Thoughts on Life

Leap Year: Seizing the Spectacular Opportunity We’re Missing

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Watch Tim talk on YouTube

As a society, we are missing a spectacular opportunity with Leap Year. 

In the United States, we are fine coming up with reasons to celebrate nearly everything we consume with little to no basis. 

In 1979, someone (I’m going to assume Gregg) from Gregory’s Restaurant & Bar in Somers Point, NJ, came up with an idea. One can only imagine the only thing Gregg loved more than tacos was alliteration, or maybe he just needed a way to get rid of excess ground beef. I prefer the former. Forty-five years later, we are still celebrating Taco Tuesday weekly. 

National Pig Day, Fruit Compote Day, Cold Cut Day, and Mulled Wine Day are all celebrated in the first week of March. 

Mulled wine? Rarely do people emphatically ask, “Do you serve mulled wine?” More frequently, you’ll order an actual drink only to find out mulled wine is the sole option, to which we all respond, “That’s fine.” It’s like when you order a Coke, and the server tells you they have Pepsi. It gets the job done, but you’re making a sacrifice.

So, how is it we can take the time to celebrate mulled wine but not take advantage of an extra day showing up on the calendar every four years?

At the very least, we should all stop to appreciate how the need for a leap day was discovered by Julius Caesar in 45 BCE. Of course, it has significantly evolved since then, but that doesn’t change the fact that had I existed in 45 BCE, there is no way I would have come up with it, let alone understand it. 

Yet, we are not all dressing in togas for all the Leap Day toga parties tonight. Not even Caesar’s Palace has a mention or promotion tied to the day. Et tu?

We could have an official animal of leap day, a tree frog, for instance. Maybe a dolphin? Every four years, we could all laugh at Australia because they would undoubtedly use the number one thing everyone in the world thinks of when they think about the continent.

My vote is the tree frog. I even wore green in solidarity today. Dolphins get enough attention. This is not to say I don’t get excited and giggle every single time I see a dolphin. 

Tree frogs are like miniature Spider-Men, which is cool, just not every year cool. However, taking a day every four years to stop and marvel at tree frogs feels about right. Not to mention the fact we’re all breaking out green clothes and decorations to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in two weeks. A holiday we all celebrate with vigor, yet most people (myself included) couldn’t give you the correct answer as to why we all drink to excess on March 17th every year.

We could make the day about gathering with extended family. Something we all are annoyed by to some extent. Yet, every year, we complain about our relatives and their nonsense come Thanksgiving, only to return to the misery less than a month later.

Celebrating Leap Day with extended family means you could save time, money, and frustration on two of the most celebrated holidays. Who knows, maybe your drunk, racist Uncle who can only talk politics won’t make it another four years. I am not saying I wish that upon anyone; I am just trying to highlight the possible perks of making Leap Day a bigger deal in our culture. 

There should be social media posts comparing previous Leap Years. Let’s set Leap Year resolutions and goals to get where we want to be in our lives by 2028. 

Imagine it’s 2028, Tuesday morning, February 29. You wake up and realize you don’t have to go to work because Leap Day is a National Holiday. You felt it, didn’t you? The twinge of relief, like waking up on Saturday morning thinking it’s a weekday and immediately realizing it’s Saturday.

You go to the bathroom to get ready for the big day. The vibes are already on target, so you opt to listen to Jump by Kriss Kross (if you’re a millennial) or Jump by Van Halen (Gen X, looking at you now) or Jump In The Line by Harry Belafonte (ok, Boomer) or Jump Around by House of Pain (that’s for you Wisconsin, you unoriginal bastards).

You get dressed in your Tree Frog-themed gear. You can’t wait to see friends and family as you take the first drink of your Jump Up and Kiss Me cocktail. I’ve never had a Jump Up and Kiss Me, but it has to be at least as tasty as Mulled Wine. 

Maybe you’ll take the family to the Leap Day parade and see the next Leap King and Queen crowned. From there, you go to the tree climbing contest, a celebration of the official mascot of Leap Day. You notice as you observe the crowd of people laughing and talking the occasional head pops up in the air, as it is tradition to jump and kiss your date or significant other when you finish your Jump Up and Kiss Me.

Eventually, you make your way home to prepare your Leap Day Dinner. Traditions vary from home to home on the dish’s feature, but it is a true Leap Year feast once the Mexican jumping beans are hopping on the table.

After dinner, you head to the living room to watch 21 Jump Street (TV series or movie, depending on your generation) or White Men Can’t Jump before bed. 

My point is we need to claim the day. We need to start a revolution. We shouldn’t get an extra 24 hours and use it by doing the same old, same old. 

Let’s get the ball rolling and try to remember this in four years.

I probably won’t.

Oh, I guess I get why it’s not a bigger deal.

Cheers.

@theofficialtimtalks

Happy Leap Day. #leapday #leapyear #jump #timtalks #theofficialtimtalks #funny #fyp #fypシ

♬ Jump Beat – RPeterson

15 Years

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

How do you describe fifteen years of marriage? 

The universality of love makes it conflicting. On the one hand, it gives you relatable love songs and romantic comedies. On the other hand, it makes every word and gesture you come up with feel cliche. While that fact doesn’t make those sentiments erroneous, it can make them feel empty. Because of this, we leave things unsaid that should always be said. 

So, when describing fifteen years of marriage, I suppose you start with the easy stuff. 

You lead in with how she is beautiful (if not more so) when she isn’t trying because it is her natural state. Of course, she’ll never believe you, even though you tell her so often that your four-year-old daughter reminds her almost as frequently as you do of how beautiful she is. 

You should remember to let her know that when she does try. When she gets her hair just right and puts on the dress, she finally finds, after scouring every store and website in existence, that she is absolutely stunning. 

She doesn’t know you see her, always. You could explain your heart still skips a beat watching her from across crowded weddings and parties as she dazzles those she interacts with. Tell her how sometimes it is impossible to focus on what the person you are talking to is saying because, well, she exists, and nothing else seems quite as important as that. 

You don’t want to linger on these shallow compliments for too long. Yes, you could write pages about how effortless her beauty truly is. Do your damndest to convince her she is just as beautiful now as she was twenty-four years ago when you first met. She’d love to hear it, but she’ll never admit it because to do so would be vain. It’s best to decide the words you have written in a few short paragraphs are enough and move on.

When you move on, the best change of pace would be to remind her that the only thing more impressive than her beauty is what a pleasure it has been to watch her grow over the course of all the years you have spent together. 

You should tell her how anytime you are presented with the question, “Who is your hero?” Your answer is a lie because you never answer “my wife,” even though it is unequivocally true. How could it not be? You’ve had a front-row seat to watch her perform, speak in front of crowds, and accel at every task thrown her way. Meanwhile, you sit by, feeling lazy and inadequate because it seems impossible to live up to the standards she lives by. 

Worse, you can’t ask her how or why she does it all because you already know the answer. The answer is simple, it pulls your heart in entirely different directions. It’s simultaneously the best and worst answer possible, and it’s only three letters long: You. 

You’ll never tell her you don’t deserve it because you adore how it makes you feel. 

And what’s the harm? Her goals are yours, and vice versa if you’re doing marriage right. The best thing you can do is sit in the front row and watch her meet every goal she sets professionally and personally. 

You watch her fantastic one-woman show in amazement. It’s like watching the best magician because knowing the “trick” doesn’t matter, as they are much better than everyone else. It’s the performance, the art of it all. Seeing how she juggles work, volunteering, networking, and school makes it seem her days have 30 hours to your 24. And don’t blink because when you do, there will be something new she takes on, and she’ll never mention it. 

As if all of those things weren’t enough, time and again, she proves herself as the best mother to her children. 

One day, at your son’s soccer game, another mother will comment that your son doesn’t seem to run out of energy. You’ll mindlessly respond, “I don’t know where he gets it,” as the realization hits you in the chest like a sledgehammer. It’s been in front of you all these years.

He gets it from her. Both of your children get it from her. All of their most beautiful qualities come from her. You could cry right there in the middle of a bunch of kids running for snacks after playing soccer because you are so thankful for her existence and everything she does for your family. 

You spend a lot of time thinking about death and wondering what comes after our time on this planet. You do this because she has enriched your life so much that you never want it to end. You spend sleepless nights deciding whether you hope she dies first or you die first. 

Before the anxiety gets so bad you worry your heart will stop, you realize what happens after your inevitable death doesn’t matter; even if it all ended today (which it could), she has made your life complete. 

You resolve to focus on all of the little things she does daily.

When she smiles that smile, the one you know is just for you. 

When she looks at you that way. The look that reminds you how you are just as important to her as she is to you. 

The way she snorts and laughs when you tell the same old stupid joke. You know, when one of your kids points something out, and she says, “Good eye!” and you shout from the next room, “Good eye to you, mate!”

And when she comes to you with tears in her eyes this morning because she just backed into your car (again), you take a deep breath and fight the urge to get mad. Because even if she backed into your car every day, it would be worth it. 

It’s worth it because the only certainty you have in this life is that a life without her is not a life you’re interested in living. All you can do is be thankful every day you wake up to her there with you. Remind yourself how lucky you are to have the privilege to share your life with her. Because no matter what happens, everything seems possible with her around. 

Lastly, you should tell her you would change nothing about the past 15 years and that when you say, “Happy anniversary,” you mean thank you. 

Thank you for being my best friend.

Thank you for being my partner.

Thank you for being my wife.

Thank you for putting up with me when I am an asshole.

Thank you for being a fantastic mother.

Thank you for being a badass woman for our daughter to look up to. 

Thank you for working so hard.  

Or, you could just run to Target and buy her a card that says “Happy 15th Wedding Anniversary”.

Cheers.

Unlocking Happiness

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

The year 2022 was a complete disaster for me.

To say I was struggling with my mental health would be an understatement.

The misconception clouded my thoughts that losing weight would solve everything. I spent so much time consumed with how I looked I forgot about caring for that thing between my ears.

It’s tough when you look in the mirror at 38 and realize you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up. Then your kids run into the room, and you remember you are grown up.

I hallucinated I would be in a world without self-conscious thoughts when I lost weight. 

I now know that my brain shifted the focus rather than ridding me of intrusive self-conscious thoughts. 

Good news? I no longer say mean and hurtful things to myself when I look in the mirror.

Bad news? You don’t need a mirror to tell yourself that you are a failure, behind the rest of the world, and/or destined for a life unfulfilled when you’re driving home from work.

You may be familiar with the following cycle. 

  1. Something inconvenient happens during your day. 
  2. You search for something or someone to blame. (I start with myself, but if that doesn’t fit or make sense, I blame the expanding infinite universe for having it out for me.)
  3. The hopelessness creeps in, and you get sad. 
  4. Your mood affects your family’s mood, so no one is happy now. 
  5. Dissociate in whatever way possible.
  6. Go to sleep.
  7. Repeat.

I envy you if this cycle is not familiar because, let me tell you, it is awful. 

I felt lost. Then one day, while scrolling through TikTok (see step #5 in the list above), I came across a video referencing a TED Talk by Kelly McGonigal titled How to Make Stress Your Friend. 

Fourteen minutes and 28 seconds later, I felt something unlock in my brain. I looked in the mirror and said, “Well, that unlocked something….”

Regardless of your relationship with stress, watch the aforementioned TED Talk. If it resonates with you, I recommend reading her book, The Upside of Stress. 

If you’ve read anything on this site, you know anxiety or stress has played an enormous role in my life. It is something that I have carried with me, like a bag of rock salt in a Baby Bjorn.

Any hint of stress or anxiety would lead me to obsess over how to make it disappear. I tried breathing exercises, meditating (not sure I’ll ever understand how to do that), or removing myself from the situation if I could. 

None of it would work. 

The stress and anxiety would remain.

Next, I would feel guilty and broken because I could not manage my stress. 

The stress of work and parenting two children led me to multiple panic attacks in 2022. I hid under the desk of a cubicle at work twice until the tears and shaking hands stopped. My wife found me in the shower sobbing uncontrollably once (not the other two times, though). There were a couple of times legitimate reasons for a breakdown (at least I thought so), but the other times it came out of nowhere. 

I am linear in my view of the world. For example, I can cook good food with a recipe. However, if you were to hand me all the right ingredients and let me go, I would be flooded with anxiety and terrified of using too much or not enough of every component. 

In life, there are recipe writers and recipe followers.

I have lived my life as both simultaneously. I constructed a recipe by observing others live their lives and have followed that recipe without question.

I have concluded that my recipe is shit. I don’t like the recipe and am no longer interested in sweating in the kitchen trying to make it. 

My 38th year will be the year I break free from that recipe. I am going to have fun in the kitchen of life.

I have no interest in living a life overcome with stress, anxiety, and sadness. I’ve given it a chance, and it turns out that it is not for me. 

If I can lose 77 pounds and shift the way I view stress to make life happier and more manageable, I can come up with a way to make a living that involves doing things I love with inspiring people I love.

I admire those that enjoy networking and looking for avenues to advance their career. I can’t do it. I can’t write resumes for jobs I am less than enthused about. I can’t pretend to find people fascinating, insightful, or intelligent when they are not, just because it might help me get an interview for a job I will not enjoy. And I am running out of patience dealing with people who make six-figure salaries that can’t think themselves out of a wet paper bag. At the same time, far more capable people are being passed over for arbitrary reasons.

To begin with, I am renewing my commitment to writing here. I appreciate everyone who reads the stories I write here. I appreciate your kind words, ‘likes,’ and shares. 

From now on, I will make the rules for how my life moves forward. Well, as long as my wife approves. 

Cheers.

P.S. Writing this was difficult. Talking about mental health is complex. I have been more honest about it lately. Those I have spoken with about my mental health have been open, thoughtful, and can (usually) relate. You’re not alone. You deserve happiness. Talk to someone; it helps. If you think you don’t have anyone, I’m easy to find. 

The Danger of Trying to Engineer Your Child’s Identity: A Personal Reflection

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

In my sophomore year of college, I took a Human Sexuality course at the University of Minnesota. The credits counted toward my major in Psychology, and learning about sexuality seemed like a pleasant way for me to spend my Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. 

The course was most of what you’d expect. Freud, Kinsey, stereotypes in the world today (2005), etc. Then came the day that we discussed sexual orientation and gender identity. 

I confess that, at the time, my understanding of gender identity was inadequate and small-minded. Growing up in rural Minnesota limited my exposure to people outside of straight, cisgender, conservative-leaning people. 

The professor had split that day’s class into two sections. The first half was a lecture, and the second half split the class into small groups with discussion items. 

When the professor reached the point in their lecture regarding the difference between sexuality and gender identity, the hand of a cisgender male shot up. If you’re picturing a stereotypical early 2000s frat boy, you’re on the right page. 

“Why would a guy change to a girl if he’s into girls? That doesn’t make sense,” he said when the professor took his question. 

Before the professor could answer, another hand shot up. There was another student in the class that was transgender. She was in the process of transitioning to a female. She had recently begun receiving hormone therapy. 

The professor allowed her to respond to the question—a professional move.

I cannot remember precisely what she said, so I’ll paraphrase. She explained how she had been attracted to females as far back as she can remember. She also explained how as far back as she can remember, she felt as though she was trapped inside a body that she didn’t belong in. 

Her explanation was far more in-depth, and I remember feeling like a moron when she finished. I felt this way because she spoke for a few minutes in a calm, concise manner. She was thoughtful and understanding of the lack of understanding the vast majority of the class had. I think about her often and admire how she knew exactly who she was at twenty, while I am still trying to figure that out as a thirty-eight-year-old father.

Up to that point, my general idea was that I didn’t have an opinion about transgender people. I didn’t understand identifying as another gender and figured I never would. However, it didn’t bother me, so I kept to myself.

I find this matter of thinking to be that of a coward. It’s why I felt the need to write this. 

As fate would have it, that same student was in my small group for the discussion. I learned more in the second half of that single class than any other class I took in college. I walked out feeling like I had grown as a person. It felt fantastic.

Do you know what I didn’t do? 

I didn’t walk out questioning my gender. I didn’t walk out questioning my sexuality. I wasn’t confused about who I was all of a sudden. 

The same way that growing up in Brainerd, MN, didn’t turn me into a hunting, fishing, country music-loving conservative. 

Those things were never interesting because that’s not who I am. I don’t fault the people I grew up with that enjoy those things. I don’t think they need to be changed. They are/were my friends. People I spent a lot of time with, and I am a better person for it. I’m not confident they view me in that light these days, which is fine. 

Despite what people want you to believe, nature almost always wins in the battle of nature vs. nurture. 

I came across a video of Dr. Russel A. Barkley speaking about ADHD, and I believe this quote to be one of the most poignant views on parenting that I have come across.

“You are a shepherd, not an engineer. You do not get to design your child. Most of the things that will affect your child and help him turn into the person he will be are out of your control, so stop trying to control them, for you will only fail.”

Dr. Russell A. Barkley – ADHD-30 Essential Ideas everyone needs to know

For years, politicians have used things to rile up their base—abortion, same-sex marriage, vaccines, etc. I’d guess that privately, some politicians do not believe in the agenda they are pushing. Instead, they think that it will earn them votes. They are always prepared with the next hot-button issue that will fire up their constituents. 

All they need is an opportunity.

This is where Dr. Barkley’s quote is pertinent. We are in the middle of a parenting generation convinced that they are the engineers of their children.

These parents believe they are the way they are because of something their parents did or didn’t do. This leads them to think outside factors can determine who their kids will become at a base level. Music, books, video games, movies, and drag shows will change nothing regarding their child’s sexuality or gender identity. 

Preparedness met opportunity as it often does, resulting in a mass of ignorant and fearful parents who think these outside forces will somehow burrow into their children’s genetics and start changing things. The result is dangerous legislation that will harm people who need help, understanding, and compassion. 

You couldn’t affect your child’s sexuality or gender identity any more than you could make them the first chair cellist for the New York Philharmonic.

If you look inward, you’ll realize that no one can change your gender identity. If you trace it back on the timeline of your life, you’ll realize that no one could have changed it in your twenties, teens, or prior. Now imagine that people forced you to be something other than the wonderful person you have always been. Imagine the torture of going to middle school and being forced to dress and behave as something you are not at the most self-conscious time of your life. Those days are hard enough, even when you’re allowed to express yourself freely.

Here’s a thought experiment: If you’re best friend came out to you as transgender, how would you react? What would you say to them? Would it change the future of your relationship?

If that would be the end of your relationship, you are the problem.

It’s okay to be confused or fearful of something we don’t understand. 

What is not okay is trying to exterminate the things we don’t understand simply because we do not understand them. 

Those who refer to Disney World as the happiest place on Earth have yet to go to a drag show. 

Try it. Be a brave American, google Drag Brunch, pick a day, and go. Worst case? You’ll have breakfast. In the best case, you’ll have breakfast, cocktails, and a fantastic time and leave more open-minded than when you walked in. Then maybe you’ll start to educate yourself, find out that there is nothing to be scared of, and you’ll be happier without the unnecessary anger inside you.

Oh, the humanity!

Or, you can live and let live. You can buy more guns and pretend you’re John Wick ignoring the fact that one of the more dangerous things we do today is drop our kids off at school while the rest of us drink mimosas at a drag brunch having a great time. 

Be a shepherd. Provide a safe place for the flock. It feels much better to love and tend to others than to hate and neglect them.

Cheers.

Why I dislike my kids, let me count the ways

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

There are so many things to dislike about being a parent of two little kids. A seemingly never ending list of ways that they mess your life, as a fully semi functioning adult, up. 

They don’t listen to a single thing you tell them. Unless there is something in it for them, of course. Otherwise, they will just go happily about their day like the pitch of your voice is at a frequency that their ears cannot hear. You are forced to repeat yourself until you are on the verge of a psychotic break. 

They leave messes everywhere. If my children have clean plates, that means that 80 percent of the food is on the floor. They will dump a bowl of goldfish crackers on the floor and walk on it. They don’t even slow down or wonder what they may have just stepped on.

If they want to play with a single specific toy, they will upturn every bin in the house filled with toys like the FBI serving a search warrant. Half way through, they’ll forget what they’re doing and just exit the room. 

The two previously mentioned scenarios separate parents into two groups: 

  1. The normal people who ignore the mess until A. They have invited someone over and they need to panic clean right up until the moment their company walks through the door, or B. One (or both ) of the parents gets fed up with the level of mess.1
  2. The psychotic people that just always keep a clean house. Don’t get me wrong, I respect you. However, I don’t trust you. 

Once you’ve gotten through all of that fun, then it’s time for bed. Someone reading this, maybe even you, just thought, you just have to have a routine.

Well, we do have a routine. “Five more minutes of show” is repeated 4 times. “Time for bed” is repeated 3 times. My daughter throws a fit and cries because she wants mommy to take her upstairs or she wants to be first up the stairs. “Brush your teeth” is repeated 5-10 times. And after about an hour and half the kids are asleep… and usually my wife as well. I stay up way too late and fall asleep on the couch halfway through shows or movies. It’s routinely chaotic.

Around 2:00 AM, there are two little bodies sleeping in different directions. I have been slapped in the face, kicked in the crotch (one time 5 days after a vasectomy), my face has been sneezed on, and my mouth has been coughed into. 

They are the absolute worst.

Last night, after putting the kids to bed, my wife and I were up together on the couch and I didn’t know what to do. I realized that we hadn’t been up together with our kids in bed in over a month. 

There is one thing that they do, that I truly hate. It’s something that will drive me to tears, literally. I am typing this through tears right now. This is the one thing that I can never forgive them for.

They grow up. 

Every time they do something to make me frustrated, every spill, accident, mess, bad bedtime. When the dust settles, I remind myself that it is one step closer to the last time. 

As my kids get more independent with each day that passes, I am reminded that soon there won’t be anyone for me to eat their dinner or not jump on the couch. Soon the only messes in the house will be my own. Every bedtime story I read is one step closer to the last one. And that eventually, I’ll stop hearing little feet walking into the bedroom to get into bed. I won’t get to laugh with my wife in the middle of the night when a dream makes my son laugh hysterically in his sleep. 

If you’re a parent with younger kids in the middle of it. I feel you. It’s not easy. It can really suck sometimes. 

It’s important to embrace the suck. Try to enjoy every little moment because those moments are ephemeral. 

I love my fucking kids.

Cheers.

Footnote

1My wife keeps an immaculate household always (despite me) this was an example drawn purely from my imagination. She is also an exceptional mother and she is beautiful.

Flying Kites

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

It’s the last wave and smile. 

It’s the oversized backpack filled with snow pants. 

It’s independence.

I drove to work crying today, again. 

It’s not a daily occurrence. It’s something that happens on certain days. 

You see, due to a parental scheduling error, my son has been without before school care at his elementary school since the New Year. 

As with most things in life, there are benefits and drawbacks to this situation.

Good: Kids get to sleep in a little. They choose not to of course, but they have the option.

Bad: Mom and Dad get to work later than they’d like.

Good: More time with the kids at home. They have breakfast, watch shows, and getting out the door is a little less hectic.

Very Bad: Dad has to drop off with other parents for kindergarten.

Dropping the kids off is typically Mom’s job, mostly due to work schedule and location.

If you’re a parent, you are most likely thinking, oh it’s a nightmare waiting in line every day to drop off your child for school.

I am not here to tell you that you’re wrong, but it’s not what makes it bad for this Dad.

I’ve come to realize through almost six years of being a parent that your children are like kites. 

Yes, kites, stick with me on this one.

In the beginning, you work to get your kite airborne. Pushing for milestones. Taking ultimate pride in the milestones they hit early. Rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking, potty training, these are things that mean the wind is picking up and your kite is going to fly.

The first day we dropped my oldest off at daycare he was three months old. I wore sunglasses the entire time, hoping that they would hide the uncertainty, sadness, and tears on my face.

In reality, it made me look like a douchebag. More accurately, a sad douchebag.

That was the day that it struck me. The end of the line that holds my kite, is not attached to the spool in my hand. The line is roughly 18 years long.

The day will come when the last bit of line detaches and I’ll be left with an empty spool with nothing to do but watch the kite fly on its own.

This has created a severe cognitive dissonance for me. 

There are things we do as parents that feel taxing at that moment.

Pushing them on the swing, for example. When you are doing it for the thousandth time, it becomes so monotonous. So, you start educating them on how to swing by themselves. Thinking, if I let out a little more line off the spool, I won’t have to stand here and push them anymore. 

You tell them how to move their legs. They do it wrong. You try to correct. They do it wrong and get frustrated. Then you get frustrated that they won’t try. You say, “if you’re not going to have fun at the park then I guess we’ll just go home.” They cry, so you tell them they can play for 5 more minutes, convinced you’ll have the only child that never learned how to use a swing.

Then one day, out of nowhere, they can swing on their own. That section of line that you so desperately wanted off the spool is off. There is no getting it back. The pang hits you in the sternum when you realize, you never have to push them on the swing again. 

The problem is, the word “have” changed to get.

You’re not sure how it happened but it is there as clear as day. 

You never get to push them on the swing again. 

All you want is to pull the line back in just a little. Just for a minute. Just one more time. 

The spool doesn’t work like that on these kites. 

This is why this morning… and yesterday morning… and a few more over the past week and a half, I drove out of the parking lot with tears rolling down my cheeks. I look at other parents driving out of the parking lot muttering “what the fuck is wrong with you people?” as I notice no one else is crying.

They are moving on with their day and not having an existential crisis.

After he stops, smiles, and waves to me (ugh, the wave is a punch to the gut), he runs to catch up with friends with his backpack bouncing back and forth on his shoulders. I remind myself that this is a good thing. It’s good that he doesn’t need me to walk him in, find his locker, put his backpack away, and go to class. I am doing a pretty good job at flying my kite. 

It helps a little. Eventually, the book that I am listening to in the car distracts me and the sadness fades.

What’s more, I have two kites, which allows me to recognize these important spots in my daughter’s line and cherish them. 

However, too soon, she’ll be the one smiling and waving as she walks into kindergarten. 

All I can do is continue to fly my kites. Keep them away from trees, houses, and powerlines so when the day comes, they’re able to soar.

Until that day, should you need me, I’ll be the idiot crying while flying kites.

Cheers.

Hot Timmy Summer

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

I’ve hated myself for a long time.

Wait, let me rephrase that.

I’ve hated my body for as long as I can remember.

I can remember hating the start of football as a kid because the pants never fit right. I’ve hated shopping my entire life because trying on clothes would give me anxiety and leave me in a depressed state. 

I’ve had stretch marks on my stomach since high school. 

Then college happened. People talked about “the freshman 15”, but my body misheard that and went after the freshman 50. 

Since college, I have battled with my weight constantly. Losing some, gaining more back. A decade ago I lost 60 pounds and gained it all back (and some). 

I got to a point where I justified it. 

The worst part of my day was getting out of the shower and being forced to see myself. I told myself, “this is just who you are.” The echoes of people calling me “big guy” and other names pointed out the fact that not only was I big, but everyone knew it. 

I even got my Covid vaccine early because I was obese. Talk about bitter-sweet.

I have pretended to be confident in myself and how I look every day.

Fake it ‘til you make it. Right?

Then, on April 12th as I was sitting down to eat a plate full of air-fried popcorn shrimp and mozzarella sticks, I saw an ad for Noom. 

It advertised a psychological approach to weight loss. Something that piqued my interest as a guy with a Psychology degree. 

One of the first questions was, “what is your goal weight?”

A lot less than my weight now, I thought.

They wanted a specific number. I knew that if it was going to work, I needed to be specific in a meaningful way. Something that was special to me. 

The neat thing about my birthday, October 8th. Is that is the day that I nervously asked my wife to go out with me when we were in Junior High. 

Now I can’t be certain about this, but my educated guess was that I have not weighed less than 200 pounds since my freshman year of high school in 1999. And since college, I have essentially been pregnant on and off like an Irish Catholic woman. 

It clicked.

I am going to weigh 199.8 pounds on my birthday.

That meant that the task in front of me was to lose 64 pounds in 179 days. 

What was the first thing I did?

I ate the mozzarella sticks and popcorn shrimp, duh. 

A last meal of sorts. I’ve got to say it was almost a sexual experience. I dream about that “meal” sometimes.

I got obsessed with my weight loss goal. If you saw me walking (yes, I walk 2 miles every day at lunch) or on my stationary bike, it would look like I was talking to myself. 

I repeat two things over and over and over.

“One ninety-nine” and, my mantra, “I can. I will. End of story.”

The weight melted off in the first month and a half.

This gave birth to “Hot Timmy Summer”.

If you saw me this summer, you may have heard me promoting Hot Timmy Summer. 

From the outside, it probably sounded stupid or self-indulgent, but it was about me embracing myself and being confident in myself as a human, not just faking it.

If people asked if they should do something, my answer was, “go for it! It’s Hot Timmy Summer, celebrate your power.”

In the beginning, I held on to anger inside me. I’d hear the people making jokes about my weight over the course of my life. I’d see their faces and hold on to it through a difficult workout or when I really wanted a piece of pizza but didn’t want to mess up my progress.

Hot Timmy Summer changed all that.

It started when I was going to my brother’s house and going swimming in the pool. The pool that was put in when I lived there in 1998. I have had a routine since the first day I swam in it.

I would put a towel close to the stairs. I would pick a time when people weren’t paying close attention to me, quickly take off my shirt, and jump in. Then, when it was time to get out, I’d go straight to the towel and cover up as quickly as possible.

I would do this even if it was just my family around the pool. I just figured they had to be at least as disgusted as I was in how I looked without a shirt on. 

This summer, I realized how ridiculous that is. 

I decided that I was out of fucks to give when it came to what people thought about me. Thus,  Hot Timmy Summer was born.

So, how’d it go?

Well, today is my birthday and the official end of Hot Timmy Summer. 

I stepped on the scale this morning and it showed 198.4 pounds. 

I am down just over 65 pounds in 179 days. 

I am not done yet, I have adjusted the goal and will lose another 14 pounds, just so I can say I am at the normal weight (according to the BMI charts). 

This morning, I took a moment to pat myself on the back and enjoy it.

First and foremost, I did it for my wife and my children. They deserve a husband/dad that loves himself enough to take care of himself. 

I did it for previous versions of myself that would look in the mirror and cry. The guy that would look in the mirror and say terrible things to the reflection. For the teenage Tim who cried in a Hollister dressing room because nothing fit. 

I did it because life is too short not to love yourself. 

It took me 36 years to learn that lesson.

Maybe you’re reading this and have had some of the same thoughts or feelings. 

It’s never too late to work on and improved yourself in whatever way you want. 

Fuck what other people may say or think about you.

You can. You will. End of story. 

Cheers.

The First Step

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Odds are, if you’re reading this, than this post probably isn’t essential reading for you.

Great opening line, right?

I know my audience, so I am just making an educated guess. However, many of the people that are inclined to read the things I write here know people that could use this and if this reaches just one of those people, it will be worth it.

Alright, there we go. Everyone else is gone. It’s just you and me now. You decided you’d stick around to read whatever crazy radical left point-of-view because we are all kind of addicted to the stuff that makes us mad on the internet.

I’m glad you’re here. Let’s rip off the band-aid.

You have privilege. You were born with it. I know, I know, it stings… breathe, it will get better.

Very few know more privilege than I do. I’m a white, upper-middle class, college educated (paid for by my father… who is a doctor), male in the United States of America.

And since you’re here the odds are extremely high that you have checked some of those same boxes.

Wait! Wait! Wait!

Don’t go.

Having this mirror held up to your face is uncomfortable, I know it is for me. It makes you feel like you should have done more. I know that I do, daily. In no way am I saying that you didn’t struggle at some point or at many points throughout.

I do not doubt that you have overcome obstacles and hardships in your life. I don’t doubt that you have had disadvantages. I don’t doubt that you could easily prove that my life has been vastly easier than yours.

Have a seat with me. Let’s play some cards.

If it were a game of Texas Hold Em, I’d have pocket kings, suited and you’d have jacks, also suited. I’ve definitely got the upper hand, but you could be crafty and beat me. Hell, you wouldn’t even need to be crafty, just a slight bit of luck and you are taking me down.

And if everybody else at the table were white, they’d all be dealt solid hands and we’d all have a good time beating each other here or there and watch the money flow around the table.

Now, imagine that at the empty seat a black person sits down. All night, they are going to be dealt 2-7 off suit. They can still win, but it is going to be a long, difficult grind for them to get there. Unfortunately, the odds tell us, they are going to lose and after a long night of getting terrible cards they will be furious. They are going to yell and point out that the deck was stacked in our favor.

They might even get so mad that they flip the entire table over. Breaking the table, scattering our chips on the floor, mixing them up so that you and I lose some of the money we had won, fairly, by playing the same game at the same table.

This is where we are now in our country.

We don’t get to be mad because our table is broken, the cards are scattered, and we lost a bit of money.

We were playing the same game, yes, but we didn’t choose our table. We were placed here, just like they were.

Our job right now is to talk to the dealer. Tell the security guard to stop roughing the other guy up. Talk to the pit boss. Talk to the manager. Scream up at the owner’s penthouse, and demand to know what they are going to do to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

This is how we move forward as a country. We need to call everybody that we come across on their bullshit.

Nothing is going to change quickly. It is going to take a long time to deconstruct something that has been built over centuries.

Right now we are at a fork in the road. One direction is the same way we have always gone, it’s paved, well lit, and safe (for us). But, maybe if the things I have written make any kind of sense, you have already taken a step toward the other path by simply acknowledging your privilege.

As you look up from your shoes, the new path looks dark and overgrown.

The good news is, you won’t be alone. We can all do it together.

We are probably going to zig-zag all over the place trying to get through the thorny branches, but together we will get through. And when our children encounter this same fork in the road the path will be clear and they’ll have a chance to pave it.

2020 is clearly going to be a year that history books will have to reserve chapters for, let’s all take the path to be on the right side of that history.

Cheers.

An Open Letter to My Son

/ Tim Severson / 3 Comments

Dear Jude,

I write this letter with a heavy heart. Last night, Donald Trump was elected as the 45th President of the United States. You, of course, slept peacefully as the results came in across the country, incapable of understanding what was taking place.

This morning, you woke up smiling as I pulled you from your crib. Blissfully ignorant to the divide in our country. I have never been so jealous.

Despite telling myself that I need to stay off of social media, I could not help myself. Reactions of people all over the world range from shock and fear to elation and pride.

I started  on the shock and fear side.

See, for me, this election was about so much more than Republican versus Democrat. Conservative versus Liberal. Right versus Left.

With you in my life, this is the first election where I felt the pressure of your generation weighing down on me. I had an honest concern for the world that you will grow up in. It is not because of conservative policy or what is best for our country’s economy. It is not about trade agreements and foreign policy.

It is something far more simple and basic.

I don’t want you to grow up thinking that there are human beings that are worth less than others. I don’t want you to think Muslim = Terrorist. Black = Criminal. Woman = Object. Gay = Wrong.

What happened here is that people got sick of “the establishment” and the status quo. They wanted an outsider that wasn’t a politician (although, I would argue that when one runs for political office they then inherently become a politician). These people put their blinders on to the xenophobic, racist, bigoted, and misogynistic ideals that Mr. Trump stands for.

Let me be clear, a vote for Donald Trump does not mean that those people share the same views of other human beings (some of them do). But, they did choose to ignore those views.

Only time will tell if that ends up being worse than sharing those views.

I woke up with fear but that subsided quickly. For one simple reason.

No matter how bad things may seem, there is always love. When people attempt to spew hate, spread more love. Love will always win.

So, I promise you this today.

I will not allow the hate that exists today in.

Together, we will move forward.

I will teach you to love and respect all people regardless of their religion.

I will teach you that love is love, whether it is straight, gay or lesbian.

I will teach you that you respect the women in your life. No exceptions.

I will teach you that what a woman does with her body is her business. No exceptions.

I will teach you that even though people have different ideas on how our country will be run best (even if those ideas cause them to vote for a person such as Mr. Trump) that you respect and love them.

We will move forward. We will fight to ensure our country is not set back. We will create a bright future for you. And, I will rest easy knowing that you understand that hate and fear mongering are no way to get ahead.

I only hope that when you are old enough to read this that irreparable damage has not been done. Because even if Mr. Trump’s policies mean good things for the economy, it will be worthless if there are people who are marginalized, oppressed, or discriminated against.

We will continue to fight to make sure that doesn’t happen.

With Love,

Your Father

Cheers.

 

Seventeen Years

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Seventeen years ago, today, I asked my wife to “go out with me.”

Today is also my birthday (thanks for remembering).

Here’s the thing. When I was younger and birthdays still kind of mattered, it always irritated me that our “anniversary” fell on my birthday. I am not proud of having felt this way and I regret the years that I didn’t mention it or buy something for my girlfriend.

Now, the “anniversary” is less important, so to speak, since our wedding anniversary falls on a completely different day. But, as I have grown up and we have continued our life together, my birthday has gained significance for me again.

This year seems especially important since we now have an amazing child together.

I don’t think that my fifteen-year-old self could have ever imagined what life would be like seventeen years later. In fact, I am pretty sure my fifteen-year-old self never thought about much more than 5 minutes in the future. But, I sure would like to travel back in time and give him a hug for having the courage to whisper, “will you go out with me?” in my wife’s ear.

We all have moments in our life that we look back on with regret. I know I have lots of them and, lately, they seem to be clouding my brain in a fog of negativity. Humans tend to focus on the negatives and the missed shots in their life.

Today, I get to celebrate the best shot that I took and made.

Nothing but net.

Little did I know standing in the hallway of Franklin Junior High that I was making the best choice of my entire life. Which is obvious by my countless attempts to mess it up over the years that would follow.

For some reason, my wife stuck with me through the bad times and now I am able to reflect on the woman that my wife has become. It has been nothing short of amazing.

It has been nothing short of amazing.

See, I have remained relatively the same. Aside from some disgusting weight fluctuations, I remain the remarkably average guy that I have always been. There isn’t all that much that is impressive about me. I have the same sense of humor that I did when I was fifteen. I remain relatively average in most other facets of my life.

Except for my wife and son.

Over the past seventeen years, my wife has turned into a woman. Dare I say, a sexy woman.

When I look at it now, in hindsight, it is awe inspiring and beautiful.

Professionally, she is a force. A strong, confident woman that gets things done. Everyone that works for her loves her. I am astounded by her drive daily.

As a mother, she is nothing short of incredible. She is attentive, patient, and loving every minute of the day. Even when she is covered with spit up at five in the morning, she seems to appreciate the moment and enjoy it. Even when she is exhausted and her nerves are fried due to a lack of sleep, you wouldn’t know it when she is interacting with our son.

Finally, as a wife. Well, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe what she means to me. Day in and day out, she loves me despite my many flaws. She is the reason I am the man that I am today. She is the reason that I smile when things seem to be going bad. She is the reason that I am able to get out of bed every day.

So, if you have made it this far, what’s the point?

First, I just feel like everyone should know that I have an amazing wife.

But, more importantly, I know that I am not alone in having a moment in my life that I can look on and point at as a time where my life changed for the better.

Rather than focusing on the things that did not go as planned. Focus on the time they went perfect and be grateful for that moment.

I know that today when I look at my wonderful wife and son, I will be.

Cheers.