German marked my first foreign-language class in sixth grade, and perhaps my first experience with social pressure.
Frau Wied assigned us the task of choosing our German names. This would become the name she would call us throughout the year during class. And, as it turned out, in the halls.
She handed out a xeroxed list of names separated into “ein Junge” and “Mädchen”. I scanned the list of names like an expectant mother 4,400 miles away in Berlin. Though, as a sixth grader on the first day of middle school, it’s hard to say whose stakes felt higher.
Many of the other kids in my class had gone to the elementary school with the advanced learning program. To this day, I am unclear of how my classmates wound up in the advanced program so early, as I had made my way into the advanced classes in sixth grade under suspicious circumstances.
A broken right wrist prevented me from filling in the Scantron bubbles on the IOWA Basic test we were required to take to measure our skills against the rest of the nation. Because of my injury, a teaching assistant sat with me to fill in the bubbles of the answers I selected.
Was it pure intelligence that allowed me to score in the 98th percentile, or the teaching assistant’s terrible poker face when I attempted to pick the incorrect answer?
The world will never know.
Regardless, it landed me in a classroom, staring at a list of German names, trying to pick the “coolest” one because my friends already had their German names from their elementary school class.
Dieter, Günther, Helmut, Wolfgang, are you kidding me?! Stefan. Stefan! That’s my best friend’s name in New York. I looked at the chalkboard, and someone had taken the name.
I chose Felix because I used to watch Felix the Cat. How inspired.
Yet, it wasn’t as cool as the names my friends had.
Their names fit them like a tailored suit. Meanwhile, I sat at my desk, tugging at my waistband and shifting in my seat, all too aware that ‘Felix’ fit me as poorly as the Eddie Bauer khakis my mom bought me for the new school year.
It was in this class that I, Felix, first learned of the Holocaust and the atrocities committed by the Nazis during World War Two.
Adults forget what it was like to learn about these things. Remembering the facts is easier than remembering the emotion and confusion stirred inside as the details piled up in front of us like bodies in mass graves. Papers, stars, hiding, trains, abuse, starvation, and death. It’s so much to absorb, even as an adult.
We forget the bump of adrenaline when the emotion enters the room, when the teacher’s solemn mood hushes the class, and we understand that now is not the time for jackassery.
The lights go out, and the faces of twelve-year-olds glow in the black-and-white footage from five lifetimes ago playing on the oversized tube TV, rolled in on an old metal cart. Soldiers on a beach, a furious man with a mustache yelling at a podium, rubble, terrified faces, shaved heads, and so many dead bodies.
When the video ends and the lights turn back on, the teacher wipes a final tear from their cheek.
What made it challenging is we had no frame of reference. These stories played like pure fiction or something that happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Which makes sense given we were also taught about the heroic American effort during World War Two. We learned how the bravest generation volunteered to cross the Atlantic to defeat those evil forces and hold them accountable for their actions.
And at the end of the day, when the bell rang, we went home and fell into a peaceful slumber because we live in America. The land of the free and home of the brave. Nothing like that will ever happen here.
Too bad the history curriculum didn’t focus more on the 1930s in Germany to find out how the fuck they ended up how they did. The beginning isn’t nearly as interesting as the end. The deliberate legal plotting of Gleichschaltung turned neighbors against each other through policy and social pressure. The average person didn’t realize they were a frog in a pot of water being slowly brought to a boil.
We are plagued by people who have given up their critical thinking skills.
We have become addicted to the confirmation bias found within our chosen echo chambers, unable to face the discomfort of breaking free for a moment because doing so would make falling asleep at night a little more challenging.
Thinking of neighbors being pulled from their homes in the freezing cold isn’t conducive to the peaceful slumbers we’re used to getting in the United States of America.
In my state of Minnesota, thirty minutes from my home, a masked federal agent shot Renee Good in the face three times, in broad daylight, in front of witnesses, and filmed from more vantage points than even Oliver Stone could have conceived of.
Yet, people refuse to watch it and instead regurgitate the opinions they see on TV. Somehow, ignoring the document they claim to hold above all, the Constitution.
On Friday, January 16th—my daughter’s birthday — we went out to dinner in Maple Grove, MN.
We looked out the glass doors of our restaurant to the street as we waited for our table. We could see a restaurant and a bank across the street, along with some retail shops. A fresh coating of light snow blanketed the sidewalk. An unmarked SUV with blue and red lights flashing in the rear window sat parked in the street, unattended. I exchanged a worried glance with my wife.
We both started from a rational place. Probably just an unmarked police car or security investigating an alarm. It was 6:30 in suburbia for Christ’s sake.
The faint sound of car horns out on the street, which has quickly become the signal of the government’s abuse of power in Minnesota, began. ICE was across the street, surrounding a restaurant to detain the “criminals” who were in the middle of their shift serving people like me. Families celebrating birthdays or anniversaries.
Ice raided the restaurant I work in. A troubling time we are in, and a reminder to share as much resources as we can and to defend each other. Cops was called and they did nothing! But protestors arrived and they helped these ppl get away. All we have is ourselves rn. #MN#ice#community
I tried to focus on my family, on my daughter, and not on the possibility that the state was tearing someone away from their life and family, or masked men walking through her birthday dinner en route to the kitchen. Shame bubbled up inside me.
That’s the point, though, isn’t it? You don’t need to be terrified to be terrorized. It’s the chaos and uncertainty. They are counting on people to go along to get along.
I’ve had enough. This isn’t a difference of opinion on policy, Democrat versus Republican. This is right and wrong. How can people claim these ICE agents are “just doing their job” or “this would all be over if people would just comply”?
I can’t. As a son of a veteran of Vietnam and the grandson of a veteran and Purple Heart recipient in World War II, I learned this is the exact behavior they swore to protect the country from.
There are some who didn’t anticipate the call of tyranny and oppression coming from inside the house.
I wrote an open letter to my eight-month-old son when Donald Trump was elected to his first term. I remember being nervous to share it with the world, but more so with my friends and family. It was clear to me a decade ago who he is, but did I want to risk relationships in the name of politics?
This is how Gleichschaltung works. They don’t need me to be on board; they just need me to be quiet.
Maybe you voted for the people who are ignoring our Constitution, and that’s okay.
Now, however, we must all wake up and say, “No,” because if we accept this unconstitutional abuse of power, who will be targeted next?
We are seeing the good people of Minnesota on the streets of Minneapolis saying, “No.” We are seeing people who recognize the pot of water as the trap it is.
Wake up. Pay attention. Watch the videos and ask yourself: Do these people look like dangerous criminals?
As the country prepares for a historic cold front of ice and snow, it is the hand of tyranny grasping for control.
Everyone remembers the morning the stranger came to town, speaking of sheep. The debate over whether he should be called a shepherd is a powder keg in the tavern, and the mention of his name is the spark.
He arrived with nothing but a rust-speckled toolbox and stood at the door of the town’s land office.
Dust shimmered in a single beam of sunlight in the cramped office. The land agent, a man with thinning gray hair, glasses on the tip of his nose, and a smoldering pipe, peered up from his desk.
The man explained he wanted to buy the vacant plot in the hills above the town.
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“What do you intend to do with this land?”
“I’d like to raise sheep.”
“Wolves.”
“No. Sheep.”
The land agent raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t hard of hearin’; I said wolves.”
He stood and traced exaggerated, dramatic circles around both areas on the map hung behind him, as though the man were dim.
“These woods have wolves,” he said in a slow, staccato rhythm. “Wolves eat sheep. You can’t have sheep there. Have a nice day.”
He sat and returned to his paperwork. The stranger didn’t move.
“Can I buy it anyway?”
“Do you have sheep?”
“I’ll find some.”
“You don’t have a place to live.”
“I’ll build one.”
After the land agent had exhausted all of his questions, he drew up the land deed.
People from the town he came from asked the same questions. He didn’t let them anger him the way they used to. The questions are ghosts, phantoms lurching outward, grasping for him under the guise of protection.
He worked in the sun, building his modest home and barn while the green grass grew tall and danced in the wind, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. The townspeople paused on occasion to watch his progress in the hills, offering reactions he would never know.
When he walked down the road to town, he was kind to those he met, and they were cordial in return. Conversations were pleasant, and he often shared a laugh with the store owners when buying more materials.
It wasn’t long before people began to refer to him as “the shepherd,” mocking him for his lack of a herd.
He wondered why no one asked questions anymore. He obsessed over it, walking the winding gravel road with the thick forest reaching out from the west side like jagged claws. The only alternative was to obsess over the watchful eyes of wolves hidden in the dark. So he walked, his eyes on the rolling hills illuminated by the setting sun, the landscape glowing otherworldly as he admired it from the shadow of the woods.
He worked from sunrise to sunset, making countless mistakes along the way. Some were so simple in nature that he’d be forced to stop and scratch his head, baffled at his incompetence. He found it even harder to believe his hands had done the fixing. But he continued, sure that once he finished the fence and sheep filled his pasture, the town would see he was a shepherd.
That thought became his North Star on his trips to town, gazing in awe at his new home from the shadow of the woods, silent wolves stalking him under their cover. He smiled as he slipped into a daydream: a flock of sheep sweeping across the green hills like a school of fish in open water.
The fence began as wood, crooked planks leveled out with each addition, until it shifted to a stone wall for no apparent reason. Jagged, uneven rocks turned into stones that fit like puzzle pieces. Soon, they formed an enduring rock wall sure to outlast him. And last, in another peculiar change of material, the fence turned to sagging wire—barbed, snarled, and rusted—stretched between leaning posts. The final wires he strung were taut, enclosing the pasture his sheep would call home.
The townspeople walked the hills, passing sections of the fence in various states of repair. They returned to town with silent impressions and whispered theories.
If they had asked, he would have explained that he used different materials to prove to himself that he could. When the planks got level, the work became mundane. As he hammered nails, theories of the most efficient way to build a rock wall filled his mind to the point of obsession. When the wood ran out, he found rocks and began to test his hypotheses.
With the fence complete, the shepherd roamed the hills in search of sheep. Along the way, he met a stray dog in need of work. They shared meals under bright blue skies in the hills and became fast friends. Some trips kept them away for weeks, but the shepherd assembled a modest flock.
As the sun dipped lower and greens gave way to gold, the shepherd allowed a moment to pat himself on the back. He had a pasture, a home, a barn, a fence, a sheepdog, and thirty-five sheep. He was a shepherd; there was no doubt.
One morning, as the sun slid behind the now-bare forest, he thought of the wolves. Without their green cover, the trees bared their teeth. Winter approached, and he didn’t have time to worry about wolves. His focus was the flock.
He wanted to train his sheep to return to their sheepfold without having to herd them.
A cold wind followed him into town, curling beneath heavy grey clouds. It was quiet now. Eyes burned holes in his back, peering out from behind darkened windows. The soft, rhythmic tap of his shepherd’s hook announced his presence.
He walked into the blacksmith’s and came out in less than a minute, a triangle chime in his hand. He made his way back up the hill, hood up and head down, the breeze nipping at his cheeks.
That evening, when it was time to bring in the sheep, he sent his dog out alone and stood by the fold, chiming the triangle in time. Hoping its pleasant music would teach the sheep to come for food at day’s end or, in more dire moments, stay alive.
The first night, only a couple of sheep came bounding over the hill. The second night, none came.
Too far out to hear, the shepherd reasoned.
On the third night, after a few minutes of ringing, the entire flock came over the rise.
Pride swelled in the shepherd’s chest, only to drain to his gut when he spotted a wolf, nose inches off the ground, sniffing the fenceline for weakness. The shepherd straightened. The wolf froze, locking eyes with him, beginning an arrogant, deliberate trot, never looking away.
His dog snarled from the other side of the fence as the sheep began to scatter in fear. The shepherd wasn’t ready for this fight.
He dashed to his barn and grabbed an old dinner bell. Back outside, he swung it over his head in furious arcs, a guttural cry ripping from his throat. The wolf bolted until the darkness of the woods consumed it. His dog’s barks echoed across the pasture into the night.
That night, he collapsed onto his straw bed.
Were the sheep coming to the chime or fleeing from the wolf?
The wolf came to the triangle and ran from the bell.
The shepherd made a decision:
He would train the sheep with the bell.
He would teach the wolves to fear it.
Whether or not a bell could serve this dual purpose was a question he intended to answer.
The gray buildings bloomed into gold in the rising sun as he walked into town. Soon after, he came back up the road, a bundle of lumber under his arms. White plumes of breath drifted behind him in the cold, sunlit air.
A few early risers in the town caught a glimpse as he passed by with wood. By mid-morning, everyone had made up their mind: the shepherd was fixing his fence.
As the shadows grew long that afternoon, the woman who lived in the cabin in the woods rounded the bend to the shepherd’s pasture. Though they were each other’s closest neighbors, they had never spoken.
She halted when she saw him not tending to his flock. Not repairing his fence.
He was digging.
Mounds of dirt surrounded the shepherd, his back hunched as he worked to carve a hole into the earth.
He stood and stretched when he caught her in his periphery. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, smearing dirt across his forehead. He lifted a hand to block the orange sun as it teetered on the edge of the forest, hungry for light.
Her face came into focus, half-lit and watchful, and his dust-caked face broke into a warm, easy grin. He waved.
The woman raised her hand in return and flashed a smile before walking down the hill.
His dog barked. The shepherd turned to the sheepfold and fetched the dinner bell.
The woman flinched when the violent clang echoed through the hills. She paused, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, expecting the soft chime of a triangle. Another sharp ring, as she heard a rustle in the woods behind her, followed by a guttural, canine whine.
Gravel crackled underfoot as she quickened her pace toward town.
The few sheep that came to the triangle scattered over the crest of the hill at the clanging. The shepherd expected this. He rang it again.
A wolf trotted, cocksure, along the fence as it had the day prior. He slung the bell in wild arcs over his head, and once again, the wolf darted for the woods.
The shepherd smiled as the trees swallowed it, and the flock came bounding in from the pasture. His dog barked, short and sharp, before skittering into view with its tail between its legs. The dog veered left as a lone wolf burst from a weak spot in the fence, in pursuit of the flock.
He rang harder. He screamed till his throat burned.
It was no use.
Tears cut bright trails through the dirt on his cheeks as the wolf took down one of his sheep in the pasture. The wolf licked the blood from its paws, belly full, and stared at him. He stared back, unmoving, until the wolf spun and trotted off into the woods.
The shepherd sat in the grass for a long time, gnashing his teeth.
When word spread about what the woman witnessed, the townspeople turned their eyes to the pasture. No one could make sense of it. Why wasn’t he fixing the fence?
He marched down the road into town, snarling breath hissing from his nose. His eyes scanned the tree line. He seethed.
He stomped to the blacksmith’s door and knocked. A moment later, it creaked open a sliver, revealing his wary face.
“Closed.” The blacksmith looked him up and down, covered in filth.
“I need a bigger bell.”
“Don’t have one. Good night.”
The shepherd caught the closing door with his foot and peered over the blacksmith’s shoulder.
“I want that bell.”
The bell was substantial. Heavy. Its bronze surface black with soot in places and tarnished in others. A hairline crack serpentined across one side.
“That hung in a chapel that burned down years ago. What use do you have for a bell like that, holding mass for your sheep?” The blacksmith chuckled at his joke and lit his pipe.
“Is it for sale?”
“Well,” the blacksmith took a long draw from his pipe, his dark eyes narrowed, darting between the bell and the shepherd. Two white streams of smoke fell from his nostrils, “I suppose so. It’ll need some repair if you want it to ring, and I’ll have to arrange delivery.” He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I could have it to you in one month.”
“One month.” He stared at the blacksmith for a beat and handed him a sack. “Deal.”
“Yes, sir.” The blacksmith peeked into the sack and nodded as a quick snarl escaped his lips as though catching the scent of an easy meal on the wind. “One month.”
“Thank you.” The shepherd turned on his heel and made his way out of town, lantern clanging at his side.
The blacksmith stood in his doorway, watching him.
The general store owner stepped outside, glanced from the shepherd to the blacksmith, and raised a puzzled brow.
The blacksmith shrugged and closed the door.
The townspeople peeked through their curtains, watching the orange glow of this lantern fade into the dark.
He was already working when the sun rose over his pasture, beginning a daily routine the townspeople would come to know well.
Each morning, he rose before dawn and worked in the cold, damp barn by the light of his lantern. The scent of hay and earth hung in the air as he measured lengths of the rope, sorted heavy chains, and cut and smoothed wood. By week’s end, both thumbnails were purple, his hands stiff and blistered, riddled with splinters.
Yet, every morning, he worked as the sun rose, listening to his dog’s slow, steady breathing as it curled up in the entryway.
At noon, the shepherd made a daily pilgrimage into town while the sheep grazed.
That first week, the townspeople gaped at his physical deterioration. They gawked at his hands, aging a decade with each passing day. The shepherd always smiled, nodded, and said hello.
And once he passed, they bustled in his wake, whispering theories about what in the hell he was doing up there.
He spent his afternoons digging and moving earth, the sun hot on his shoulders. His fingernails grew jagged, caked with dirt like long-buried arrowheads worn down by time.
He thought of the townspeople as he worked. He laughed as he wondered what they must feel, what they say about his existence.
The dog tilted his head, confused, and let out a whine.
The man let out a belly laugh. “Yep,” he said, “that sums it up.”
He shook his head and went back to work. He kept at it until the black spiderwebs of forest shadow crept across his pasture in the dying light.
By the third night, the townspeople were expecting the bell. They moved to their chosen vantage points, watching the carnage in disbelief.
The wolves emerged from the woods, tongues smacking. One by one, they broke off, circling the fence at quiet, measured intervals. The bell rang and rang. It did not stop them.
As the wolves took their posts, the sheep began to bleat and scatter. The shepherd’s dog, unshaken and vigilant, worked the flock the best he could while the shepherd shook the bell with desperate force.
The wolves breached the fence all at once. They fanned out and fell into stride behind the herd, closing the gap in a silent, confident advance.
Night after night, the shepherd’s flock shrank.
He swung the bell over his head as he locked the surviving sheep into the fold, watching the wolves feast in his pasture. They ate until nothing but crimson-stained wool surrounded them, and the sky turned black as they made their retreat into the woods. He would wait for the sole, haunting howl that would echo from its depths. His returned scream of agonized rage marked the end of the night’s terror.
This was the pattern.
Every day.
All month.
The townspeople grew bolder.
They altered their walking routes, timing them for when the shepherd was away from the sheepfold, desperate to know what mystery he was digging up.
What could be more important than fixing his fence? Than saving his sheep?
No one could agree on a theory.
The blacksmith hired the usual team he called on when something heavy needed moving, and they carted the bell up the road to the shepherd’s barn.
The townspeople followed.
The team hung the bell in short order. By midday, a tarnished bronze bell gleamed from the barn’s eaves, catching the high afternoon sun.
The shepherd stood below it, marveling at the new bell, smiling as the moving team returned to town. He turned to the townspeople gathered along his fence and pointed to the bell.
“Not bad!”
The townspeople stood expressionless, eyes on him.
The shepherd shrugged, shuffled to the front of his sheepfold, and studied the smooth ground where he had once turned the earth. He turned in a slow circle, eyeing the ground, stopping a few times to smooth some dirt with his toe.
Satisfied, he exhaled, shuffled back to the barn, leaned into its shade, and slid down against the wall.
He took in the bell one last time, closed his eyes, and slept.
The townspeople remained, like statues lining the fence, watching the shepherd sleep as the icy shadows of the forest reached to touch their backs.
His dog nudged him with a low whine, and yelped. The shepherd’s eyes snapped open. He shook the sleep off and sprang to his feet.
The crowd began to stir in anticipation of the first ring of the bell.
The shepherd disappeared into the barn and returned with the dinner bell in hand. The crowd murmured.
His chest expanded as he drew in a long breath through his nose.
He rang the bell hard and fast, its sound cutting across the hills.
No one near the barn could see the wolves coming, but they felt them.
The faint bleating of the sheep rose from the pasture. The shepherd’s dog barked sharp commands, herding the few sheep that remained.
The townspeople tightened their grips on the fence before them, stone, wire, or wood, white-knuckled.
The smaller herd meant the wolves had an extended chase. The sheep were nearing the sheepfold as the pack strode behind, eager for their meal, calm and confident.
The shepherd stood firm, ringing the bell.
As the dog culled the sheep into the sheepfold, the townspeople let out a collective sigh, the first night in weeks without death.
But the shepherd did not shut the gate.
He kept ringing the bell, backing away toward the barn as the wolves advanced, stalking. Their bodies sank, shoulder blades rising with each step, eyes locked on the sheep.
The shepherd reached the barn door. He rang the bell once more, mouthing something to himself.
He vanished into the barn and hurled his scant weight into the bell pull.
The dinner bell gave a hollow clang as it hit the dirt.
For a moment, the world stood still.
The enormous bell rang out, a thunderous gong that sent wolves flinching and townspeople clapping hands to ears.
As the bell swung back, the taut line jerked a lever upward. A chain shot through a groove in the earth, linking the barn to the sheepfold.
Wooden spears burst from the earth, their tips dripping with wet, tar-like mud, circling the pack of wolves as the bell let out an echoing chime.
One wolf darted for the woods and yelped as a sharpened tip tore into its belly. The pack froze a moment before it erupted in snarls and howls.
The shepherd stood in the doorway of the barn, his silhouette bathed in sunlight. Stone-faced, his chest rose and fell in a smooth rhythm. His dog sat at his side, looking up to him.
He scanned the wolves, caged but alive, for a moment before he turned to the silent crowd.
His expression softened.
He smiled the same smile he always had. He raised a hand and waved as if it were a typical afternoon. As if this were just another day. Sweat shimmered on his brow in the light that now seemed cast only for him.
The townspeople gave no reaction. There was no applause. No cheers, only silence.
At the back of the crowd, he spotted a hand held above their heads in greeting.
The shepherd squinted into the beams of forest-filtered sunlight, and there she stood—
The woman, his neighbor.
The corners of his mouth pulled closer to his ears in a warm smile.
He watched them go, eyes on heruntil she disappeared down the hill.
He looked down at his dog, whose body gave an expectant wiggle before the shepherd scratched him behind the ears.
He gazed out over his pasture, golden in the setting sun. He exhaled.
Jenni’s back from Cincinnati (which is, apparently, a city that doesn’t even house its own airport), and The Kids Are In Bed is back in full force. Tim is relieved to no longer be podcasting alone, and they waste no time diving into all the pressing matters of the week:
A group of kids accidentally going viral for building the ultimate backyard fort. What started as a fun project now has them raking in thousands of dollars—so what’s next?
Airport Theory. Are the “get there two hours early” guidelines just a trick to keep us shopping in terminals?
Super Bowl chaos. Will Taylor Swift make an appearance at halftime? How many times will she be shown on camera? More importantly—why do we all care so much?
Groundhog Day: A Movie and a Tradition. One is a Bill Murray classic, the other involves thousands of people standing in the freezing cold to hear a rodent make a weather prediction. Both are fascinating.
It’s the kind of episode that covers everything and nothing all at once—come hang out!
We saw Wicked on Friday night, opening weekend. We bought our tickets for seven adults and three children three weeks in advance. The excitement in our house grew with each passing day.
Going to the movie theater was a pastime for my wife and me for sixteen years before our first child was born. We went to the movies so often that we would drive to theaters further away solely for the change of scenery.
After March 2016, boom, we were done going to the movies.
Our children are now movie-going age at eight and five years old, which means…
We’re back, baby!
We were pleasantly surprised to find that fresh-popped popcorn, sticky floors, and apathetic teenage employees—all of our favorite staples—remained the same as they were in 2016. Outside of that, there is nothing but improvements: the screens are giant, the seats are like beds, and they serve cocktails.
Having children means we may not go to the movies we want to see, but while much has been said about the golden age of television, children’s movies are also having a fantastic run. From the non-stop stream of hits from Pixar to unexpected gems like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem and Transformers One, there is no shortage of movies made to entertain both kids and adults.
Some of my favorite movies from the past decade are children’s movies.
As parents, we sometimes forget that our kids don’t yet feel the dopamine rush we get when walking into a movie theater lobby. That familiar smell of popcorn and the hum of excitement in the air is all new to them.
We’re building the foundation of their nostalgia, which can feel overwhelming when planning even semi-special events like a trip to the movies.
But here’s the thing: you can decide how to spend your emotional energy. Go into it with enthusiasm, which is easier even on the worst days because you’re about to get an hour and a half of rest as long as you set it up for success.
You may be thinking movies are expensive. They can be, and we’ll get to that, but stay with me here.
Pay attention to your theater’s deals. Matinees are a surefire way to save, but check if they have weekday specials. Our local theater has $5 tickets all day on Tuesdays.
Build anticipation in the days leading up to the movie. Tell your kids you’re excited about it at unexpected times with genuine enthusiasm. Jenni and I typically break into spontaneous songs or chants, but you do you.
Bring blankets. While being cozy is nice, that’s not the main reason for this tip.
Frequent trips to the theater are key to building that cinema magic you want your kids to feel one day. However, the amount of money your children could spend at a concession stand is staggering.
Make sure everyone is fed before you leave the house, and head out ten minutes earlier than usual. Use the extra time to stop somewhere for a reasonably priced treat to sneak into the theater. The first time I did this with my kids, I left Target with a Kinder Egg and a pack of gum.
This is where the blanket comes in. It’s the metaphorical cake to hide your file—aka the pre-bought treat. Remind your children that it’s of the utmost importance that no one in the lobby even suspects contraband is wrapped in the Paw Patrol blanket. They get a thrill; we save money.
My son even put on a ruse while we were in line to get popcorn, illegal candy securely wrapped in a plush blanket.
“Daddy, I don’t need candy this time.” He looked at me with a knowing smile, proud of his acting performance.
And, yes, we were buying popcorn and a couple of drinks. As far as Jenni is concerned, popcorn is part of the admission price. This is why the candy subterfuge is a moral gray area I’m comfortable with. Take this as your invitation to live on the wild side.
All of this amounts to more fun and less whining.
There are some movies that need a little extra magic.
There are the movies we know our families will love, but my favorite thing about going to the movies now is the genuine excitement on my kids’ faces when a trailer for an unexpected film comes on the screen. Plus, you now have an accessible event to look forward to and get excited about as a family. It’s also handy for distracting from the various “no’s” you’ll have to hand out in the meantime.
We went all out for Wicked. My daughter, Clementine, counted down the days—not just to see the movie but mostly to wear her new Wicked dress. The rest of us bought apparel from the movie as well. I chose Wicked Sour Gummies as our smuggled treat.
The movie did not disappoint.
Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande both deliver fantastic performances with their acting and vocals. Delivering at their level is no easy feat, given how beloved the Broadway play is and how iconic the original performances by Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel are.
While some might be annoyed by the movie’s length (2 hours 40 minutes) or the fact that it’s not the full story, I’d argue those people are not fans of Wicked, musicals, or both. If you are a fan of either, however, Wicked will meet your expectations.
The adaptation from stage to screen hits the mark while taking creative risks to make the movie visually stunning. It seems as though director Jon Chu may have found his niche in bringing stage musicals to the screen. He had previous success with Lin Manuel Miranda’s In The Heights in 2021 and is currently working on an adaptation of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
Wicked is rated PG, so most kids will handle it fine. That said, there are flying monkeys—different from the originals, but equally terrifying. To be clear, that’s my adult perspective. Monkeys shouldn’t have wings.
The point is, don’t wait for the magic to come to you. I’m as guilty as any parent of thinking I need to put in maximum effort to make my kids behave and have fun, only to decide I don’t have the energy to do anything because… well, life. Then I go to bed feeling guilty, like I have no magic to give.
When you feel like that, remember the words of Glinda from The Wizard of Oz:
“You’ve always had the power, my dear. You’ve had it all along.”
Sprinkle a little enthusiasm on the mundane. Your kids will show you the magic.
Road trip!! In this episode of “The Kids Are In Bed,” Tim and Jenni Severson dive headfirst into the hilarious chaos of their recent escapades and their unconventional holiday plans.
Jenni kicks things off by recounting her wildly successful Friendsgiving celebration. Forget plain cranberry sauce—she took cranberries to the next level with creative cranberry cocktail recipes like cranberry Moscow Mules and rosé spritzers that had everyone feeling extra thankful. And who needs charcuterie boards when you can have the most adorable charcuterie cups? She spills the secrets behind these Instagram-worthy snacks that are both cute and delicious.
Jenni’s adorable and tasty charcuterie cups.
Meanwhile, Tim shares his misadventures in Brainerd, Minnesota. It starts with the much-anticipated (and ultimately disappointing) Mike Tyson and Jake Paul fight. Spoiler alert: watching a 58-year-old Tyson wasn’t the thrilling spectacle he hoped for. But the real knockout came when he accidentally swapped shoes with his brother, leading to a confusing shoe hunt and driving in socks—because nothing says “responsible adult” like showing up to your brother’s restaurant shoeless. To top it off, he had an unexpected and aggressive roadside encounter that left him questioning if his choice of car was the real issue. Oh, and he tried impressing his friends with a full moon photo that was, let’s say, less appreciated than he’d hoped.
The duo then discuss their audacious decision to toss tradition out the window and spend Thanksgiving at the Wisconsin Dells. Who needs turkey when you have waterslides? They’re embracing new holiday family traditions, and the kids couldn’t be more thrilled about a Wisconsin Dells Thanksgiving. They reminisce about past road trips, debating what actually qualifies as a road trip (apparently anything over three hours), and share their favorite road trip snacks—because calories don’t count on the open road. Tim is all about sunflower seeds and Buffalo blue combos, while Jenni confesses her gas station guilty pleasures like Tahitian Treat and Milk Duds.
They also delve into the joys and challenges of traveling with kids, offering up some hard-earned family road trip tips. Ever tried to maintain sanity with two kids, two tablets, and a bag of gummy worms in the backseat? They’ve got stories—and advice.
Join Tim and Jenni for a lighthearted conversation filled with laughs, candid moments, and enough holiday cheer to make even the Grinch crack a smile. Whether you’re looking for Friendsgiving ideas, planning a non-traditional Thanksgiving, or just need a good laugh from some funny road trip stories, this episode has got you covered.
“We are going to get caught. Let’s just go back to the party, Kev,” Carmen said as she glanced behind her at affluent Lakeview Boulevard, shrowded by the dark fall night.
The wind whipped off Lake Serenity through the towering pines, carrying the fresh scent of pine needles and a chill that forced her to pull the cape of her Little Red Riding Hood costume tighter around her shoulders.
“They’re never home,” came Kevin’s voice from the bushes in front of the house. “And usually the front door is unlocked, but luckily I know where they hide their… got it!”
Kevin’s head – topped with the wild hair and pointy ears of his Teen Wolf Costume – popped up out of the bushes; he was holding a rock the size of a baseball.
Carmen felt her heart leap a little in her chest as he did. She couldn’t see his face but could hear the smile she had been smitten with since the first day of sixth grade when Kevin’s family moved to their little town.
She wasn’t naive. Growing up in the Timber Mill Quarter, she understood her odds of a lifetime with a boy—from the affluent Lakeside District—wouldn’t last forever.
They were two months into their senior year of high school, and neither had dared to talk about what would happen when the year ended. They always spoke to each other in forever terms. They talked about where they would live and what their house would look like, and even argued about what their first baby’s name would be just this past summer.
“See,” Carmen’s best friend Jenna said, spinning her laptop screen to face Carmen, “Two percent! Two percent of marriages are to high school sweethearts. So you need to stop freaking out and start having fun. You two aren’t going to get married.”
Carmen understood the statistics, but she resolved to enjoy the love she had as much as she could while she had it.
“Aaand, we’re in,” Kevin said as a gust of wind sent leaves tumbling across the driveway. “I can’t believe people still use these ‘hide-a-key’ things.”
Carmen hesitated.
“I—I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the dark, empty street. “What if they come home?”
“I told you, they FaceTimed my mom this morning to make sure everything was okay with the house. Mrs. Connor was on the beach telling my mom about the bottomless mimosas. Even if they got on a plane right after hanging up, there is no way they could make it home from Hawaii until tomorrow morning. We have the house to ourselves.”
Kevin held out his hand, gesturing for Carmen to enter the house.
As she stepped inside, she saw something flash in her peripheral vision and screamed.
Kevin slammed the door, put his hand over her mouth, and pressed her against the wall in the foyer.
“Shhh,” he said, smiling. “Do you want to get us in trouble? When I said, ‘we have the house to ourselves,’ I was including Chase.”
Carmen looked down to see Chase, the Connors’ adorable orange and white tabby cat, head-bunting Kevin’s legs in search of attention.
Carmen exhaled in relief. “Sorry, he scared me.”
“Thanks for clearing that up.”
“Shut up. It’s dark, it’s Halloween, and my boyfriend convinced me to break into someone’s house,” Carmen said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Kevin said as he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “Do you think our house will be this big?”
As he pulled away, Carmen began to take in the house’s interior. The house was spotless and smelled of lemon cleaner. It looked like one of those model houses they put up in a new development. The staples were there: couches, a large dining room table with a place setting, TVs, and a few generic pieces of artwork hung from the walls. It was the kind of place that highlighted the difference between a house and a home.
“I don’t know, darling,” Carmen began, attempting to sound high-falutin. “It’s big, of course, but you know I am partial to marble flooring. And what is it with these low ceilings? It feels rather tight here.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, my love,” Kevin said, playing along. “I shall find a new realtor at once. Please forgive me.”
They laughed as their lips pressed together.
Carmen pushed him back to arm’s length and said, “So, what’s your plan, mister? You’ve got me alone in this house, and I am getting bored.”
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back,” he said, winking at her before disappearing into the kitchen.
Carmen walked to the bookshelf on the other side of the living room, adorned with framed pictures, knick-knacks, and, of course, books.
Mr. and Mrs. Connor didn’t have any children, so all of the picture frames were filled with shots of them on vacation. While the backdrop varied from tropical, sugar-sand beaches to historic landmarks, the couple could have been photoshopped into every one of the pictures.
They stood on the same side in every picture and had the bright smiles of newlyweds in every image.
Carmen picked up a picture of the couple in front of the Tower Bridge in London. She allowed her imagination to replace their faces with hers and Kevin’s. She tried to imagine taking the picture. She imagined showing the picture to her friends at a dinner party after they returned from another one of their European vacations. She fell head-first into the fantasy.
She froze when she saw the silhouette of someone standing behind her in the reflection of the glass in the picture frame.
“Kevin? What are you doing?”
No response.
Too afraid to move, she tried again. “Kevin, if you’re trying to scare m—”
“What are you doing here?” a voice whispered.
Carmen screamed as she jumped, dropping the picture frame. Glass shattered on the hardwood floor as she spun around to see Kevin standing behind her, holding two hard seltzers.
“Don’t do that!”
“It’s too easy,” he laughed, holding out the two cans. “Watermelon or black cherry?”
“Watermelon,” Carmen said, snatching it from his hand. “What do we do about the picture frame?”
“Let’s figure that out later,” Kevin said, sitting on the couch and patting the cushion beside him.
Carmen took a long drink and winced as the sharp carbonated malt liquor slid down her throat. She set the can on the bookshelf before jumping on top of Kevin and kissing him. He gently slid his hand up her back, to the back of her neck, then to her cheek.
Carmen felt goosebumps all over her body as he brushed her straight, brown hair behind her ear.
He pulled away, looking her in the eye, saying, “I really do love you.”
She studied his face for a moment and knew he meant it. She felt it, too. She didn’t know whether it was lust or love in such moments. All she knew was that it felt good. It felt as though she couldn’t get close enough to him. She pressed every part of herself into him as they lay on the couch.
They heard a thump from the ceiling above them.
Carmen lifted her face away from Kevin’s and looked to the stairs. “What was that?”
“Chase, remember? Actually, the Connors will think he’s the one who broke the picture,” he said, attempting not to lose his opportunity to make it to second base.
“That sounded bigger than a cat.”
“All right,” Kevin sighed. “Let’s go check it out.”
They turned on the lights leading upstairs. Kevin made his way up with Carmen hot on his heels, looking over her shoulder as he went up.
Kevin strutted from room to room, turning on lights and checking in closets and under beds. When he turned on the light to the Connors’ bedroom, Chase ran out of the door to Carmen’s feet.
“See,” Kevin said, unable to hide the frustration in his voice. “What did I tell you?”
Carmen bent down and picked up Chase, who purred as she scratched behind his ears.
“I know, I know, it’s because it’s Halloween.”
“It is? Thank God, I was worried everyone was going to figure out my secret tonight,” he said, looking down at his Teen Wolf costume.
“Well, your secret is safe with me,” Carmen said with a sly grin.
“Good, because then I wouldn’t have to eat you,” he said, walking toward her down the hall.
“My, what sharp teeth you have,” she said.
“The better to eat you with,” Kevin said, snarling into her neck.
They were making their way down the stairs, laughing, when they heard three hard pounds on the door.
They stood halfway down the stairs, staring at each other. Kevin brought a finger to his lips, telling Carmen to be quiet.
He padded to the front door. All Carmen could hear was her heartbeat in her ears. Kevin reached for the doorknob when they heard a knock on the window in the living room.
Carmen saw the tension release from Kevin’s shoulders. He turned and said, “It has to be Andy. I told him we were coming here, and he’s trying to freak us out. I’ll take care of him.”
He yanked the door open and looked on the front porch momentarily. He turned around with a smile and ran across the living room to the kitchen.
“I saw him run around back. I am going to get him for this one; come on.”
Carmen followed him to the kitchen, where he went to the back patio door and opened it.
“I know you’re out there, you idiot,” he said in a hushed voice. “You better not wake the neighbors and get us caught.”
He shut the door and walked to Carmen. “Sorry, babe. I should have known he’d pull some stuff like this. Let’s get a drink.”
Kevin walked across the living room, closed the front door, and went down to the basement to get drinks.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Carmen said. “We are leaving if anything else even remotely creepy happens.”
Carmen entered the main floor powder room and shut the door when her phone buzzed. She received a text from her best friend, Jenna.
Jenna: Are you coming or not?
Carmen: Don’t think so. Is it fun?
Jenna: It would be better if you were here! But I understand you need to spend quality time with the love of your life. You should watch this tho.
A video popped up in the messaging app, and Carmen hit play.
She immediately turned the volume down as the sound of high school seniors laughing and yelling nearly blew out her eardrums. She saw familiar faces illuminated with the orange glow of a bonfire. Her friend Kim came into the shot, tripped over a cooler, and fell into a heap of laughter when she said something that sent a shiver down Carmen’s spine.
“Andy has a flat tire,” Kim said, gasping through laughter. “And he doesn’t know how to change a tire.”
She looked in the mirror, and it occurred to her that she had never seen what she looked like when terrified.
“Kevin,” she said, opening the bathroom door, “Are you sure it was Andy? I just got a text from Jenna and…”
She stopped as she looked at Kevin. His blue eyes still dazzled her, like they did when he walked into the classroom on the first day of sixth grade, even next to the pool of blood.
Blood. So much blood.
Kevin lay on the floor, eyes open, as an impossible amount of blood darkened the floor around him. Carmen stared as the pool of blood grew on the floor, and then a shadow emerged, making the blood look like a pool of ink.
Carmen looked to the kitchen doorway to see someone standing motionless. The light from the kitchen behind the person made it impossible to make out any features.
She shook her head in an attempt to clear her vision. They stood there still, motionless, over Kevin’s lifeless body. It looked like they were wearing a hood, or was it a mask?
She tried to scream, but there was no air in her lungs.
Wake up, she thought, you have to get out of here. Run to the front door now. Run. RUN!
She looked in the direction of the front door, still frozen with fear, then looked back at the attacker, who slowly shook their head.
Now or never.
She made a break for the front door, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.
The door was locked. She grabbed the deadbolt to unlock the door, and as she did, a hand grabbed the back of her hair and slammed her face into the door.
Carmen heard the crunch of her nose breaking before she plunged into darkness.
A LETTER TO THE READER
Dear Reader,
While I find it impolite not to introduce myself properly, I cannot do so now. I do hope you will forgive me for this, as I know by the time this letter ends you will desperately want to know my name.
Your narrator decided to spair you the details of what I did to Carmen and Kevin. If I were telling you this story, I would not spare you from these details.
No. I respect you too much to treat you like a child who is too innocent to hear such things.
I was nervous tonight. I’ve never done this before, so you’ll have to pardon me the night felt a bit trite. I was doing my best to recreate a mosaic of all the horror movies I have seen. I watched those two kids sneaking into a house that didn’t belong to them on Halloween night. I would have liked to be more prolific, more origiinal but alas here we are.
It’s true what they say though, there are no failures in life, only lessons to be learned. And I learned a lot.
I wanted to take more time with them. I wanted to have more of a conversation. Get to know them, well, get to know them a little better. I got too… let’s say excited.
I saw the way they looked at each other on that couch and I have to say, I believe Kevin really loves, err, loved Carmen. She loved him, she really loved him. She loved him so much more than anything in her life.
She told me.
Do you want someone to tell you the truth?
Put a knife to their throat.
If I wouldn’t have been pressed for time, I would have gotten her full, unabridged, honest life story. She begged to tell me anything to save her life. I got the information I needed but eventually it gets to be a bit annoying. I love my mom, I want to live, Please, I’ll do anything – blah, blah, blah.
I didn’t intend on writing you this letter. My plan was to disappear like a ghost or a boogieman for you to think about the next time you’re home alone and here a noise in another part of your house. I wanted you to wonder if the next knock on your door was coming from me or someone who cared about your life.
We never know when we are going to find out pashion though, do ew?
I have a taste for this now and I want to see if anyone can catch me or if my thirst for blood is insatiable enough to keep me hidden in plain sight while I wait for my next opportunity. And the next. And the next.
I wonder if you will piece it together first or if someone in this town will beat you to the punch. I am not so disillusioned to believe I will not get caught, rather that is the point.
The real question is how many innocent people, i.e. Kevin and Carmen, will wind up having there final conversation with me? What secrets will they tell? How much will they beg?
I hope to meet you in person someday. I now know it will be far more fun to talk to you then it is to watch you through your window.
This is the last week of our countdown through our 25 years together! Will 2023 have what it takes to swoop in at the final minute and steal victory? Tim and Jenni discuss Tim’s 40th birthday party and how Hot To Go by Chappell Roan feels like it has existed forever. They discuss Taylor Swift, the Eras tour, and Rhianna’s Super Bowl performance. Then they dive into their movie games with the box office winners and best picture nominees. For Tim and Jenni, 2023 was a year of travel – Palm Springs, Chicago, Chattanooga, Cabo San Lucas, and Bozeman. Jenni became a soccer mom, and the Severson family started a new tradition of Christmas caroling, but will it be enough to hold the top spot?
Good, but not great; decent, but not bad. If my life were a train ride, I’d say I’ve spent forty years rumbling along the tracks, unsure of where I’m headed but always moving forward. My journey has been filled with missed stops, unexpected detours, and many freight cars packed with regrets trailing behind me.
As a tween and teenager, I found myself at Spencer’s Gifts in every mall that had one, always eager for an escape from that train ride. Spencer’s was the store equivalent of jumping off the tracks and sneaking into an R-rated movie before you were of legal age. They were famous for their posters, graphic T-shirts, blacklight-themed decor, and cashiers who sported their best Goth look while being irritated with every customer’s audacity to breathe the same oxygen.
Old habits die hard, of course, so this past spring, when I came across a Spencer’s, I had no choice but to check out how the store has evolved since the late twentieth century.
One of the first graphic tees I saw hanging on the wall was bright red with white lettering, which read: “Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum.” It may be the best shirt I’ve seen in my forty years.
I was there to find a specific section I remember from my teenage years, so I browsed the store while “Believe” by Disturbed played over the speakers. I paused momentarily to confirm that my jeans hadn’t turned into the baggy, carpenter jeans designed by Tommy Hilfiger I wore in the late nineties.
As I wandered through Spencer’s, it felt like I had stopped the train for a moment, stepping back into a time when I was blissfully unaware of how fast that train would start picking up speed. I came across the posters, which, to my pleasant surprise, have yet to be updated since the early 2000s. There were posters of the Playboy logo, Scarface, Pulp Fiction, 2Pac, Sublime, The Smashing Pumpkins, and the timeless Pink Floyd “Back Catalogue.”
The blacklight section is still adorned with blacklight mushroom candles and sculptures positioned directly next to the lava lamps.
As I continued searching for the section I was looking for, I came to the store’s back wall, and I froze as I took it all in, mouth and eyes both open wide.
“Do you want me to get something down for you?”
“What? No. No. No, thank you. Just lookin’,” I said to the twenty-year-old sales associate as she glared at me with a look aimed at informing me I had indeed been breathing too much of her oxygen.
The back wall of Spencer’s was adorned with hundreds of sex toys ranging in sizes from beginner to, err, expert(?).
I turned my back to the wall of sex and was faced with the novelty bachelor/bachelorette party gifts. While turning to stare at gummies and straws in the shape of penises wasn’t the exact escape I was looking for, it was an improvement from having a twenty-year-old offer to get a giant dildo down from the top row of the sex wall.
I found the remnants of the section I was looking for next to the “Pin the Junk on the Hunk” poster game.
There was a tiara with “Birthday Bitch” on it, a shot glass with the words “Birthday Bitch” printed on it, and a glitter-colored wine glass that read “Birthday Bitch.”
In high school, the birthday section was stocked with “over-the-hill” gag gifts full of sophomoric humor. I remember seeing a cane with a horn attached to the handle and emergency adult diapers packaged behind a thin piece of plastic with “In Case Of Emergency, Break Glass.” These products were not as sophisticated as adding “Birthday Bitch” to drinkware, but they can’t all be winners.
As I laughed at jokes built from the lowest common denominator with my friends, I would also imagine my life when I turned forty.
Where will I be living? Will I have any of the same friends? Will I have children? What will my hair look like? These are the thoughts that would run through my mind as I rode along the train tracks of youth, oblivious to the steep hills and sharp turns ahead.
I would never have a specific goal in mind because my perception of life has been that I am on a train driven by an unknown conductor headed to an unknown destination. If I am kind, polite, and well-behaved, the conductor will give me a little extra time at stops along the way and, at minimum, will keep the bar cart sufficiently stocked.
Regrets? They fill the freight cars added to the end of my train, trailing behind as I ride the iron rails of this journey through life. Those cars are heavy and without brakes. They make the climb up hills taxing and the trips down perilous. The heaviest car among them is filled with the realization that I could’ve taken the highway.
When the tracks run parallel, I often find myself in my observation car, face pressed to the glass in awe at the freedom people in their vehicles have to stop at roadside attractions or take an exit they hadn’t planned.
If only someone would have written a song in the early nineties informing me that life is, in fact, a highway.
As I imagined my forty-year-old self in a dimly lit store reading gag birthday cards about impotence, I felt desperation for the confidence and knowledge that comes with being that old. I longed for a “boring” life as an adult filled with more certainty than uncertainty.
I wish so desperately that I was writing to inform you that I have finally made it. I would tell you this piece was written from a place of certainty and peace about the man I have become. I’d say to you that those silly self-conscious thoughts were due to the hormones racing through my body, and I am comfortable with myself.
I might make fun of myself for caring so deeply about what people thought of me, both in appearance and as a person. Or, I’d write out prolific life lessons I’ve gotten along the way that would provide you with an unexpected “aha” moment, leading to the last change you needed to round out your already wonderful life.
Instead, while my body has not escaped the effects of the passage of time, my brain hasn’t aged a day.
I know this because I am desperate for your approval, literally. All I want to do right now is give up and leave the words I have written saved in a document as “Untitled 11.” As a forty-year-old, I live my life desperate for a like or share on social media or even a minor compliment as a clue I haven’t completely fucked up my entire life by believing I could make a career from writing.
When those feelings bubble up, my train can become a lonely place. The dark outside makes it difficult to believe I am heading in the right direction. My instincts tell me to pull the emergency brake and get off before the entire thing derails.
Every time I reach for the brake, I am stopped.
The one thing my teenage self was sure of was that my train ride would be much more fun if I had someone on board with me.
Her name is Jenni, and I asked her aboard at 8:05 AM on October 8, 1999.
I couldn’t believe she got on then, and every day, I am equally astonished that she is still here. Because, of course, she doesn’t belong here. She should be on the highway or up in the air on one of those jets I see soaring in all directions.
Yet, no matter how many times I have pointed out these superior options to her over the past twenty-five years, she tells me she loves our train.
She stokes the burners when those cars full of regret start to slow us down. When we sit beside each other in the observation car, she points out the beautiful scenery past the highway. And when we head to the bar car, she makes the people on the road wish they were on our train.
Regardless of how many cars full of regret I have acquired over the years, I would still walk back down the mountains and valleys, through storms and sunshine, and across the two-and-a-half decades to find my fifteen-year-old self and hug him.
I’d hug him because having the courage to ask Jenni aboard this train feels like the most crucial decision of my life.
Over the past twenty-five years, she has brought me our two wonderful children, millions of smiles and laughs, and got me through some of the darkest times of my life.
I apologize if you came here looking for the answers about being an adult I was starving to find inside Spencer’s gifts all those years ago. I wish I had a manual or even the hubris to pretend I have the wisdom to write one, but I don’t.
All I’ve got is this:
However, you choose to travel through this life, whether by plane, train, or automobile, don’t do it alone.
Do it with someone who laughs with you. Do it with someone who cries with you. Do it with the person who knows moving forward is just as important, if not more so, than moving in the exact right direction.
My beard has white hair now, I think hard before doing any physical activity, and I have started to squint while trying to read a menu in a dimly lit restaurant.
But when I look into Jenni’s eyes and she smiles at me, I am a fifteen-year-old again whispering, “Will you go out with me?” into her ear.
Twenty-five years later, if I shut my eyes and listen hard, I can still hear the echo of her whispering, “Yes.”
New trains with faster engines and modern accommodations leave the station every day. It’s easy to watch them zip by and think the trip would be better on a new train.
However, if I do have a bit of wisdom from these forty years, it’s that each time I have taken an opportunity to tour these trains to see what I’m missing, I walk away muttering a phrase only an old guy would coin:
“They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
So, if you need us, we’ll be in the bar car dancing to and singing our favorite songs. We won’t know where we’re headed, but everyone is welcome, and Jenni will make sure it’s the ride of your life.
There are the nights you anticipate, knowing it will be unforgettable. Then, there are the nights that surpass your expectations. On the latter of those nights, the gravity of the experience steals your breath as you realize you are living one of those nights.
In that moment of realization, time slows down. Everything sharpens: the features on the faces around you are more vivid, and their chatter and laughter are more melodic.
Since 2018, I have observed a marked shift in Jenni’s attitude and drive. I might have attributed this growth to the wisdom and experience that come along with years of hard work, but after attending the WaveMaker Awards, I realized there was more to it.
I nominated Jenni for the Community Impact Award, given to women who make giving back to the community and/or youth a top priority in ways that promote the development of others, either through their work or through volunteer efforts. I nominated her because it is astonishing how much of her time Jenni dedicates to various organizations while caring for our family.
When I opened my email on July 12th and saw Jenni had won, my reaction was more relief than shock.
Whenever I tell her, “You are absolutely stunning,” or, “You are so talented,” her response is always the same.
“You have to say that because you love me.”
My desperation for acknowledgment of her hard work had been growing as I watched her excel professionally, complete her Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Minnesota, serve on multiple boards, all while dazzling everyone she meets.
In other words, it was about damn time.
Having never attended a TeamWomen event before the awards ceremony, I didn’t know what to expect. All I knew was that Jenni would receive an award and have a minute on the stage to dazzle the crowd with her charm and intelligence – and I couldn’t wait.
As we entered the elegant ballroom adorned with ornate furniture and gorgeous chandeliers, the buzz of the attendees was palpable. Everyone I spoke with was kind and inviting.
We sat down for the ceremony honoring twenty-two women who would be awarded awards across various categories throughout the evening. Each was given a minute to answer a pre-selected question on stage.
Throughout the ceremony, I was in awe of the women who walked across the stage. Each came from vastly different backgrounds and shared unique stories, yet they were all impressive. Entrepreneurs, C-Suite Executives, volunteers, and even a high school senior all shared valuable insights about their journeys. However, it wasn’t their accomplishments that made them impressive; instead, it is the thing every honoree had in common: their spirit and drive.
At some point, all of these incredible women have been given the message (directly or indirectly) that they didn’t belong because they were women.
And yet, they persisted.
My heart swelled as I sat with our 5-year-old daughter, listening to the empowering stories of women who got what they wanted because they didn’t quit and found a supportive community to give them the help they needed when they needed it most.
“Two more women, then it’s Mommy’s turn,” she whispered to me as she followed along with the ceremony program in her hand.
She beamed at me when her mother graced the stage in her elegant floral patterned dress, looking the part of an award winner. The emcee asked her the pre-selected question…
And Jenni absolutely killed it.
It would be easy to assume she always accepts awards if you didn’t know her. She spoke with poise and drew everyone in. She told a joke that not only got laughs but got an applause break as well. Tears welled in my eyes as she spoke.
Fortunately for my ego, they started to play her off as she began to mention me.
Now, if she had been talking about anything else, I would have gone to the sound booth and clarified to the person running the controls that my wife would get as much time on stage as she needed.
However, it felt merciful when the music started, just as she began to mention me. There is only so much public crying a guy can make it through, you know?
It’s something special to watch someone in their element. It’s even more remarkable when that person is your spouse.
Watching Jenni work a networking room is like watching a prolific artist paint. Her tools become extensions of herself, and every interaction seems effortless.
On these nights, I watch her from across the room. No matter the distance, I see the sparkle in her eye, hear the pitch of her laughter amid the crowd, and fall in love all over again as she makes others fall in love with her.
Thank you, TeamWomen, for providing a place for Jenni to thrive. Thank you for offering a place for our daughter to see that all options are on the table for her in this life. Whether she wants to open and run a brewery, become a professional wakeboarder, lead a company as CEO, or anything in between, she’ll grow up knowing that she can and doesn’t need to do it alone.
Thank you, Clementine, for being your mother’s daughter. As a Kindergartener, you recognized the importance of the night and never wavered in your decision to attend an event with a bunch of boring adults. As I’ve written recently, I love you for that and a million other reasons.
Jenni and Clementine watching the TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards
Thank you, Jenni, for attacking every day, taking risks, and giving our daughter a front-row seat to learn from the best.
Maybe Jenni is right; maybe I have to say these things because I love her.
