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.