over her husband’s antics. But in fairness, these moments with our kids are fleeting. They’ll soon balk at the presence of parents in public. Moreover, these coming-of-age experiences as a young girl generally don’t include dad, so I’ll take it.

I admired my slightly lighter ear in the mirror, amazed at the simplicity of the whole process. Easy, fast and seemingly quite hygienic, Claire’s gave us a neon bright backdrop to an amazing father-daughters moment we’ll never forget. (And no, this guy did not accept any gifts or compensation from Claire’s, as there is clearly not enough to go around.) But I have to call ‘em like I see ‘em. And the brands of our lives naturally intertwine with the stories we’ll tell forever.

Like the time dad pierced his ear at Claire’s.

So from one Pierce to another, I wish thee well in the passage of time, faded purple Claire’s. Just as we bid adieu to the mall—now your local pickleball court—we hope you can withstand another generational jump and keep making memories daughters dads everywhere will never forget. One lobe at a time.

It wasn’t too long ago for me that the word summer conjured images of beach days, late sundowns on the ball field, and slow motion memories of stress-free youth. I counted down the days to freedom and fun, untied by homework and Sunday scaries. What summer has become for me now, though, is something far more frightful.

Keeping my children occupied for 100,000 minutes.

Bear with me, here. For many kids, summer runs a little more than two months from final school bell to first-day jitters. Add it all up, and these little snack attackers will need to occupy around 1,500 hours of summer . . . stuff. Run through the sprinkler, watch a squirrel eat an acorn, count the ants attacking a sweating popsicle, whatever. I often tell my daughters that life has some dull moments, too; some moments where you have nothing to do and loads of time to do it. [Cue eye roll.] “But, I’m boooooooored.”

Nice to meet you, Bored. I’m Dad, and I’m also apparently your cruise activities director for the next 99,997 minutes.

Just kidding. We bring in the expert for this convoluted task: Mom. Quite literally, we have a colossal calendar covering one of our hallway walls featuring customizable squares for each day of the year. Over the top? Maybe a little too extra? For sure. But try keeping track of three kids, camps, play dates, vacations, and appointments—not to mention the standard fare of full-time jobs, square meals, minimal sleep requirements, and general sanity.

Fortunately, living in Monterey County provides no shortage of pristine weather for outdoor activities, camps, and clinics from astronauts to zoologists, and a community designed for fun and exploration. And it doesn’t hurt that us parents also get treated to a world-class selection of stunning wine tasting rooms, lively microbreweries, and Ad Astra bread at the ready.

Cue the montage! Kids in and out of the clown car, snacks going into the backpack, wet clothes and sticky wrappers coming out. What were once the low-key, laid back days of an endless summer have become frenetic blurs of dropoffs, pickups, and spotnaps (I’ve coined this phrase to represent the seven-minute snoozes snuck in parking spaces while waiting for the kids). Parents pass like train conductors, tipping our caps to the endless grind. We exchange few words and barely know first names, but there’s an innate camaraderie and connection between all moms and dads doing what it takes to fill those monumental minutes. We’re human crusaders, always doing our best to find healthy snacks, limit screen time, and care for scraped knees—all while maintaining the impossible expectations of modern parenting.

But, shhhhh . . . I have a secret. I’ve never been so excited for the first day of school in my life. Don’t get me wrong—I love my kids, and these moments are critical to developing their brains, physical skills, and independence. Even bouts of boredom, research widely suggests, can help fuel creativity and problem-solving. But summer, too, has an expiration date, and I can’t cross off those days on the calendar fast enough. Each square tallies another 1,440 minutes of little wins to keep the finish line in focus. Grinch, Scrooge, Buzzkill, call me what you will. But this is my truth. And I’ve already seen every episode of Bluey at least three times.

Summers used to symbolize the transition from one grade to the next, celebrating life’s milestones one sun-soaked Polaroid at a time. As a dad of three young girls, the season has become one of systemized survival, measured by smiles and sunburns. We become chauffeurs and bellhops, drill sergeants and hall monitors, advocates and best friends. Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. Maybe it’s summers like these that help me practice patience, flexibility, and serenity within the storm we call life. Or maybe two-plus months of idle downtime for children is a challenge for even the greatest of superheroes (like my wife).

Either way, the sunset of summer is upon us. Kids around Monterey County are prepping for class, teachers are sharpening their pencils, and parents like me are counting down the minutes until we’re back to school. All 100,000 of them.

But let’s back up and play a game. Think of the worst packaging you have to open on a frequent basis? I can hear my father-in-law yelling from across town about what I now know is called a Lift ‘n’ Peel™ Foil Heat Induction Liner (or that thing under orange juice lids that’s impossible to grip with wet hands as you’re trying to pour mimosas on football Sunday). He often yells, “12 people!” whenever he confronts these lids, not-so-subtly suggesting that a group of a dozen executives in a boardroom came up with this billion-dollar scam to constantly bewilder consumers.

But for me, it’s the vacuum-sealing plastic wrap around common, nontoxic hygiene products. It’s redundant and unnecessary, and seems really wasteful. Shampoo, shaving cream, floss, you name it. And moisturizer. I went 35 years without moisturizing, ignorant of its benefits that I now enjoy. Who knew soft, fragrant skin was so pleasant! I’m not picky about choices, but it’s now a staple in my daily routine. (My wife and daughters use an array of colors, scents and options with names like Meet Me in Miami and Champagne Toast, which I suppose might make the experience more immersive. Hmm.)

After a shower (a.k.a. parental escape zone for at least 15 minutes), I reached for the moisturizer. The bottle had been “done” for about two weeks—when the pump no longer pumps, according to my wife Maegen—but I was able to salvage it every day. Shaking it like a ketchup bottle, scooping the edges out with my finger. There’s something honorable in achieving full bottle completion. And that’s the stage we were at. This thing was a clean as a whistle. So I reached for the new bottle, anxious to meet an invisible deadline to apply the balm.

[Fill in expletive here.] The new bottle had the plastic wrap! My fingers winced in tiny shrills of failure as I fumbled to make any headway. I spotted a pair of mini grooming scissors on the vanity counter. (Pro Dad Tip: Awesome to have around for snipping hair ties for young girls. DO NOT try to rip them out OR use kitchen shears. Lesson learned.) I grabbed the pair with that sense of “let’s try anything” knowing full well the outcome. It was then, as I was jabbing these elfin scissors at the micro plastic perforation of the lotion’s nozzle, I caught the figure in the mirror.

Naked, afraid and useless. That’s probably a bit dramatic, but I was frustrated. The 26-year-old Ryan might have continued at it, pushing that temper gauge into the red. I wouldn’t have quit, going to the point of possible self-harm, stabbing myself in the finger or worse (!) considering my unclothed state and height of the countertop. (Related, I’ve always been afraid of carrying a pen in my pocket since this episode.)

But, alas! The 40-year-old Ryan took a deep breath, put down the blades and set aside the lotion. I put pants on, and returned to the same mirror, now excited to see its reflection. Though it might seem unimportant or trivial, I was proud to show restraint and stay calm. I’m always telling my kids to be patient, to evaluate their huge emotions in the moment and try to make good decisions in an incredible complex environment. Easy for me to stay, but to do? Not so much. Lately, it feels that I don’t practice what I preach, finding frustrations in the daily grind that simply aren’t worth the time. And that has to be confusing for elementary school kids still figuring out how to be humans.

We all want to be the best versions of ourselves around our kids, a good friend in need or a kind stranger at the store. They’re watching every move, mimicking our actions and words. But it’s hard to be perfect when things are running smoothly, even harder when life knocks on your door every morning. Maybe the standard is too high, and we should simply focus on survival. Like opening the next orange juice bottle or moisturizer container.

Maybe first put some clothes on, though.

Watching television well past bedtime, my daughter Saoirse and I got caught up in Johnny Depp’s 2001 classic Blow. As you could imply from the name, viewers are taken on a based-on-true-events journey of an American drug kingpin who partners with the Colombian cartel in the late 1970s. Kind of like a mix between Bluey and Ms. Rachel.

Anyway, I can see that Saoirse has started taking an interest in the entrepreneurial spirit of our pro(an?)tagonist. One scene in particular grabs her attention. “That house is FULL of money,” she says (probably thinking about her recent education on U.S. bills and coin currency). “That’s a lot of George Washingtons!” I provide a short explainer on Benjamin Franklin, but she doesn’t care.

Then the onslaught of questions. How are they making so much money? Can you go to college for this career? What kind of benefit packages do they offer? She’s very money-motivated right now, and apparently leaving all options open. Of course, this is when I—the most responsible father in the world—conveyed the numerous reasons why this is not an optimal occupational path.

1. It’s illegal.

2. It’s dangerous.

3. I feel like the pay would be inconsistent. Maybe big deals every few months?

4. Most of the job seems remote. And working in office environments have shown to be good for younger, inexperienced employees.

5. Guns are often involved in your day-to-day work environment.

6. Team building might be lacking. There probably aren’t many breakroom birthday cakes or team outings to the bowling alley. Plus, you’d think the turnover would be high (pun intended).

And I reiterated the first point and tried closing the discussion, as I realized the other recommend parental steps here would be a) to have changed the channel when she entered the room or b) deferred the topic to a later age. But alas, I am nothing if not filterless, and I chose a more authentic route. And to my credit, we were watching a highly fricking edited version that didn’t show anything too darn graphic. But the themes are difficult to hide in a film entitled Blow set partly in Medellin in the 70s.

If you were to ask my wife, I think she feels I’m too uncensored around the kids. Not necessarily in the words I use, but more around heavy and complex topics. I suppose I’m of the mindset that clarity and understanding is paramount. But of course I do this without any conception or regard of knowledge development in human child brain, or how most of the bad stuff in this world could fuel nightmares for quite a while. That’s when I take a step back and let the experts (read: moms) take over.

But mom wasn’t around. And I did my best to tightwalk the finer points. I sensed she understood the main takeaways. But it wasn’t until the scene in which Depp’s character is separated from his young daughter in a DEA raid that I saw it click. There is a morale to this story and unfortunately a big sopping wet blanket on this career path option.

I give her a big hug on the couch, and I assess how I handled this situation. A C+ maybe. I’m nowhere close to perfect, but I hope she and all her sisters understand I tried my best in the moment.

I hope tomorrow’s classroom writing assignment is anything other than, “What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?”

But what about a moist towel. It’s past damp, but a few levels away from sopping. It’s also kind of cold. And crumbled in a ball in the corner of the bathroom along with a broken crayon and dirty Q-tip no one’s dared to pick up in a week.

And it’s the only one left.

That’s being a dad. Especially to four strong women (three of which don’t add up to a high school freshman). Especially in this house.

I’m usually the last one to wash off the day or, in my 1-year-old's case, the hair broccoli she accrued throughout dinner. It should be an enjoyable self-care moment, but I know what I’m walking into. The kids take over our bathroom like they’re rockstars at a Holiday Inn. Every light is on, every faucet is flowing. Their dirty clothes, discarded Disney costumes, ill-fitting jewelry all scattered along the floor. There are odd, large water puddles throughout the scene, which I deftly try to avoid on the deadly skating rink tile.

Bath toys are everywhere, and regular toys fill the tub. I pull a sad looking furry bunny out of the scrum, knowing full well his damnation to the dryer. The floor mats, really only having one job in life, are also dredged in water, seemingly causing more problems for this hopscotch from hell. I close my eyes, turn the water on and hop in the shower, hoping it’s all just my imagination.

After realizing I can’t spend more than two hours in this warm, blissful moment under the gentle silence of showerhead, I jump out and scan the empty racks. Nothing on the hooks. I open all the cabinets that are clearly not large enough for towels, but who knows! Then I see it across the way. Only one option. Or I can run across the house naked, which is less than ideal.

And it’s exactly how you suspect it would feel. Heavy, frigid, nonabsorbent and pretty damn moist. It’s the last choice, the dregs, the short straw, the rock that lost to paper, the only guy that gave his ID to the cops when you were caught partying at 16 while sneaking beers and listening to the Smashing Pumpkins. I awkwardly skip-hop to my closet, grabbing any semblance of dry fabric. And for the rest of the night, I am now damp because of the dreaded moist towel.

Does anyone in the house care? Do they empathize with my frustration? Do they ever say, ‘Dad, we’ll save a warm, dry towel for you!?’

No. The answer is no. Like the last kid picked for dodgeball, I’m a seat filler and last in line. Sometimes even, when my wife gets frustrated with the older girls, she will actually threaten them with dad time—"Stop fighting! Or dad will be the one to read to you tonight!” “Ahhhh!,” they scream in horror all because the few times I skipped some pages exposing some major plot holes in their favorite bedtime stories.

Alas, I’m still here. And while I’m pretty sure a group of friends built on this premise wouldn’t work either, being a dad makes it different. I’m cool with my status, uncool and invisible at times. I know mommy is, and always will be, the best. Because she’s mom. My “dinner” is sometimes their remaining three-and-a-half chicken nuggets plus the leftover macaroni and cheese in the pot.

After a few years of being a dad, I realized 90% of parenting is just showing up. You won’t always get to be the movie star with the glam trailer, always at the center of attention. And for those who have the (mis)fortune of knowing me, that’s a hard part to play for this guy. So I complain a little. Then a lot. I try to instill life lessons, going through the steps on properly folding and reracking the towels with a lovely visual tutorial. But they’re not listening, and that’s cool, too.

I hope I have many more decades of the most amazing and crazy and scary job on earth, and I’m sure I’ll get used to this casting. I’ll take one for the team, sing backup, and be the understudy. I’ll take the last bite of your soggy ice cream cone, help pick up the pieces, and, yeah, I guess I’ll use the moist towel.

This is all going through my head as I watch my daughter take her first steps.

It’s truly an unbelievable feat (feet?) and the moment unfolding in front of you is nothing short of magical. It’s exhilarating, scary and hilarious. As a parent, each nanosecond is filled with dreading the coffee table corner, laughter as they stumble around like last call in college, and the awe-inspiring realization that this human is evolving. None of us remember when, how, where and certainly why we started walking—we just did. But from the outside perspective, it’s etched in your brain as a parent.

Each one of my three daughters was different. Different ages, different locations, different style. One was to mom, one was to music and the most recent was pure FOMO. “This crawling thing sucks, and I want to reach stuff like my sisters,” Navy said as she wobbled left and right like a dizzy bat contestant. She stands, she falls, she trips on the dog. She repeats. The level of determination is inspiring, making me rue my surrender to every possible home project I now ignore. Even when she feels pain or gets frustrated, there’s a sense of resolve and tenacity that fills you with pride. My kid walking! (As if literally billions of people had never done it before.)

And then just like that, walking becomes the norm. It’s like those muscles just magically developed overnight, leaving the crawling method in the dust. She started carrying things while walking, akin to a high school band leader marching in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It probably helps with balance, but you should see her with a stolen hand towel patrolling the kitchen. Last week you were a quadruped, and now you’re a full-on star!

I also realize this moment is another milestone signaling the end of babyhood. For nearly a year, my wife and I savored every second of this chapter—confident the third time through and understanding that it’s the last ride. (See “The Big Snip”.) We didn’t sweat the small stuff, we let shit go, and maybe we were just too damn tired. I’m sure being a parent has mind-numbing challenges at every phase of a kid’s life, but babies are different. They are attached to you for most of your waking hours, and that closeness with another human is a next-level dopamine hit we only get to experience a few times in our lives. Until they discover true independence—the first steps.

She looks back every few feet, just to make sure we’re around. And I’m sure she’ll do the same, in one way or another, for a long time. But she’s ready now, off to find trouble, lead parades and keep discovering life.

Let’s hear it for feet.

Our family is moving, and I’m reminded of all the work, the emotions, the boxes, the tape, the decisions of pack/trash/donate. And the stuff. My god, the stuff. And, of course, the stress. Add in a sprinkle of anxiety, fear and the unrelenting question of, “Are we doing the right thing?”

Long story short, we made the call to move from Florida to California. The reasons, causes, variables and factors don’t really matter anymore. What’s done is done. The house is sold, the internet shuts off in a week and I deleted the Publix app off my phone. Now comes the excruciating moments of painful goodbyes, relentless unease, and physically relocating your life more than 2,800 miles.

“Can we take our toys?” Of course, I tell my daughter Ella. “How about the dogs?” Yep, them too. “The pool?” No, it’s a bit too heavy for the moving truck. Trying to make young children understand the general concept of moving is unbelievably challenging. (There are actually quite a few books for children on the very subject.) A new school, a different home, future friends—it’s all so overwhelming and scary. Every time I explain a new facet to this transition, I realize that without a doubt, this will be the most difficult period in my life. Every decision we make, every choice, it all affects three other humans and two dogs that only know the trust, love and security they find in you.

But no pressure.

However rare, the brief moments I’m not worried about my family, I reserve for my own fears. Where will I get groceries? How far is the kids’ school? Which neighbor is going to curse me under their breath when my dogs poop on their lawn? It’s all trivial stuff, but us humans are built on routine, familiarity and comfort. New is hard. And scary. And so uncertain.

With each box we pack, tape and label, our house feels less like our home. Family photos and artwork lean against baseboards, revealing faded off-color shapes on bare walls. Empty corners and hallways echo stories of first steps, toddler tantrums and smiles too fast to be caught on camera. Our family started here, but like every other book you can’t put down, that chapter ends now and a new stanza begins.

It’s easy to wax poetic when all is said and done. You really don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone. But it’s a new day. A new life. New places and spaces to make more memories. I try to stay positive as the tears well with each passing hammer blow. The playhouse is no more and gnarled pieces of wood scatter the backyard. This sucks and there’s no way around it. My girls run off to their rooms, savoring the last few peaceful minutes before the chaos of the next few weeks.

Our time in Florida was never planned. It wasn’t on our roadmap or pictured in our dreams when we said, “I do.” But it became home. Neighbors, fellow parents and coworkers became confidants and best friends. We found love, happiness and joy in a home of countless memories. And we grew there. Babies became kids. Puppies became dogs. Mommy and daddy just kinda surrendered. (Just kidding, but not really.)

One last look in all the rooms. Only a few dust bunnies and empty rolls of tape. A tiny metal ring with a single key is all that remains. The kids are already on a plane and I drew the short straw of driving the dogs across the country (again). Hollow, lonely and numb, I make peace with a life ten years in the making and try to put one foot in front of the other. Our front door closes one last time and the open road awaits.

My dogs stare at me in complete confusion as the tires roll down the road. “Everything is going to be OK,” I keep telling them, myself and anyone who will listen. But truthfully, I have no idea. I turn up the volume, letting Sarah McLachlan guide me into the sunset.

My wife raced to my side, probably thinking one of her daughters had gotten hurt given the audible yelps of pain. And there I was: her once brave night crumpled on the ground, done in by an ounce of soapy water and aging knees. Unimpressed with the whole scene, she did a quick turnaround and headed back to the daily escape we call “post-bedtime zen.” I struggled to my feet and hobbled out of my daughter’s room—who slept through the entire spectacle, by the way. Long story short, my elbow now occasionally ‘clicks’ when I extend my arm.

It got me thinking about all the cuts, bumps, bruises and hospital visits we face as a growing family. Kids fall a lot. And run into things. And get their fingers jammed. And constantly get their hair stuck in the tire axles of miniature electric trains. Seriously. Like so often we have a documented procedure and designated area of extraction. But this blog is about fatherhood, and I only have so many paragraphs before the next tantrum. Parents get hurt, too. And it takes us much longer to recover. So without further ado, here are my top five dad injuries:

Honorable Mentions

• All the Communicable Diseases! From COVID and the flu to stomach viruses and pink eye, we get so many fun things from our kids. These mega-germs spread like wildfire in our house and I find myself spending far too much time in Walgreens.

• Down for the Count. I’ve been hit below the belt with every projectile in my home. It. Is. So. Painful.

5 - Made You Look

I play this game with my girls where I pretend something’s on their shirt. I point to it, they look down, and then I poke them in the nose. Super original and mature, I know. We both laugh and life moves forward. My daughter Ella flipped the script and caught me off guard one evening. As I looked down for a stain on my favorite shirt, she rammed her index finger so deep in my eye socket, I’m sure she touched brain matter. My vision was blurry for a few days and I now flinch to random noises and movements almost constantly.

4 - Skating Fail

The family has recently gotten into roller skating. Not because we actually enjoy traveling back in time to the groovy bandstand era, but people keep having parties at the rink. And since these events form the majority of my current adult social life, I have to strap on the musty brown-and-orange skates and break it down to the Cupid Shuffle a little more often than I would like. But I’m a firm believer not everyone is meant to be eight-wheeled. The last time we stepped back in time to 1972, my daughter Saoirse zoomed past and sent me into off-balanced whirlwind, eventually putting me ass over teakettle onto the rubbery rink floor. I felt it from my head to my heels, and every vertebrae in between. I’ve hung up my skates.

3 - Nightmare Fuel

Saoirse has this super creepy life-size doll head. That should be the story right there, but it goes on. It’s not like a toy head; it’s used to practice hair style techniques. And that’s fairly practical in of itself, but it’s more about the context of when and how you see it. Sometimes I’m cleaning under the bed and she is just staring into my soul. She startles me coming around corners and I’m certain she judges my dad skills. One day, I was trying to reach a bag on the top shelf in Saoirse’s closet. Perched awkwardly on a step stool, I caught her in the corner of my eye, swore I saw an actual human person inches from my face, fell backwards with an audible scream, missed tumbling through a nearby window by a few inches, slammed against the closet wall, and collapsed to a heap on the floor. Mildly concussed with a nasty shot to my right hip, I actually felt fortunate not to shatter glass and somersault down my roof to the paver driveway below. Boy, the neighbors would have a field day with one. (“At least I didn’t fall out of my kid’s bedroom window from an evil, bodyless dollhead.”).

2 - Waterlogged

Something about grownups in pools makes kids go ape shit. They’re either tormenting you in a never-ending game of keep away, or they’re riding you like some kind of crazed sea donkey. And for the latter one day, I was almost the ass that didn’t surface. My two older girls plus a gaggle of other children decided it would be fun to drive me around the pool while they laughed and screamed as I scrambled for air and control of my limbs. After about 14 rounds, I broke, maybe swallowed a little water and felt that all too scary moment of, “Oh shit, I’m drowning.” Somehow I found a small slurp of oxygen amongst this submarine from hell and hoisted myself poolside. Parents and kids cheered alike as I threw up a little in my mouth and I faked the tough guy character through gritting teeth. I cried in the public bathroom a few minutes later.

1 - High Chair Hijinks

I was a brand new dad, excited to put all the stuff together and prove to my family that I actually was useful around the house. Unboxing a new, ridiculously-too-expensive highchair, I laughed at the simple directions and began planning for the next project. A few snaps here, a couple clicks here, easy peasy, lemon squeezee. One problem, though: when fitting one of the reinforced plastic legs, my hand slipped and I grazed a sharp edge. “Oh, shit!” my wife screamed as I looked down to a miniature fountain of blood squirting from my wrist like a Tarantino scene. The warranty is probably void now, I thought, as I used a Christmas dish towel as a makeshift tourniquet. Lightheaded and embarrassed, we raced to the emergency room where five stitches, a heavy bandage and giggling hospital staff awaited. Even to this day, nearly seven years later, I look down at the scar and remind myself never to be too cocky and try to leave the real parenting to professionals.

Of course, I felt awful. My remorse was met only by the fear that I truly hurt her. I breathed a sigh of relief as she went back to playing with a chew toy. (Dogs, kids, what’s the difference?)

Yesterday, she was a stationary blob who cooed and pooped. Today, she’s a miniature stunt man, climbing tables and army-crawling under my Jordans. I would dub this phase the “Back Pain Months,” as I’m constantly holding my lower back while transitioning her back to a new spot on the ground. I now look like the futuristic humanoid clutching his torso in the Advil commercials. I have a finite amount of bend-downs in my life, and I’m using 72 a day on moving her from inside the dog’s water bowl to testing the various flavors of tiny leaves near our front door.

Gone are the days of the simple holding phase—cradling a small and squishy cantaloupe that mostly looked around and slept. Plus, after three, you become quite adept at single-handed work and household chores, minus a few food and drink spillages on the baby’s head. Get the wipes!

Nope, now she becomes a micro-ninja, wiggling her way out of even the tightest grip. She just wants to go, explore, touch that thing, taste that stuff. It’s never ending, so you start to become lazy. We set up barriers, blockades and boundaries. Shut that door, position that box, build that mountain of pillows. And even then, you’re repeatedly grabbing them from imminent danger and yanking them back to the safety zone. Can you imagine that? Everything that you wanted to do all day was denied by people constantly putting grappling moves on you, all while you go slipping and sliding in footie pajamas! Now I get why they cry a lot.

This morning, I caught her smiling at me while elbow deep in my wife’s coffee. Yesterday, she climbed inside the open fridge, examining the produce drawer like a science museum exhibit. She’s managed to explore every corner of the house, acting like a human Swiffer for all the dust bunnies and discarded goldfish left behind by her sisters. Hmm, maybe there’s a business idea here? Nope, already taken.

OK, let’s throw her in the walker. She can’t get into too much trouble, right? Wrong. Ask my dogs about getting hip checked by a Playskool steamroller. My shins and toes are permanently bloodied by the newest member of Hell’s Angels Jr. She gets running head starts to plow into walls, doors and unsuspecting house guests. “Sorry you got run over, grandma.”

The silver lining to this phase of life is how tired she gets throughout the day. She lives in an infinite Spartan Race, maneuvering from one stop to the next, fighting off Goldendoodle beasts and giant ogre feet. She’s beat by 9:00 a.m., ready for a post workout nap and protein formula shake. If nothing else, she plays hard and naps hard. And every now and again, she gets stepped on. Don’t we all?

[checks phone] The kids’ school. Oh, shit. What did they do? Who’s throwing up?

It was the guidance counselor, and after assuring me nothing was wrong, he shared his predicament. The annual Easter egg hunt is tomorrow, and the high schooler who normally dresses up as the stuffed bunny—he bailed.

They needed a hero. Or a fool.

Either way, I was their guy. For those who know me (or deny knowing me), I’m not graceful, dignified or elegant. Instead, think flamboyant, obnoxious and bombastic. In other words, ideal casting for one of the top two holiday mascots. Santa is the easy winner here, but Cupid, leprechauns, turkeys and fireworks are just too generic.

Plus, every preschooler would get meet the bunny and get a special treat in return for all the eggs they found—including my 5-year-old daughter Ella. How often does one have the opportunity to interact with a family member completely in disguise? Wait, maybe don’t answer that question.

I showed up to school fully stretched and focused. Accepting the duties like a similar “cast member” down the road at Disney World, I took an oath of silence and practiced my exaggerated dramatizations. The guidance counselor thanked me profusely, appreciative of a parent too oblivious to decline the unheralded role. He lugged a large box from a classroom closet, pulling out a (kinda) white, fluffy suit. A full body ensemble complete with a back zipper and pink underbelly accompanied a set of fingerless mittens and oversized shoes (paws?). And, of course, a giant, whiskered, flappy-eared head with eyes as soulless as night.

The costume’s smell was exactly what you’d expect: sophomore sweat, indignity and a hint of Axe body spray. I slipped on each piece with an actor’s sense of pride, preparing for the role of my life. The head twisted perfectly onto the hare’s shoulders and I took my first view through the eyes of my pastel rodent. My Hamlet, if you will.

And then I took this selfie:

“Ouch.” I hopped into the door frame as I was led out of the room, and that was the last time I would break character. Into the library I was led, flooded by memories of my own schooling experience. The familiar smell of paper pages, the shine of miniature plastic chairs, and the softness of colorful rugs where I always struggled to sit criss-cross-apple-sauce.

A few teachers hid eggs around the room as I awaited the onslaught of youngsters ready to fulfill dreams of meeting one of their childhood idols. Oh, if they only realized who lived beyond the mask, the disappointment would be unparalleled. The door creaked open and it was go time. I hopped. I waved. I even thumped. Their eyes lit up to the joy of the hunt, all overseen by the bunny du jour.

One by one, each boy and girl came up to me with their filled baskets and mouths agape. Their reactions up close ranged from the practical (“It’s just a dude in a suit.”) to the wondrous (“How did you have time to hide eggs for us when you have to go all over the world?”). Some were brave, high-fiving and hugging. Others were scared as hell, maintaining a solid social distance and skeptical glance. Then came Ella.

She stared into my whiskered countenance, almost familiar with my new rabbit aura. It took all of me not to whip that head off and greet her with a fatherly yell, but I maintained my composure (mostly because I was deathly afraid of creating a traumatic lifelong experience for one of the other tykes). I presented her treat to a smile and nod, and off she went. About 60 kids had the same routine and, all of a sudden, my script had ended.

Dripping sweat and nursing a tender hamstring from the continuous hopping, I bounced back to the movie star trailer storage closet and changed into my Clark Kent alias. I was proud of my work. Oscar-worthy? Probably not. But dad-worthy? Definitely.

Hours later, Ella came bounding through the house into my office. “I met the Easter bunny!” she said. “And I found eggs and I got this treat and it was awesome.” Feigning surprise, I inquired about the bunny’s skills, kindness and fun. “Meh,” she answered. “He smelled a little.”

And just like that, my eggs-traordinary adventure was over. Next stop: the North Pole.

[Editor’s Note: If any of my daughters read this before high school, I made it all up.]

ugh. nevermind.

Of the six million reasons parenting is living in an alternate universe where no standards or rules apply, the sheer noise of life is deafening. Sure, we all have periods of our existence that’s louder than others. The high school and college years were like an 8 just because we could. I remember having zero issues standing next to a 10-foot speaker at a concert, unable to stop vibrating for a solid three days. Then you finally live by yourself and it drops to a 3. For having parents and roommates your whole life, the silence is almost eerie. Then you get serious about your existence, increasing the volume as you work on adulting, maybe adding a pet who’s good for a bark or two every once in a while.

Finally, a new human, and shit flies to 11 real quick.

It starts with the piercing shrieks of a newborn, somehow coded to strike the deepest nerve in your sleep-deprived brain. You pray for them to start talking so you can actually understand their needs. Once they start, you pray for them to stop. By default, you become the guide to all things in the world, holding the answer to all life’s questions. At first, it’s flattering, but soon you find yourself lying in the fewest words possible. “The sky is blue because that’s what they decided to paint it.”

And kids have the weird tendency of generating random sounds for no reason. Modern cavemen, they use tools like bubble wrap, metal spatulas and that springy-door-stop-thingy. Anything that causes discomfort and wincing head pain is great. They also go a cappella, banging out high-pitched screams and wet fart noises. Kind of like a far less talented Michael Winslow from Police Academy.

My wife and I have now reached the point of periodically hiding throughout the house to avoid the calamity. I found her in a dark closet recently, donning AirPods and her laptop on a shelf next to bed sheets. Her sheepish grin left me less confused and more jealous of her new hideout. For all the parents-to-be out there, I highly suggest setting up a villainous lair or soundproof bunker. No lie, I have been outside and across the street as my 5-year-old screams for more apple juice and the TV remote (which is literally right next to her on the couch). There is no escape, but kids are great!

Maybe the hardest part of living with such cacophonous creatures is the inability to conduct normal adult conversations. Something that we took for granted for so long is now a special privilege. If the topic can’t be wrapped up in a three sentences or less, just don’t bother. “Dad. Dad. Daddy. Dad. DADDY. DADDY!” The volume increases as your patience wanes. My wife and I have to exchange texts and emails to plan dinner, explain our endless fatigue, and update our will (note: include ear plugs and case of wine for the new guardians).

Ironically, the (very) rare moments we get to ourselves to, you know, actually act like grown-ups, we end up reverting to a state of infancy. We were out to dinner a few months ago and found ourselves at a complete loss of words. While the waiter awkwardly suspected a tense argument, we were in fact basking in the sound of silence. No tantrums, no hostage negotiation over uneaten vegetables, no banging silverware on the table’s edge. We live our life at an 11 almost constantly, and it feels unbelievably good to hit the mute button every now and again.

Hello, darkness, my old friend. Indeed.

“This horrifying surgery for men requires only local anesthesia, sounds extremely painful, and isn’t 100% effective.”

Knee replacement? Lasik? Tattoo removal?

“Oh, sorry, Ryan. We were looking for ‘vasectomy.’ Better luck next time!”

But I suppose there is no next time—isn’t that the whole point, Mr. Jennings? These are the thoughts racing through my mind as I pace around the urologist’s waiting room second-guessing everything. And this is only a consultation.

I secretly knew this day would come once we learned a third baby girl was on the way. For some reason, even complete strangers feel compelled to inquire about your future offspring plans. This generally leads to shoulder shrugs and quizzical glances, but recently it’s become more apparent that we’ve maxxed out the team roster. And this cleary resonates with many other Americans—vasectomies are up 26% over the past seven years. More over, my wife’s pregnancies aren’t exactly easy and we need to have some semblance of a normal adult life at some point in the near future.

So here we are.

I’m handed a pamphlet that “should answer all my questions and ease my concerns” about the “fairly simple process.” Easier said than done, but thank you! I immediately notice the stock photo chosen to illustrate the story of my upcoming ‘No-Scalpel Vasectomy.’ A man, maybe mid-30s, has paused his bike ride to take an important, but seemingly positive phone call. The subhead “Permanent Birth Control for Men” completes the title page that was most definitely crafted in Microsoft Word.

But why is he in a full suit? With a backpack? On a bicycle that is at least two decades old? I suppose he represents the new me, post-procedure. He’s happy, content with his life decisions. He enjoys exercising on outdated equipment, and likes a good challenge for his morning commute, even though he shows up to the investment firm a sweaty mess. He prioritizes safety and has never heard of bluetooth headphones. He checks in with his wife, surprised by his speedy recovery. “They didn’t even need a scalpel!” he notes. Modern medicine, indeed.

The remainder of the trifold brochure is far too graphic for this blog, despite the colorful illustrations and scientific nomenclature. However, I am not eased. In fact, I’m more scared than before I entered the clinic, now contemplating the weight of this moment. And while the internet (and the Mayo Clinic) tells me that almost all vasectomies can be reversed, I wouldn’t be thrilled to make a return trip to the office—or see the pamphlet for that surgery. Like sharpies, tattoos and Keith Richards, this seems very permanent. Despite what Michael Scott says.

I talk with the doctor for about six minutes, as he gives me the playbook for gameday. His flippant demeanor suggests he’s done about 10,000 of these before, but I’m still sweating bullets. I schedule some random day for the procedure in the next six weeks with the front desk, unwilling to admit the reality of the situation in my mind.

And so the clock is ticking. I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t know if it’s the prospect of infertility or fear of the surgery itself, but it’s daunting. On the other hand, my wife had the concept of child birth hanging over her head for nine months three times, so I really don’t have solid ground to stand on. Either way, I am proud of myself for abstaining from painfully obvious jokes, puns and off-color commentary throughout this whole post. That’s something, I suppose.

With that, we’ll see what happens next. Perhaps you’ll be driving down the street in the next few weeks and just happen to come across a well-dressed grown man riding an antique two-wheeler, looking happy and quite a bit relieved.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be on that bike.

My first French kiss. The soundtrack was Sublime’s self-titled album when I was in eighth grade. Legendary times.

The first time I drove by myself with an official license. Pure freedom.

Every championship title captured by a sports team in which I have pledged blind, unwavering, borderline-disturbing allegiance. Those chills just never get old.

My wedding day. How I possibly found a beautiful, funny, smart and genuinely kind woman to marry a dude that is very much none of those things is truly beyond me.

And, of course, the three snapshots in time I welcomed each incredible little girl into our family.

These are the moments that define me. The unforgettable, crystal clear, soul-changing slivers of life that create the movie of me. And sorry to be morbid, but I’m guessing these are the pictures that will run through my mind as I share my final breaths (hopefully many years from now).

So when one happens, you take notice. It’s surreal and blurry in real time, but the weight of the moment isn’t lost. I swear your soul glows after your emotions and senses careen back to earth.

This also happened again when my two older daughters met their new sister. Confused, excited, bored, scared, maybe even a little angry. So many big feelings in such a small area of space. They poked and prodded and asked questions and made silly faces, and then they were over it in about five minutes. But within that short window of time, it became immediately clear that despite my best efforts across a professional career, sports obsession, fledgling comedy and mediocre writing, this would be my legacy.

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them a little. They’d have to call this guy ‘dad’ for the next few decades, putting up with my corny traditions, embarrassing outfits and cringe-worthy jokes. And I’m sure Senior Citizen Ryan will be far worse.

More importantly, I also felt overwhelmingly proud and happy. A small part of me contributed to creating these perfect things and I get a front row seat to watching them grow. They will be inextricably tied to each other forever, the strongest bond of sisters that withstands any external force. They’ll unite for good, making the world better than they found it. They’ll plot mischief, giving mom and dad a run for their money. More than anything, they will be one, a unit built on memories, stories and history.

It was a moment that I truly felt and lived. We grab our phone, center the subject and tap the shutter all too often, opting for posterity in the camera roll of our lives. While I’m glad other family members had the foresight to take on this responsibility, it was refreshing to simply be present. And while I would love to relive all those other defining memories of my life through photos and videos, it’s always fun to think back and daydream of those special times.

I’d like to think there are a lot more memories to come, but I have to force myself to never take them for granted. Every page in the album is just as important as the one that comes before and after. I’m not sure what will come next, but I’ll be ready. Say cheese!

In all honesty, it’s an incredible transition. One day, your family multiplies and everything changes. Routines are whacked, norms are no longer and you start from scratch (again). Life now revolves around milk, diapers and sleep. That last one is funny—there seems to be more of it going around, but never at the right times. And you’re always a quarter millisecond from jumping out of bed, grabbing a bottle, checking if the baby is breathing or tripping over the dog and slamming your head on the bed frame as you silently scream in anguish. These first few weeks are such a blur and you’re just trying to survive and not screw up too badly.

More over, I feel more useless during this kid than the first two. I’m not sure if it’s experience, wisdom or just plain dominance, but my wife has owned 90% of baby life. Granted, her connection with the baby is unreal. Call it hormones or natural order, but she is a bonified newborn whisperer. The baby does little more than flail her limbs and squawk like a cockatoo, but my wife can translate it all. “She peed 12 minutes ago, is a little tired, and needs about two ounces. She also loves this episode of Bluey.” On the flip side, I’ve become the aloof cheerleader of the family, cleaning bottles 14 times a day and offering words of encouragement during midnight feedings. Somehow, I’ve gone backward as a father.

What this all boils down to is a new perspective. What I used to think was hard was actually quite easy. And what was once unthinkable is now the standard. Like anything, I’ll get better. At dadding. At writing. At general life-ing.

Thanks for sticking with me. The best is yet to come (probably).

After all the waiting, and the talking, and the planning, and the neighbor interrogating, and the waiting, and the abject fear, and the vomit, and the subzero temperatures blasted in my house at all hours of the day, the moment had arrived. Well, sort of.

My wife Maegen and I reached peak impatience. The third kid had held fast and stood her ground, not ready to move safely to the exits on our expected timeline. We Googled and pinged friends for natural induction methods. We stimulated nipples, we ate dates and spicy food, we looked for pressure points in the feet, we walked, we drank castor oil, and, yeah, we tried that other way, too. But nothing worked, and I couldn’t hold most of it down either.

We awoke the morning of her due date and our intuition kicked in. Maegen hadn’t felt the little soccer star kick her in the vital organs in quite a few hours—which was rare to that point—so we acted quick, found some random strangers to watch our other kids (just kidding—grandparents are the best!), and ventured to the hospital.

I played crossword puzzles to divert my nervous energy into something more productive than pacing the waiting room and asking if my wife was having any contractions every four minutes. Expletive; four letters; ending in -HIT. Time moves at a snail’s pace and you swear they skipped your name on the list. Once we were finally called, a team of people much smarter than me all felt we had a good case to induce right then and there. Buckle up, kids, it’s go time!

But not quite. We settled into a sterile hospital room full of bells, whistles, buttons and tubes, complete with our own en suite and bedpan. Minutes turned to hours as we waited for our new little tax exempt dependent. Maegen was feeling next to nothing as she roamed the halls, sat balanced on an exercise ball, and read a trashy novel in which she constantly assured me she hated. I toggled among a myriad of playlists, from pop punk and reggae to EDM and classical. As I was contemplating the best list of songs with “baby” in the title, she stopped abruptly and winced for a few moments. “OK,” she said.

No more than eight minutes later, chaos. Nurses transcended like The Avengers and our doctor was quickly donning medical scrubs from head to toe like he was sitting front row for Blue Man Group. I, being the quintessential supporting figure with no discernible skills, danced around the delivery room, like a helpless goofball. Just like with the first two kids, I was able to find every square foot of that room where I could be in the way. Sorry, honey, I would let you break every bone in my hand during this process, but I’m too busy apologizing to the nurses and avoiding the doctor’s scalpel. And on top of it, I’m trying to be mentally present in the moment, questioning whether photos and videos are appropriate in this timeline.

My wife alerts the other seven floors of the hospital, as well as the neighboring Jamba Juice, that this baby is coming. My doctor echoes the sentiment with an untimely joke about a football wide receiver. I pause for a nanosecond, realizing that my life and everything that defines normal for me will forever pivot into another alternate dimensional tangent. Three kids!? What were we thinking. Two is a lot. And I’m old. Can I even rock a baby without getting winded? Our house is too small. Will I ever get to choose what to watch on TV?

And then it happens. My baby girl is just there. She is calm, breathing new air in a new world. I look at her toes and flying hands, awed by the power of life. My wife can’t unload the dishwasher, but she just created another human. A perfect human. My breath returns, just in time to be handed scissors for the ceremonial cord cutting. The baby is brought to Maegen. And I’m still in the way.

I get a nod of approval and relief from my wife, and I float into the hallway, phone in hand, ready to tell the world. But I’m frozen and shocked and happy and peaceful. I don’t recall the details of the ensuing conversations, but the reactions of joy, relief and sympathy for the life ahead with three daughters were palpable. All of a sudden, a new sister, cousin, niece and granddaughter had arrived. And I was a dad. Again.

About an hour later, we were ushered to our overnight accommodations, now featuring a father-sized Murphy bed perfect for the fetal position under a paper-thin sheet. I knew the drill. For next 24 hours or so, a turnstile of nurses, doctors and administrators would ensure our baby (and its overly-tired and afraid parents) was ready for the new world. Sleep would be hard to come by and the hospital food was barely sufficient, but it all really didn’t matter. These were the first hours of our new normal, focused on swaddles and feedings and poops, reruns of a great sitcom with a few rough early seasons.

These next few hours will be relatively quiet, aside from newborn coos and distant chatter from the nurse’s station. Little does our new family member know, she’s about to enter a realm of lawlessness, irrationality and bedlam. She will be poked, prodded and knocked around by two other humans also figuring out this life thing. Her naps will be interrupted by barking dogs, terrible tantrums and “Baby Shark” on volume 11. She will live in the shadows of her sisters while defining her own personality, her own traits that make her one of a kind. And we get to be there for every second, playing sage, caregiver and referee. A new chapter begins and the book will never be the same.

Welcome to the world, baby Navy.

Second, I’m about to do this baby thing one more time. Full disclosure, I’ve been fairly confident—borderline cocky—about this third round. It’s not my first rodeo and I have two fairly tame bulls to show for it. But I also just realized I’m a 38-year-old cowboy who groans far too loudly when I get up from a seated position and needs a nap after overly-busy mornings. It’s also been more than four years since I’ve swaddled, burped, shushed and rocked in the middle of the night, half conscious but fully operational. Somehow, those early days of fatherhood have faded over time, lost among the more recent moments of potty training, bike riding and dance parties.

But evidently, it’s all good. Neighbors, strangers and all too eager family members have assured me it’s “just like riding a bike.” Oh, perfect, but find me a bike that poops, cries, farts and screams at unbearable pitches. I don’t think you’d find that at the sporting goods section in Wal-Mart. Experience is often referenced as that intangible quality, one that elevates the superstar in the playoffs or calms the nerves of a pro in the toughest situations. But this is a human being. I have never been so scared of a 7-pound fairly inanimate blob, especially one that now bears my surname and will rely on me for the next two decades (at least).

I’ve also been lying to myself, thinking my other two kids will be award-winning assistants, providing clean diapers and cuddles on call. My 6-year-old has even posted signs around the house advertising her babysitting services with various rates based on responsibilities ($50 for an hour!?). Maybe she could be a great night nurse…then she throws a 20-minute tantrum over broccoli touching her chicken nuggets. My other daughter says she can’t wait to hold the newborn, showcasing her skills with a disembodied doll while spinning like a Tasmanian devil.

I’m in trouble.

My goldendoodle Charlie can sense my fear. He sits patiently in the middle of the nursery, ready to fetch my very pregnant wife to awaken her unconscious husband. He also knows he’s about to drop another spot on the totem poll. But he’s seen this movie before. Another baby. Another thing running around the house, pulling his tail, trying to eat his food. Of course, he’s handling all of this far better than me. Ah, the blissful ignorance of a dog.

I gather myself, take a deep breath, and pretend to have some semblance of courage. I can do this, I reiterate to myself. Hell, my daughter Ella says I’m the greatest dad in the world almost every day. Ten minutes later, she will also say she doesn’t love me and wants me to move off planet Earth. Comme ci comme ça! I had no idea what I was doing for my first two—they were only 19 months apart and I was sleepwalking through most of that—but they are both standing and the roof is still intact.

I may not remember how to swaddle, calm a cry or count the number of daily minutes we should do tummy time, but a younger version of Ryan figured it out. I’ve gained a few pounds, lost some cartilage in key mobility joints, and have become way too knowledgable about child YouTube stars. I’ve made more mistakes than I can remember, and I have become a girl dad first and a normal functioning human second. But I figure if I just hold on for dear life and keep my eyes closed during the hard parts, I probably will get through it.

Just like a riding a bike.