Category: Family

May 31 2026 2026-05-31 2026-05-30 NoComment by Ross

Best Answer…

Posted in Family

Yesterday I posted:

I remember reading parenting books when we had two kids, and I was struggling with work, parenting, and finances.  The books basically said, “Yes, it’s hard, but parenting is a wonderful time, and you should enjoy it.”  No shit, but HOW!!!!!   How do I stop worrying about work, how I’m parenting, our finances!???  That was the last time I read a parenting book.

Before we had kids, we attended a 1st birthday party for our neighbor’s son.  At the party, we met a couple who had three kids, all under 6.   My wife asked, “Oh my God, how do you do it?”

The husband said, “We drink.”

My wife and I laughed.

The wife said, “No, he’s serious.”

We all laughed, but over the decades, I’ve thought about that, and it was probably the best, most honest answer I’ve heard to the “HOW?” question.


May 30 2026 2026-05-30 2026-05-30 NoComment by Ross

The Emotional Stock Market

Posted in Family

 

One of the stranger discoveries of middle age is that I have become an emotional index fund.

My mood is heavily tied to the performance of three other people. Those three people, unfortunately, are my children.

When they were little, this made sense. If a toddler is unhappy, that becomes everyone’s problem. If a teenager is making questionable decisions, parental involvement is generally encouraged. There are forms to sign, rides to provide, curfews to enforce, and occasional lectures that are ignored in real time but hopefully absorbed later.

The problem is that my children are no longer children. They are 26, 24, and 21. And yet somehow I still find myself checking their emotional market performance like a nervous investor watching stock prices.

  • Child A is doing great? Wonderful. The market is up.
  • Child B gets a new opportunity? Bullish.
  • Child C seems happy and engaged. Record highs.

On the other hand, if one of them is in a bad mood, worried about work, stressed about money, frustrated with life, or simply having a normal human day, my internal ticker starts flashing red.

SELL! SELL! SELL!

The strange part is that I know better. I know adults are supposed to have struggles. I know uncertainty is part of growth. I know nobody becomes resilient by avoiding every difficulty. In fact, if you asked me about someone else’s children, I would sound remarkably wise.

“They’ll figure it out.”

“These experiences build character.”

“Growth comes through challenges.”

Apparently, I become considerably less philosophical when the people involved share my last name.

Recently, I realized that my mood often rises and falls with theirs. If they are happy, I relax. If they are struggling, I struggle. That sounds loving. It is also exhausting.

I suspect I may come by this honestly. Years ago, after my wife told my dad she was pregnant with our third child, my father asked a question that has stuck with me ever since.

“Why would you try for a third when you already have two healthy children? What if the third has a defect?”

Now, before anyone starts sending letters to the editor, my father was not a bad man. He loved his family deeply. But he was also a worrier. His mind naturally jumped to what could go wrong. He was a worrier. At the time, I remember being stunned by the question. We weren’t thinking about defects. We were thinking about another child to love.

But now, decades later, I wonder if I inherited more than his eye color. Maybe I inherited some of the wiring, too.

When I see one of my children struggling, my mind immediately starts building flow charts.

What if this leads to that?

What if that leads to something worse?

What if this is the beginning of a larger problem?

The reality is that most of those imagined futures never arrive. Meanwhile, the actual present often looks much better than my imagination.

The child I’m worried about may simply be having a bad day. The one I’m convinced is lonely may be spending time with friends. The one I’m worried is lost may simply be taking a longer route.

I am slowly learning that one of the hardest parts of parenting adult children is accepting that they are allowed to be unhappy. Not permanently unhappy. Not destructively unhappy. Just unhappy sometimes.

They are allowed to be frustrated. They are allowed to make mistakes. They are allowed to struggle. They are allowed to figure things out the same way I did.

The challenge is that every parental instinct screams, “Do something!”

Unfortunately, adulthood has changed the job description.

When children are young, parenting is often:

  • Notice the problem.
  • Fix the problem.

When children become adults, parenting becomes:

  • Notice the problem.
  • Stay available.
  • Wait.

The waiting is brutal.

It feels like inaction.  I’m not a patient man.  I watch 2-3 episodes of a show and then Google recaps of the finale because I can’t bear the ups and downs and just want to know what happens.  And yeah, I do read the end chapter of books to see who is still alive.

It feels irresponsible just watching the kids struggle and learn, but I know that’s what they need to grow. That’s the job now.

What I’m trying to learn is that I can love my children without carrying their lives on my shoulders. I can care deeply without making their mood my mood. I can trust the process without knowing the outcome.

And perhaps most importantly, I can remember that every one of my children is still in the middle of their story.

The truth is that if my parents had judged my future when I was twenty-four, they probably would have worried too.  I know they worried.  I made some bonehead mistakes, was pathless, and, although I remember enjoying it all, was probably as sad sack miserable as any Gen X person at the time.  Only one of my friends had a “real job,” and yet decades later, we’re all doing well with our lives.

At that time, though, my parents would have seen uncertainty. They would have seen mistakes. They would have seen unanswered questions.

What they would not have seen at that time was the life that eventually emerged.

Maybe my children deserve the same grace.

And maybe so do I.

⇔  Post post – Throughout the post, I say “I know.”  Intellectually, I know all of that.  I know I struggled at that age.  I know the 20’s are hard years for many.  I know they need to find their own path and learn from their own mistakes.  Intellectually, I know all of that, but my body doesn’t.  I’m tired of reading, journaling, and doing everything “they” say to do, but I can’t stop the worry/rumination/catastrophizing.

I remember reading parenting books when we had two kids, and I was struggling with work, parenting, and finances.  The books basically said, “Yes, it’s hard, but parenting is a wonderful time, and you should enjoy it.”  No shit, but HOW!!!!!   How do I stop worrying about work, how I’m parenting, our finances!???  That was the last time I read a parenting book.

So now, it’s a different phase of parenting, and I’m still waiting for someone to say how.  HOW do I not feel all this?  If I do feel it all, HOW do I move past it?

So please don’t think this is some self-help post for you.  It was just for me to try to get it out of my head, and maybe someone will read it and think, “Hey, me too, glad to know I’m not the only one.”


Apr 24 2026 2026-04-24 2026-04-24 by Ross

Martini of the Night…

Posted in Family, Martini Recap

There used to be a recurring feature on older versions of this blog called Martini of the Night. I’d have a martini in honor of someone or something. Looking back, maybe that should have been a clue that I was drinking too much. Ouch.

These days, I’ve cut way back. Maybe two martinis a month, tops. Most of the time, if I’m having one, it’s basically self-medication with better branding.

To be clear, my “martinis” are not what a civilized person would recognize as a martini. There is no vermouth. There is no olive. There is no ceremony. It is cold gin, poured straight from the freezer into a martini glass. That’s it. A Rosstini. Also known as “a few ounces of gin,” but that sounds less sophisticated.

Tonight’s martini is about 90% self-medication. My heart has been pounding for a few days, my brain is doing that fun thing where it cycles through every possible worst-case scenario, and while I’m sure there are healthier coping mechanisms, sometimes a glass of ice-cold gin feels like the right amount of bad decision.

The other 10% is for my parents.

My mom died at the end of April a few years back. My dad’s birthday was earlier this week. He did not celebrate because he is also dead, which really kills the party vibe.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot. I wasn’t a great son. I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t cruel or absent. I just wasn’t as good as they deserved. I didn’t call enough. I wanted independence so badly that any question from them felt like judgment. Any advice felt like interference. I mistook concern for criticism and distance for maturity. I thought shutting down was the same thing as standing on my own.

It wasn’t.

I would give a lot to go back and do it differently. I’d call more. I’d stay longer at brunch. I’d go to one more Cubs game with my father. I’d actually ask for advice and, even if I didn’t take it, I’d listen. I’d stop assuming disapproval and start having honest conversations. I built a career path they never fully understood, but it worked for me and for my family. I wish I had talked to them about that instead of just assuming they didn’t get it.

And now, of course, I’m getting some of that same energy thrown back at me from my own kids. Nothing like parenting adult children to make you realize you owe your parents about seventeen apologies.

I see my mother differently now, too.

She was a stay-at-home mom until I was in seventh grade, and that was not naturally who she was. She was smart, fiercely independent, a feminist before people used the word casually, and she wanted more. She put that on hold for my sister and me. Then she went to law school when I was in junior high and built a hell of a legal career.

She was an incredible role model. Did I appreciate that at the time? Not really. I appreciated the outcome. I loved that she was strong and capable and that my father fully supported it. That shaped me more than I probably realized at the time. But I never told them that. I should have.

That’s the thing with parents. When they’re here, you assume there will be time. Later. Next week. Next holiday. Next summer.

Then suddenly there isn’t.

And now I would give anything for one more phone call. One more random lunch. One more chance to ask what they really thought of me, of all my screwups in my twenties, of how they handled loving someone while watching them make dumb decisions.

I can’t do any of that now.

But I can sit here with a martini and the uncomfortable realization that I finally understand it all.

Which is annoying, because apparently, wisdom arrives right around the same time your body starts making weird noises and you realize you may have wasted half your life.

This is not ideal.

It also feeds directly into my current 60-year-old crisis. Great. I learned all the life lessons just in time to die.

And yes, I could pass this wisdom to my own kids, but they won’t listen any more than I did.

Maybe that’s the whole system. Every generation ignores the previous one, then eventually sits alone with a drink, realizing their parents were mostly right. Terrific design.

Anyway, ramble over.

Call your mom. Call your dad. Thank them. Talk to them. Ask the question. Stay for brunch.

That’s what I’d do if I could do it again.


Apr 23 2026 2026-04-23 2026-04-23 by Ross

Having a Moment….Not a Great One…

Posted in Family, Old Man Yelling at the Sky

I never had a midlife crisis, but apparently, I am having a 60-year-old crisis.

Somewhere along the line, instead of buying a red Corvette and dating someone wildly inappropriate, I skipped straight to existential dread.

I have this overwhelming feeling lately that I may have wasted my life.

Not in the dramatic “I should have been a rock star” way. I have no musical talent beyond confidently playing the same four chords on bass and pretending it’s jazz. I mean more quietly. The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re driving home from work or standing in the grocery store comparing two brands of paper towels, like this is somehow your legacy.

You take a path because it seems like the responsible thing to do. School. Career. Marriage. Kids. Mortgage. Retirement account. Replace the water heater. Learn what mulch is. Suddenly, you are an expert in things your 22-year-old self would have considered a cry for help.

And for a long time, that path feels right because it is busy. Busy can disguise a lot. If you are constantly moving, you don’t have much time to ask if you are headed somewhere you actually wanted to go.

Then one day, you realize the road is no longer stretching out in front of you. There are fewer miles ahead than behind. That gets your attention.

You start doing inventory.

Did I spend enough time with people I love, or was I mostly banging my head against a wall at a job I didn’t like?

Did I actually enjoy my life, or was I just extremely efficient at completing obligations?

Did I choose things, or did I just keep accepting the next logical step until I woke up wondering “well, how did I get here?” (to quote Talking Heads)

This is not regret exactly. I love my family. I have had good years, great memories, and enough ridiculous stories to keep dinner conversations alive.

But I also wonder about the unlived versions of life. The ones where I  didn’t get married and have kids.  The selfish one where I didn’t give 30+ years of my life to other people and get (frankly) little in return.

I’m not sure what anyone would say at my funeral.  “Yeah, he lived and he died, but did he really DO anything?  Did he really leave any legacy or make a difference in anyone’s lives?”

I’m sort of worried that I haven’t left a legacy or made a difference in anyone’s life.  I know I spent a lot of time raising a family, but I’m not sure I did it “right” or that they are better off having me as a father rather than someone else.

In short, I don’t know what value my life added to the world, near or far.


Mar 11 2026 2026-03-11 2026-03-11 by Ross

Anniversary…

Posted in Family

Today is my parents’ wedding anniversary.

They won’t be celebrating because they are dead.

That sentence sounds harsher than it needs to, but it’s the truth. My mom died about six years ago and my dad followed about a year and a half later. Time keeps moving, even when the people who helped start it for you are gone.

When they passed, I have to admit I didn’t feel as much as I expected to. That probably sounds cold. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them. They were terrific parents. I had a great childhood. They supported me through college and well beyond. If there was a “Parents Hall of Fame,” they’d at least make the regional ballot.

But like most children, I had my issues with them. And when they died, life was complicated.

My mom’s death was sudden. She collapsed at choir practice and that was it. One moment singing, the next moment gone.

My dad’s passing was the opposite. He had a disease that slowly wasted him for years. By the end, he couldn’t really hold a conversation for the last two years or more of his life.

When my mom died, I became the primary person helping with my dad. My sibling lives out of town and was wonderful, but the day-to-day stuff fell mostly to me simply because I was nearby.

So I didn’t really grieve my mom. Fifty percent of that is just my personality—I’m not the most outwardly emotional guy. The other fifty percent was that I was busy dealing with my dad.

And when my dad died, I didn’t grieve much then either. He had been sick for over a decade, and by the end his death felt like the end of suffering. Honestly, since he hadn’t been able to talk for years, it sometimes felt like he had been gone long before the official date on the death certificate.

But time does strange things.

Now, years later, I find myself deeply affected by their absence.

Part of that is probably because I’m going through the stage of life where you worry about your own kids. Mine are all doing fine—better than fine, actually—but that doesn’t stop my brain from inventing scenarios at 2 a.m.

And lately I’ve realized I would give just about anything to sit down with my parents for an hour.

I’d ask them questions.

How did you deal with me when I was screwing things up?
Did you worry about me the way I worry about my kids?
How did you keep it together when you had no idea how things would turn out?

I’m a lot like my dad when it comes to worrying, anxiety, and a general desire to control outcomes that are, in reality, completely uncontrollable. His behavior used to drive me nuts when I was growing up.

Now I find I’m basically his twin.

That happens.

What makes it harder is that I see some of the same tendencies in one of my kids, and I would give anything for him not to be that way. It’s a miserable way to live—always scanning the horizon for problems that may never come.

A few months ago, when I was struggling a bit, I did something I never thought I’d do. I went to their graves.

Not for any mystical reason. I didn’t expect answers. I’m fairly certain cemeteries have terrible customer service when it comes to responding to questions.

But it was meditative.

They didn’t answer anything, of course. And I realized something while I was there: nobody ever will. Friends can tell me how they handled their kids, but nobody can tell me how my parents handled me.

That knowledge went with them.

Which leaves me with the only thing I can actually do: be mindful of the time I have with my own children.

My parents’ time with me ended sooner than I ever imagined. Mine with my kids will too.

So today, on their anniversary, I’ll probably call my sister like I usually do. In the past, I’d say, “Hey, thinking about Mom and Dad today,” even though if I’m being honest, I probably hadn’t been until that moment.

It was the polite thing to say.

This year it won’t be polite.

It will be true.

I think about them most days now.

And if they were still here, I’d probably spend that hour asking them questions… and then another hour thanking them for putting up with me.  I was a decent son, but I couldv’e been so much better.  You’re right, Mom, it wouldn’t kill me to call once in a while.

Now that I have kids of my own, I realize something important:

They deserved a medal and, sadly, I feel very guilty that I wasn’t a better son (again, I was fine, but now that my own kids treat me the way I treated them, I feel terrible.  If I made them feel like my kids make me feel?  Sheesh…although, that’s what kids finding their independence/way do and so maybe I don’t wish it was different…but really, would it kill them to call or text once in awhile?”


Jan 15 2026 2026-01-15 2026-01-15 by Ross

End of an Era (or: 1-800-GOT-JUNK vs. My Feelings)…

Posted in Family, Memories

My oldest son is 25.

He hasn’t lived at home since he left for college at 18. Sure, he came back for summers. Sure, his laundry mysteriously reappeared clean and folded during those visits. But after graduation, he moved full-time to New York City for work, and after that, Boston for law school. He’s been launched for years now.

Which makes this whole thing irrational.

My wife has been antsy to turn his room into a guest room. To be fair, the furniture is still straight out of his elementary school years. The bed has seen things. The dresser has been opened by small hands sticky with Popsicle residue. I get upgrading.

But I love that room.

I love the paint color. I love the paintings on the wall. I love the framed historical documents he picked out himself—because of course he did. I love the giant cube bookshelf that somehow made the room feel both academic and slightly chaotic, which is exactly right.

While he was home over Christmas break, my wife talked to him about it. He was fine with everything being changed except two things: keep the color, and keep the framed documents. Deal struck. Reasonable. Adult.

Fast forward to today.

I came home from work to learn that 1-800-GOT-JUNK was scheduled to arrive in one hour to take everything else.

Everything.

I am taking this far harder than my son, who—if I’m being honest—did not take it hard at all. He was cool. Casual. “Yeah, whatever,” energy. Emotionally healthy. Annoying.

I understand the logic. I understand that my kids have moved out. I understand that they will almost certainly never move back home in any permanent way. But those are still their rooms. They always will be.

In my head, someday they visit with their own kids. They walk down the hallway and say, “This is where your dad used to sleep.” There’s a bed. There’s a wall. There’s a sense of continuity. Proof that this wasn’t all a dream.

Instead, there will be a tasteful guest room.

I know—this is how time works. Rooms change. Kids grow up. Houses evolve. Still, watching a crew haul away the physical evidence of a childhood feels… final. Like a chapter being boxed up and labeled miscellaneous.

Nothing is actually lost. My son is fine. Thriving, even. The memories are intact. But the room mattered. It held a version of him that only exists now in photos and stories and my increasingly unreliable brain.

End of an era.

Apparently, it ends with a phone call to 1-800-GOT-JUNK.

 

—  Coda (Yes, I See the Irony)

I should probably admit that I’m typing this while sitting in my younger son’s room.

Recently, I removed his bed to make room for a drum set.

So yes—I am 100% a hypocrite.

In my defense (which is weak, but still), he lives and works in town, so we see him all the time. He’s here regularly. He comes by to use the weight set in the basement. He has a presence. A rhythm. Evidence of life.

Also—and this feels important—the bed is going back. The drums are moving to the basement. This is temporary. Transitional. A borrowed moment.

All his decorations are still on the walls. Nothing has been stripped. Nothing hauled off. It’s still his room. I’m just… occupying it for a bit. Like a subletter with emotional baggage.

So maybe that’s the difference. One feels like a pause. The other feels like a conclusion.

Still, if you need me, I’ll be over here, judging myself quietly while trying to convince a drum kit to behave.


Sep 16 2025 2025-09-16 2025-09-16 by Ross

Q: How did Ross die? A: Hypervigilance

Posted in Family

You know that old saying, “No news is good news”? Yeah, well, whoever came up with that never had 20-something kids out in the world. For me, no news is the exact opposite. No news means something is definitely wrong.

Every silence? Proof they’re slipping deeper into mental illness. Every delay in answering? Clearly drugs. Every time they don’t confirm they’re fine in the last three minutes? They’ve just made a catastrophic life decision.

Living in DEFCON 1

I’m basically living in a Cold War bunker inside my own head. Except instead of watching Russia, I’m tracking my kids. Every minute of the day is a red alert.

Normal parent thought: “They’re probably busy.”
My thought: “They’re probably face down in a ditch, and I should start preparing a statement for the press conference.”

It doesn’t matter if they texted me two hours ago. In my mind, that’s plenty of time for their lives to have completely unraveled.

Coping Skills That Don’t Stand a Chance

  • Meditation? I close my eyes and immediately picture the ambulance.
  • Mindfulness? Yeah, I’m mindful that silence equals disaster. Thanks.
  • Exercise? Great, now my heart rate is high for two reasons and I’ve had thirty minutes to imagine even worse scenarios.

Basically, all the coping tricks experts suggest just give me extra time to imagine new horrors.

The Cruel Joke

Here’s the punchline: I’m the one falling apart. They’re out living their blissful 20-something lives—going to brunch, posting Instagram stories, probably rolling their eyes at my worried texts—while I’m the one who’s going to die first.

Not from old age, not from illness, but from being the unpaid, full-time security guard of their lives.

So What Now?

I don’t have an answer yet. I wish I did. I know I can’t keep going like this forever, but I also know turning it off isn’t as simple as everyone says. For now, all I can do is admit it: I’m exhausted, I’m scared, and I’m trying to laugh at it a little, because otherwise I’ll just cry..and I have done a lot of that.  As I type this, I’m doing all I can to finish my work day without having a major panic attack.  I’m a freaking mess.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to believe “no news is good news.” But today? No news feels like the loudest, scariest news in the world.


Sep 13 2025 2025-09-13 2025-09-13 by Ross

Front Seat on the Struggle Bus…

Posted in Family

I thought I was ready for this stage of life. I mean, isn’t this what we raise kids for? To grow up, move out, and build lives of their own? That’s what everyone says. But I guess I never listened when anyone says how hard it can feel to suddenly go from being at the center of their everyday world to standing on the sidelines, hoping they’re okay.  I thought I would LOVE this stage.  All the free time.  All the “me” time.

It was so much simpler when they were little. They’d come home from school, drop their backpack, and I’d hear all about their day—who said what, what teacher gave too much homework, which friend made them laugh. I knew what time they went to bed, what they ate, and who they hung out with. I was part of the rhythm of their lives.

Now? I have no idea what time they go to sleep, who they’re with, or what struggles they’re quietly carrying. College and post-college life don’t exactly come with daily updates. Some days I hear a lot, other days I hear nothing. And in that silence, my mind fills in the blanks—sometimes with pride, most of the time with worry (okay, all the time with worry), and sometimes with a longing to know more. I find myself needing/wanting constant validation/confirmation that they are okay every minute of the day.  My mind won’t rest until I know for sure they are good.  It’s killing me (probably literally, the amount of stress can’t be healthy)

The hardest part is watching from afar when I do know they’re struggling. Stress about jobs, friendships, direction—it’s all part of becoming an adult, I know that. And I know I can’t fix it. As much as I want to swoop in with advice, connections, or even just a hug, I also know that if I try to fix everything, I’m robbing them of the lessons they only learn by figuring it out themselves. Growth doesn’t come from having life smoothed out for you. It comes from navigating the rough edges.

Still, it’s tough. There’s a helplessness in this stage of parenting that no one really prepares you for. The job now isn’t to manage their lives—it’s to trust them to live it. My role has shifted from director to cheerleader. I can’t control the play anymore, but I can be in the stands, rooting for them, even when I wish I could step in and call the next move.

I’d love to end this on a hopeful note or a piece of encouragement, but honestly? I’m not there yet. Right now, it feels like I’m still riding the struggle bus. What I would like is to meet up with other parents over a beer or two and talk about it all. Most “groups” I’ve found seem to be for parents dealing with much more serious issues, and that’s not what this is. This is just… normal, everyday hard.

One thing I’ve learned—belatedly—is that for all the times I thought of myself as an introvert or loner, I actually wish I had more friends to see regularly. Turns out, this parenting stage is a whole lot easier if you don’t try to go through it entirely on your own.

I’m an definitely NOT in a flow state lately 🙂