This week on The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni discuss their daughter starting kindergarten and how Tim sobbed as he packed her lunch before they launch into this week’s topic: 2018. They discuss some of the year’s most significant pop culture moments, what won the box office, and the Best Picture nominees briefly since they haven’t seen any of the movies. They discuss their obsession with Maroon 5’s “Girls Like You” and “Shallow” from A Star Is Born. In 2018, the couple faced various challenges, including a medical emergency, difficulties with prescription medication, and a stressful eye surgery. They also appeared in a campaign ad for Senator Tina Smith and took trips to parks and football games. They moved to a new house, sold their old one, and prepared for the arrival of their second child. It turns out that moving while pregnant makes people busy. Despite the busyness and stress, they found joy in moments like the gender reveal and the Gophers winning the Axe. Overall, 2018 was a year of growth and change for the couple.
“Daddy, this is so much fun,” my daughter, Clementine, said, breathing heavily as we climbed the 49 steps to the top of the water slide.
Yes. I counted them. Mind your business.
Midway through the summer, my wife, Jenni, and I discussed keeping the kids home from daycare before school started.
The prospect of saving money by not having them in daycare was more than enough to get me interested.
If you don’t have kids or don’t live in, well, the United States of America, you may be wondering, what does it cost each week to have a five—and eight-year-old attend daycare in the summer?
$484.19.
I know that number by heart, and writing it still takes my breath away.
Jenni’s primary concern, however, had little to do with our money.
“I just think it’s a great opportunity for you to spend time with the kids since you might not have free time like this again.”
I guess staring at a blank screen, hoping for inspiration to strike, counts as free time these days…
We decided to give the kids some extra fun in the last week of summer before school.
Cha-ching.
“It’s a good opportunity to adjust our bedtime so we are in a better routine when school actually starts,” I suggested to my wife one evening while feeling incredibly confident about my parenting ability.
Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.
On the recommendation of my eight-year-old son, Jude, I decided we would go to Summerland Family Fun Park. He had been there on a summer field trip, and he assured me Clementine would love it. The park has a waterslide, go-karts, mini-golf, and bumper boats, all run by teenagers who, for the most part, seemed unconcerned with park rules.
You’ve seen it before. It’s the place where you say, “Maybe next time,” to your kids when you drive by it on the highway.
A quick Google search showed me that admission to the park was $7.50, so I figured it’d be perfect for the hottest day in August.
Once inside, it was clear the admission fee was a bait-and-switch – everything was a la carte.
I stood looking at the prices for all the activities, attempting to do the quick math, when my wife’s voice popped into my head like a guardian angel.
“You’re not in a rush,” her angelic voice rang in my head.
I must’ve blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was tapping my credit card to pay $148.89. Not bad for three hours of fun, right? Right?! But it’s not just the price. Every tap of the card feels like a trade-off, a decision about where to invest these fleeting moments. Before they’re too old to want to go on water slides with me, time with my kids makes a hundred and fifty bucks feel insignificant.
We walked into the park, $335.30 in the black, and found a table for our things.
Whenever I take my kids to fun places alone, I can’t shake the feeling people think I’m a divorced Dad.Sonaturally, I am forced to overcompensate.
“Mommy is going to be so proud of me when we get home to her,” I said in a raised voice to my kids as I slathered them with sunscreen.
It’s funny how our insecurities come out to play sometimes.
Putting sunscreen on kids at the bottom of a waterslide is like trying to keep two cats in a bathtub. I wanted to ensure I was with Clementine before she got near the water since she is a new swimmer and because, well, she’s my baby girl who needs me by her side.
“Do you want to go down together for the first time?” I asked her as we climbed the steps to the top of the slide.
“No, thanks,” she said, running ahead of me up the stairs, utterly sure of herself.
Since Jude was first in line, I told him to wait for Clementine at the bottom to ensure she got to the pool’s stairs okay.
When the lifeguard gave her the all-clear, Clementine looked at me. She wasn’t asking for permission – just checking on me.
“All good?” I asked with a smile.
She gave me her trademark thumbs-up and wink before launching herself down the waterslide. My heart swelled with pride at her bravery.
I waited at the top, watching her shoot out of the bottom. Of course, she made it to the stairs like she’d done it a thousand times before.
I stepped up and went down the slide to catch up with her.
If you haven’t been on a waterslide lately, do it. I promise you can’t make it down without smiling or feeling that burst of joy in your chest.
As I came around the final corner of the water slide, my adorable baby girl sat in the water on the pool steps, waiting for me. Her face lit up with a smile from ear to ear, and a faint pang of recognition hit me square in the chest.
My daughter looked familiar, but not just because she carries half of my DNA. It was different, like when a stranger’s face catches your eye at a crowded event, and for a second, they seem like someone you know. However, after you let your gaze hold for a moment, the recognition slips through your fingertips like trying to remember a dream.
We went down that slide a hundred more times, and every trip up the stairs, she couldn’t stop talking about the fun:
“Daddy, this is so much fun.”
“This is the best waterslide ever.”
“You’re the best Daddy.”
“This is the best waterslide ever.”
“I love going down the waterslide with you.”
“Who built this waterslide? Because they did a really good job.”
With every burst of joy she shared, I felt that familiar pang in my chest again, like something I was on the verge of understanding. I shook it off as an odd case of Deja Vu.
As we left the park, hot and exhausted, I silently thanked Jenni. She was right. Those three hours at the park riding waterslides, playing mini golf, and riding go-karts were reason enough to keep them home for the week.
A few days later, walking from our tailgate at the first Minnesota Gophers football game of the season, soaked from the rain, I snapped some candid shots of Clementine, expecting her usual cute smile in her Gopher cheerleader outfit.
Instead, I got a runway model attitude and strut, which made her look ten years older.
There’s that pang again, I thought as I snapped pictures.
When the photoshoot concluded, I looked at the pictures, hoping for a clue as to what had brought that odd feeling of familiarity, but I came up with nothing.
On her first day of Kindergarten, her joy was infectious. It reminded me of how I used to feel on the first day of school – that Christmas morning vibe full of unknowns and endless possibilities.
From the moment she came downstairs in her orange-patterned dress (Get it? Because her name is Clementine), the pang in my chest lingered until we watched her walk into school.
If reincarnation were my thing, I’d swear that pang meant I knew her in another life.
Of course, I spent my morning crying as I worried about her being lonely, or homesick, or scared, or nervous, or, or, or…
When she got off the bus, I realized all my tears and worries were for nothing. The pang in my chest returned as she smiled and waved, but this time, it felt more real. Less like a fleeting dream, more like a name you can’t quite get off the tip of your tongue.
On her second day of Kindergarten, we were a little more rushed to get out in time for the bus.
Jenni and I followed our children, backpacks bouncing on their shoulders, out into the cool September morning air to wait for the bus.
We expected the kids to stop and wait with us on the step, just like the first day. The third grader, Jude, didn’t want to do that, so he gestured for his little sister to follow him to the bus stop. He didn’t do it impatiently; he did it with the calm confidence of the stellar big brother he’s been for the past five and a half years.
Tears start to sting my eyes.
Clementine didn’t think twice. She walked right past as I said, “Alright, have a great second day of Kindergarten, baby girl.”
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Jenni said, looking at me with mock anguish.
And just like that, I understood the pang – like solving a riddle, it suddenly seemed so obvious. The feeling of familiarity was no longer a mystery.
The source of that familiarity stood right next to me as we watched our kids walk to the bus stop.
My daughter’s smile, enthusiasm, confidence, and bravery are the same things I fell in love with when I was fifteen.
Tears fell as I saw Jenni’s reflection in our daughter. But unlike her first day, only a few tears fell this time, I knew there was nothing to worry about. She got the good stuff from my wife—the magic.
The magic of a little girl who knows there are no limits to what she can do – not because she’s told, but because her mother shows her how to be undeniable.
Her answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” says it all.
“A firefighter, construction worker, dancer, swimmer, and fashion model.”
She’ll be busy, but I have no doubt she’ll do it all.
You shouldn’t either.
Cheers.
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Tim and Jenni continue the countdown to their 25th anniversary this week by discussing 2017. They review their most recent stay-cation filled with multiple trips to the Minnesota State Fair, Ludacris & TPain concert, and a trip to an AirBnB. They then travel back to 2017, talking about some of the most memorable pop culture events, such as Beyonce’s memorable(?) Instagram pregnancy announcement, the Fyre Festival debacle, and Bhad Bhabie asking the audience to “catch her outside.” From there, they play their movie games: guessing what won the box office and reviewing the winners and nominees for Best Picture at the Oscars. From there, they discuss what happened in their lives in 2017 as they adjusted to life with a toddler. Join Tim and Jenni on The Kids Are In Bed this week for nostalgia and laughs.
We have a baby! Please read about my First Moments As A Father to learn more about the nurse story featured in the podcast!
This week, on The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni discuss finding Jenny’s lost wedding ring, their outdated technology, and 2016. They reminisce about pop culture moments like the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie split, the mannequin challenge, and the Oscars mix-up. They also talk about the top movies of 2016 and share their personal favorites. In 2016, the couple experienced the joys and challenges of becoming parents. They took trips, including a murder mystery bed and breakfast and a visit to Washington, DC. They also had a difficult experience with a nurse after their son’s birth. Despite the sleep deprivation and adjustments, they found joy in their son’s personality and milestones. Overall, 2016 was a year of growth, love, and adventure.
In this episode of The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni discuss their weekend activities, including filming golf and selling a rocking horse. They also talk about tie-dyeing shirts and their daughter’s upcoming start of kindergarten. They then travel back to 2014 and discuss various events, movies, and songs from that year. In 2014, the hosts went on multiple trips, including to Breckenridge, Texas, Austin, Winnipeg, and New York. They reminisce about their adventures, including singing songs in the car, putting bread in the microwave, and playing a game to see who could accurately count to a minute. They also discuss hosting dinner parties, attending a bachelorette party in Chicago, and the host’s encounter with a bird. Overall, 2014 was a year filled with fun and memorable experiences.
This week, Tim and Jenni discuss their recent date night, the movies they watched, and rank the year 2011. They also talk about the top movies and Oscar winners of that year. In this conversation, they reminisce about various events and experiences from 2011. They discuss attending a conference, winning VIP passes to a Rihanna concert where they also saw CeeLo Green, road trips, weddings, Halloween parties, and more. The conversation is filled with funny anecdotes and memories. The hosts also mention the lack of pictures from that year, indicating that 2011 was quick and eventful. They end the conversation by encouraging listeners to watch Twisters and Twister movies and try the date idea of dinner and a movie.
“Am I?” I ask, running my hand along my forearm, “I guess I am.”
Before we move on, it’s essential to disclose that I’m not too fond of the wind. In fact, I despise it. I am not a sailor or kite enthusiast. I only find the wind beneficial when it cools me down on a hot day, unless I’m on the golf course.
While returning from a walk on a windy day late this spring, I noticed a small section of shingles that appeared to be missing near the highest peak of my roof. I snapped a picture with my phone and decided since I knew nothing about roofs, I would look for someone who did.
My ability to ignore problems that I presume to be expensive is near a super-human level.
That’s going to be expensive. Let’s ignore it, I thought when I felt my molar crack after biting into a boneless wing at Buffalo Wild Wings in my late twenties. Of course, my tooth had been sore for a while before it broke. An average person would have gone to a dentist as soon as possible. I pride myself on being below average, so I lived with aching pain on the left side of my face for at least a year.
I discovered I could chew on one side of my mouth, and Ibuprofen would help me through most of it. What makes me so impressive is my ability to fight through the times when the pain consumed almost the entire left side of my face and still find a way to ignore the fact the problem would be solved by making an appointment. The bright side? Root canals aren’t bad when you have been in agony for months, aside from the Endodontist remarking at how sore the tooth must’ve been multiple times throughout the procedure.
I knew. Jesus, I knew.
As days turned to weeks, my house felt like a sore tooth every time it rained. I would wince at the sight of dark clouds, knowing I had a potential problem above my head.
The last week of June, the doorbell rang in the middle of the day. I answered, ignoring my desire to fall into my regular hiding routine when someone comes to my door. I worry, occasionally, that saying, “Don’t open the door,” as though the cartel or a bookie to whom I owe money is standing on the other side of the door hoping to get in, will give my children a complex.
I guess I will find out in about twenty years or so.
I answered the door with the swagger of a man with nothing to hide, and a young man in his early twenties stood on my front step. He launched into his pitch when I opened the door, offering me a free roof inspection for hail damage.
“I don’t know about hail damage, but I want to show a spot I know needs attention,” I said as he followed me into my front lawn to get a better vantage point to look at the section of roof I had seen in the spring.
“I actually don’t know a lot about what happens next, but if you would like us to do an inspection, my boss will come over and take a look. He can answer your questions.”
When the boss man came to my door, he told me we had hail in August 2023. I informed him about the spot on my roof I was concerned about, but he made it clear his mission was to get on my roof and find hail damage. I left him to look around on my roof.
He finished his inspection in fifteen minutes and informed me he had found hail damage. He started scrolling through pictures of my roof on his phone; at least, that’s what he said. It could have been a picture of any roof. That is not to say I thought he was tricking me, but more to demonstrate that my knowledge of shingles is limited to the disgusting virus that showed up on my arm a couple of years ago.
The salesman also showed me a crack in my siding, which I immediately called out was caused by my eight-year-old and not Mother Nature. My honesty was not the correct answer, as he explained that it had the characteristics of hail damage.
He quickly explained the order of events, and I signed a few documents on an iPad.
No, I didn’t read the agreements I was signing. Yes, he told me what the agreements said. No, I wasn’t listening. No, I didn’t ask any questions. Yes, I’m aware I should have gotten clarification on what I was agreeing to.
My brain shut off when I recognized that getting a brand new roof due to hail damage is a big game I am forced to play because I own a house.
He quickly had a representative from my home insurance company on speaker phone and began filing a claim. By the time he left, I had convinced myself all of this was great news since he seemed confident my insurance company would agree that I needed a new roof and new siding, all for the low price of my $1,000 insurance deductible.
The following morning, I found myself in a terrific mood, trying to slow the pace of our Wednesday morning by snuggling with my daughter on the couch before taking her to daycare. Then, I got a text message from my insurance company, which gave me a brief policy outline and informed me about the cost of my deductible.
Immediately, my mood improved as I patted myself on the back for remembering the cost of my deductible despite not thinking about home insurance since we bought our house six years ago. I read on to discover there was a little more to the story.
This is when the heat in my chest began to build, and every inch of my skin started to sweat, prompting my daughters question. It turns out my deductible for wind and hail damage is $11,820.
The extra twenty dollars feels a little excessive, doesn’t it?
I understand the reaction to that dollar amount will vary. I am aware that relative to the cost of a new roof and siding, it is a drop in the bucket. However, it feels substantial when you are an unemployed writer with an exceptionally small following.
After I got my kids to school, I occupied the rest of my time conjuring up the different scenarios and paths I would lead my family down to financial ruin because I quit my job.
It’s odd to be acutely aware when my mind spirals out of control. I have a voice in my head shouting rationalizations. Unfortunately, that voice exists in the way back of the vehicle, driving off a cliff into a pit of despair.
A week later, I had an appointment with a roofing company representative and an adjuster from my insurance company. The plan was for the two of them to climb up on my roof and determine my fate as I curled up in the fetal position in my shower, fully clothed. However, due to the kind of communication you would expect from an insurance company, the adjuster never showed up.
The gentleman from the roofing company got up to take a look for himself and promised to specifically examine the section of my roof that had started this mess. When he finished, he told me it looked like the section of roof I noticed had been previously repaired, but a shingle was missing up there. He then informed me, with confidence, that there was hail damage on the roof, and it would more than likely need to be replaced. The humid, eighty-five-degree weather allowed the sweat forming all over my body to go unnoticed. Or, at least, unquestioned.
I spent the next forty-eight hours trying to decide what soul-sucking job I should find to eat up the next twenty-five to thirty years of my life while I awaited the rescheduled appointment with the adjuster.
A statistic about worry has popped up in multiple memes, videos, and posts on the internet. Cornell University did a study on worry and found 85% of what the subjects studied worried about never happened. With the 15% that did happen, subjects discovered they could handle it better than expected. I have yet to find the data on this study, but when I first read this statistic, I thought: I’m worried those people don’t know how to worry properly.
Of course, we don’t need to find this study to know it is true. Even the most unseasoned of worriers know that most of the time, the real bad stuff in life is not the things that consume our thoughts. Instead, the bad stuff barges in unannounced, like the Kool-Aid Man.
Knowing this doesn’t stop me.
When the insurance adjuster and the roofer showed up for the rescheduled appointment, I braced myself as I listened to their footsteps on the roof like a couple of reverse Santa Clause’s searching for a way to take eleven thousand dollars up the chimney. I distracted myself from that by wondering what my deductible would be if they took a wrong step and fell off my roof.
The moment of truth came with a tap-tappity-tap-tap on my front door from the insurance adjuster.
After greeting me with one of the limpest handshakes I have ever been a part of, he began to give me his assessment of the damage. I braced for what I deemed to be the inevitable.
“Well, I got up there and took a look around. I have to say your roof is in great shape. There are some small impressions from hail…” I stopped listening as relief swept through my body, and I eyed the roofer. I expected to see an eye roll or a slight shake of the head as he listened to an assessment directly contradicting the reports I had gotten on the status of my roof. To my surprise, he stood resolute with a poker face that could inspire Lady Gaga to write a hit single.
I decided to check back into the assessment. The insurance adjuster continued, “… you are missing a shingle, so you should get that repaired. Otherwise, your roof is in great shape.”
I positioned my hand for a fist bump to avoid another wet noodle handshake. The fist bump was only a fraction less awkward.
As the adjuster made his way to his truck, the roofer started in with his final assessment, “Yeah… So… Like he said, you’re roof is in good shape, and you just need to repair that shingle.”
We had a brief discussion as I had questions, shockingly, about the cost of repairing a single shingle on a roof. He made it sound like they would send somebody out to fix it with little trouble.
I decided to ask him what he thought about my wind and hail deductible, thinking that since he has these conversations often, he could let me know if my current deductible is higher than average.
I missed the answer to my question because he spun off on a fifteen-minute tangent about hurricane insurance and how expensive it is for people who live in hurricane regions. As a guy in Minnesota who will never move to a state in a hurricane zone, this information will surely come in handy.
As the roofer walked to his truck, I allowed myself a moment to enjoy the relief with the hot summer sun shining on my face. I imagine it’s what Andy Dufresne felt like his first morning on the beach in Zihuatanejo.
The following morning, my phone rang. It was another roofing company offering a free inspection. Another roofing company called in the afternoon. Over the next ten days, I would receive forty-two calls from people wanting to get on my roof to check for damage.
As I write this, my shingle is yet to be repaired. To make life more interesting, I have two weeks to find a new home insurance company as my current company is leaving the country.
You may ask yourself, how can he continue to put these things off, knowing they will only cause unnecessary and prolonged anxiety?
As the old saying goes, I am one shingle short of a complete roof. Literally.
I sit down for breakfast with most of my ten roommates at the Boston Market on University Avenue near the University of Minnesota campus. We leave the gray drizzle and get a table big enough to seat our group of college undergrads, all nursing hangovers.
No hangover cure works like a cheap, greasy breakfast—at least, not one I know of. A Greek yogurt parfait, half a grapefruit, and a green smoothie may also do the trick. Still, I prefer a breakfast skillet with questionable hollandaise dumped on the top, which pushes me toward the line of bowel incontinence.
Looking back through my mind’s eye, it’s hard to believe any of the guys seated at that table have become successful and fathers.
This was not a lazy breakfast. We had business that needed our attention.
The weekend before the final exams for the spring semester has been special on the U of M campus since 1942. However, it wasn’t until the early otts that the University began to book bands and reserve a place for them to perform. The names of the artists booked have historically been underwhelming, but I wouldn’t know, as parties are held all over campus to celebrate spring jam for the bargain price of five dollars per solo cup.
For my roommates and me, the coup de gras of parties was held in the parking lot behind the houses at what some people called “11th & Uni” (11th Street and University Avenue) while others called it “10th & 4th” (10th Avenue SE and SE 4th Street). Neither was better than the other as it got you to the same place. On Spring Jam weekend, that parking lot would host the keg race.
If you’re unfamiliar with a keg race, I’ll explain the rules, but first, what is drinking responsibly like?
The rules of a keg race are simple:
1. Assemble a team of seasoned binge drinkers.
2. Buy a keg and tap (*Note: The tap can be rented, but you should be aware you may forfeit a pretty hefty security deposit if you don’t return it to the liquor store in working order).
3. Drink until the keg is empty. If you are the first to complete this task, you are rewarded with nothing but pride(?).
Our business at breakfast was the keg race—specifically, how to win it. We had been talking through strategies over the week, but nothing had piqued our interest.
“What will really slow us down is having to piss all the time,” someone said.
“Well, there is no getting around the fact that drinking beer makes you have to pee,” another of my roommates countered.
Do you ever have an idea that is equal parts genius and stupidity? An idea whose mixture is such that voicing it is a no-lose proposition because you will either be lauded as a forward thinker or everyone thinks you are telling a hilarious joke?
“We could pee and drink simultaneously if we wore diapers,” I said.
Everyone looked at me, processing what I had just said. Then, the discussion started with an even split between pro and anti-diaper people, and that is how it remained until we realized we could turn it into a theme with nothing more than a handful of white t-shirts and a black permanent marker.
“The front could say, ‘Boxers or Briefs,’ and on the back, we could each have a letter of Depends.”
Bringing the shirts into the mix transformed the idea from strategy to costume. The group unanimously agreed we had found the plan that would win us the event. Some of our mathematically inclined roommates even calculated how much time it would save our team by remaining within pouring distance of the keg. Needless to say, the data strongly suggested we had uncovered something revolutionary. I remember thinking, this is what the Wright Brothers must have felt like when they designed their first successful glider.
The day of the keg race arrived with warm weather and clear skies. We put on our, er, uniforms and made our way to the battlefield. We placed our keg in the first open space and readied for battle. One of the benefits of a keg race is that the only requirement of the playing surface is to be level enough to allow the keg to stand upright.
As we walked between a couple of houses into the rear parking lot, it was clear the keg race would not be the sole event of the day. A wrestling ring stood lazily in the center of the parking lot. The ropes dangled like forgotten Christmas lights hanging from a deck in July.
Our plan was to drink beer slightly faster than a typical Saturday afternoon while relying on the time-saving secret weapons hugging our loins to save us the trouble of walking away in search of a bathroom. Other teams decided speed was the only solution, so they brought beer bongs to speed up consumption.
Race officials positioned a large packing barrel in the center of the racing teams. This barrel was specifically designed to catch and hold at least fifty gallons of vomit, and it was used. I witnessed people vomit and immediately chug another beer. Countless college students threw up the foamy cold beer that had only made it halfway down their esophagus.
So immature, I thought as I tipped my red solo cup upward, finishing my beer in my adult diaper.
Shortly into the race, it was time to test the strategy. The warmth of my urine saturated the absorbent core of the diaper, and I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t feel pleasant, like easing into a warm bath.
A short time later, a teammate approached me looking anxious, “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Use the diaper.”
“It’s what they’re made for. I’ve already used mine, and,” I paused waiting for the flow of urination, “I’m using it again right now as we speak, you’ll be fine.“
“Fine,” he paused momentarily, “I’m going.”
“See, it’s kind of nice isn..”
“Goddammit,” my teammate said, looking down at his shoes.
I followed his gaze downward as a small amount of pee trickled down his right leg.
“I didn’t think it was possible to use a diaper wrong,” I gasped with laughter.
The race went on, and, as in so many sports, speed killed. Our strategy had failed, and we were not victorious that day.
My Own Worst Enemy by Lit played as I allowed myself to take in the sights of the field of play while I stood in an adult diaper sagging from repeated use. To my left, another person was using the vomit barrel. Behind him, the backyard wrestling continued, with one wrestler bleeding from his forehead. Behind me, a girl sobbed about her boyfriend talking to another girl. A light breeze carried on the warm May air blew through the parking lot, reminding me that the urine in my diaper was now cold and uncomfortable.
I made my way to change out of my racing uniform when I came across another of my roommates. This was the roommate who was the physical manifestation of my worst impulses.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to change. My diaper is about to fall off,” I said.
“We should probably change into another one of these, right?” He asked, holding up the box of diapers with two more diapers left.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
We went inside the house to use the bathroom for the first time that day. The bathroom was on the second floor, and we waited in a short line until it was my roommate’s turn. He walked through the doorway and turned to me, “You’re not going to change me?”
“Change you?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you were going to change my diaper,” he said, looking at me as though I was his father breaking my promise to play catch in the backyard.
A smile formed on my face as I said, “Yeah, I’ll change your diaper.”
We entered the cramped bathroom. My roommate lay lazily on the floor, put his feet straight in the air, and said, “Change me.”
“You need to lift up your butt,” I instructed through laughter as I crouched down, attempting to pull the diaper over his hips and up off his legs. As the diaper went past his knees, the heavy inside of the diaper inverted. It must’ve weighed three pounds.
“How many times did you go?” I asked.
“Oh, I lost track, but you are definitely going to need to wipe me.”
“Wipe you?”
“Yeah, haven’t you ever changed a diaper before?”
As I leaned to grab the toilet paper roll sitting on the toilet tank, I heard a light knock on the door, followed by the click of the latch. I turned to look over my left shoulder as three girls opened the bathroom door, eyes wide and jaws hanging slack as they tried to understand what they were witnessing.
My roommate propped himself on his right elbow to glimpse the girls who had walked in and said, “We’ll be out in just a minute.”
The girls slammed the door quickly, and laughter erupted on the other side of the door.
The embarrassment was too great, and I needed to explain. I left the bathroom, but the girls who walked in were nowhere to be found. I never got a chance to explain what was going on. I think about those girls often and wonder what the scene looked like from their perspective.
My roommate left the bathroom after a moment. “Thanks for your help,” he said, adjusting his fresh diaper while handing me mine.
I went back into the bathroom, locking the door this time. I changed into my new diaper and left the bathroom. As I walked out, my roommate stood beside an open window overlooking the back parking lot. I saw the party, and the wrestling was still in full swing.
As I walked toward the stairs, my roommate said, “Should we go out there?”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“No,” he said, gesturing to the open window, “out there.”
The window opened out onto the roof without a screen. My roommate wanted to go on the roof. It’s tough to say how many beers I consumed at that point in the day, so it isn’t shocking that I made a responsible decision and said, “Yes.”
I’m unsure if it was because we went on the roof or just a song added to a long playlist, but it wasn’t long before we were doing the “Macarena” on the roof in our diapers.
I wore my diaper for the rest of that day, though I didn’t use it until the night’s end.
Many people will roll their eyes at this behavior, which they find immature and reckless. I will not argue that point. I am well aware of the dangers of binge drinking and climbing out onto roofs. I understand that wearing a diaper for the sole purpose of drinking more beer is concerning behavior.
However, that day played out like a scene from a stereotypical college movie. It is a scene you would see and think there is no way that would happen at a real college, but it did.
People ask, “Wouldn’t you be concerned if this was one of your children’s stories?”
Last night, as I watched the Minnesota Timberwolves clinch victory and advance to the Western Conference Finals, I was reminded of the breathtaking essence of sports. It was a moment of pure poetry, exactly two decades since the Timberwolves last won the seventh game of a playoff series. Games like these remind us why we love sports—the drama, the passion, the sheer unpredictability.
Critics often argue that professional athletes are overpaid and lazy. But in the final game of a playoff series, none of that matters. Contracts and bonuses fade into the background. Game seven is when these athletes show us why they’re worth every penny. Their talent, skill, and teamwork are on full display, and it’s impossible not to be in awe.
Watching those players on the court last night, I was struck by the realization that they were living their dream—playing in a game seven of the NBA playoffs. It’s a dream shared by countless kids who’ve spent hours shooting hoops in their driveways or local parks. I couldn’t help but wonder: What does it feel like to step onto that floor? How do they handle the deafening roar of the arena? What must their families be feeling as they watch?
As I watched the second half with my wife, Jenni—a rare occurrence—I wasn’t thinking about the players’ political beliefs. The focus was on the game, the thrill of the competition.
This brings me to Harrison Butker. The attention this small-minded, football-kicking man is receiving is infuriating, but not for the reasons you might think. I disagree with Mr. Butker. His face alone suggests he’s a misogynistic, homophobic, antisemitic, small-minded individual. But despite my disdain, he has the right to hold and share his beliefs. It would be hypocritical to criticize his freedom of speech while exercising my own.
Athletes and celebrities often believe they are more important than they are, a belief we perpetuate by listening to their opinions on matters outside their expertise. A week ago, most people wouldn’t have known who Harrison Butker was. Now, he’s likely getting calls from political groups because he’s proven to be polarizing and divisive.
Before letting outrage consume us, we should ask ourselves: Do we really care what a football player with the handle @buttkicker7 thinks about anything? We shouldn’t.
When I watched Top Gun: Maverick, I did not think about how Tom Cruise believes he is an immortal alien being with amnesia trapped on Earth (See: Scientology). I sat down excited to see a fictional character named Maverick fly a make-believe plane.
Similarly, I wouldn’t ask the Timberwolves for gardening tips or look to an NFL kicker for advice on anything other than kicking.
We must stop expecting these people to be everything we want them to be. You are allowed to be a fan of someone’s professional skill while disagreeing with them on big topics and small, like what the best candy bar is. Does Harry Butker look like he would claim Mounds as the best candy bar? Absolutely. Is that grounds to have him fired? Of course not, but it’s close.
Living in this country means respecting others’ beliefs, regardless of how backward they are. It is the other side of that coin which has allowed the little progress to be made for people in marginalized communities to date.
Harrison Butker’s commencement speech reads like I asked ChatGPT to sum up everything that was taught to me on Wednesday nights in confirmation class as a teenage Catholic. He was given a platform to say what he said because, unfortunately, he is not alone in how he thinks. An organization with far more power and influence has taught people these things for centuries, The Roman Catholic Church.
An online petition to remove Butker from the team garnered over 220,000 signatures, demanding accountability from sports figures who should promote respect for all.
The petition states, “We demand accountability from our sports figures who should be role models promoting respect for all people regardless of their race, gender identity or sexual orientation. We call upon the Kansas City Chiefs management to dismiss Harrison Butker immediately for his inappropriate conduct.”
Roughly 1.6% of NCAA football players are eligible to be drafted annually. .016% of the players in that pool will be drafted. To beat long odds like those, the players are forced to live, eat, and sleep football because there isn’t time for anything else. So, are we asking that the NFL only draft players with progressive, liberal ideals?
As a Liberal, that sounds great. As a football fan, that is the worst idea ever. Southern Conservatives and football go together like a full bottle of hair gel and Harrison Butker’s hair.
Change doesn’t come from bullying anyone into agreeing with you.
I love my brother-in-law dearly. We have so much in common that we once bought the same car within a week of each other without having discussed it. He is a person I trust and respect more than most people, and that jerk is a Republican (far more handsome than Harrison Butker).
Not once have I attempted to change his mind. I have explained my views on topics, and he has done the same; I think we have helped each other expand our understanding of different political and social issues. However, when we step into the voting booth, we know what boxes we’re checking the majority of the time.
Change happens at the dinner table. Shouting into social media echo chambers to all your friends and celebrities you follow because they agree with you on all fronts changes nothing.
Harrison Butker deserves any and all criticism regarding his remarks. He does not deserve to lose his livelihood.
While it may feel good to get the gratification of seeing results from action, this result will not move the needle in a meaningful way. Odds are, it will move the needle in the opposite direction as there are Catholic parishioners reminding themselves to bring a little extra cash to put in the basket when it makes the way down their pew this Sunday at Mass.
We should be sharing stories and truths. Will Harrison change his views? Probably not.
However, there are thousands of people who are on the fence. Honest stories about why the remarks made in Butker’s commencement speech are hurtful, insensitive, and/or flat out wrong will tip them in the right (left?) way. Maybe after tipping, that parent will have a child. Maybe they will give that child a name that won’t lead to getting made fun of in school. Maybe that child will grow up to be a professional athlete, give a commencement speech at a real institution of higher learning (University of Minnesota, for instance). And maybe, just maybe, that speech will be written to include ALL who hear it.
In the meantime, we can enjoy every missed extra point and field goal, like the one he hit off the upright in Super Bowl LVII. And, who knows, maybe Taylor’s boyfriend decides to have a conversation with him in the privacy of the locker room and changes his mind.
This is my opinion. As the father of a five-year-old daughter, I have a vested interest in ensuring she doesn’t grow up in the future Harrison Butker or those who support him envision. I will advocate and do what I can to further progress, but I will not do so by infringing on another person’s rights. It’s a waste of time to work to get a kicker cut from a team because, well, they usually take care of that themselves.
Let’s leave the athletes to play their chosen sport and marvel at the talent and dedication it took to get them there. Let’s stop expecting them to be role models because, if you look around professional sports, those are few and far between.
If you have been watching The Kids Are In Bed, you understand that bedtime has been a battle for my wife, Jenni, and me. I am not one to compare myself to other people regarding parenting. I have little interest in how people choose to attack the day-to-day challenges that come with raising children. It’s not that I think I know better. Instead, countless independent variables vary due to numerous factors.
I am the independent variable that led to the bedtime trouble in our house.
There was a day Jenni informed me our son would start falling asleep by himself when he was four. I almost cried hearing this news. While I want the best for my children, I am selfish with my time with them now. I know that the clock is counting down, far too quickly, to the day Jenni and I cease to be the sun they orbit.
When Jenni suggested we read a couple of stories to my son and leave the room for the night, all I saw was the vast, infinitely expanding universe awaiting the tangential path my kids would be slung into when they exited our orbit.
Some moments catch me off guard and highlight how quickly my children are growing up. It’s not the milestone moments. It’s the little things that only a parent can notice in their child. New words popping up in their vocabulary or the ability to put on their own shoes are the things that steal my breath and put a lump in my throat.
Determined to right my wrongs with bedtime, I have been working on keeping a stiff upper lip with my daughter. My five-year-old daughter doesn’t run out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out into the street when we tell her it’s time to go to sleep, as her brother did. Rather, she has the unique ability to lie in bed in the dark with her eyes closed for hours without falling asleep.
It is beyond maddening.
Because of her resolve to show off this talent, we informed her daycare that we didn’t want her napping during the day. As a result, my daughter began falling asleep in as little as twenty minutes some nights.
We were rounding the final turn and could see the finish line when a new teacher took over her class. Jenni sent her a message a little after midnight on a night our daughter didn’t fall asleep until after 11:00 PM. She asked the new teacher not to put our daughter to sleep at naptime. I had pegged this new instructor as the zealous type, so after Jenni sent the message off, I asked, “What are you going to do when she responds tonight?”
Jenni laughed at the question. Ten minutes later, we got a long reply that suggested she would not honor our request. After a few more days of late bedtimes and inside information from our daughter about what happens at nap time, it was clear our request had fallen on deaf ears.
On a typical day, I take both of our children to school, allowing Jenni to get out of the house and make her commute to work. This morning, my daughter requested that Jenni take her to school so she could talk to the teacher about what was happening at nap time.
I felt like a batter being called back to the dugout, replaced by a pinch-hitter in the bottom of the ninth with the game on the line. In other words, it stung. As the sting began to retreat, shame-filled its space.
As her father, she should be asking for me to have a serious conversation with her teacher.
Since I am on a mission to get to the bottom of why I allow almost every scenario to lead to anxiety and self-loathing, I caught my thought, and I asked myself a simple question:
Why do you think that?
It’s the same question I would ask a friend confiding in me if I heard them say something that didn’t make much sense.
Driving home from dropping my son off at school, I smiled. I smiled because I wasn’t on the receiving end of my wife’s serious conversation. I was relieved not to be responsible for initiating the discussion. More than anything, I was proud—proud of my daughter for recognizing Jenni as the right person for the job and asking for what she thought was best for her.
The answer to my simple question began to form in front of me.
Since I quit my job and have been pretending to be whatever I have been for the past four months, I have been battling the societal pressures that have been challenging my masculinity. Throughout the spring, I have been called a house husband and given tips on organizing the house’s daily upkeep. I’ve seen the judgment in the eyes of people I have talked to about my chosen path. I also hear the imaginary opinions I have crafted from everyone I have ever known.
As a male, I am supposed to work and make money, to be handy, and to be stoic.
As I write this, my new venture has earned me $6.68. Jenni has called me handsy many times but never called me handy unless the statement was dripping with sarcasm. If you Google “stoic antonyms,” you will find the following: caring, concerned, emotional, feeling, interested, and responsive. I am all of the antonyms.
I have been programmed to believe I am supposed to be something I can never be.
Like my teenage self in an Abercrombie & Fitch dressing room, I have been trying to fit into something that will never fit, no matter how much I suck in.
According to an annual Gallup poll that asks Americans whether they are satisfied or dissatisfied with their personal lives, we are near a record low. Of course, people who make the most money are also the happiest. I imagine some people report being happy because, on paper, they should be. Yet, if you got them to have an honest conversation, they would tell you about what they’d rather be doing for free, which would make them truly happy. That’s nothing new.
What is new is those people’s ability to pick up their phones and scroll through videos of people doing the things they’d rather be doing while getting paid to do it. These are the people who claim all of social media is terrible. It’s far too complex to admit you’ve become a cog in a wheel and can’t get it out.
I refuse to become an old curmudgeon who is beaten down by doing what I should do instead of what I want to do.
I intend to write and do everything I can to influence the future Gallup polls to trend in the right direction.
I can only do that because of my wife, Jenni Severson. A woman who sees barriers as nothing more than minor obstacles in her way. I have had a front-row seat for nearly twenty-five years as I’ve watched her battle society’s expectations of what she should grow up to be. She will stand up for what is right regardless of social pressure. She is so beloved by everyone she comes into contact with that if you hear someone disparaging her, it reflects poorly on them rather than her.
My daughter made the decision that she decisively made this morning because of her mother.
If I could design a friend, wife, and mother in a lab, the result would be Jenni every time. However, the lab version may have a slightly better memory.
I blame so many situations in life on my bad luck. I don’t have bad luck. I used up all my good luck when I met Jenni and would make that trade a thousand times over.
Thanks to Jenni. We are creating a space where our children are not told they can be what they want to be; they are shown. I am happy to get out of the way so my children can take my front-row seat to watch Jenni in action.
While I’d love to say my courage and resolve led to me changing my life path by quitting my job, I can’t. Jenni saw what I couldn’t years ago, yet she kept her patience and never lost faith that I would wise up and listen to her.
I’m listening now.
What’s more, Jenni surrounds herself with women just like her. There are people in this country who don’t want to see the Jennis of this world ascend. It’s threatening to see these exceptional people break through the patriarchal defenses that have been standing for centuries.
Those people are driven by their insecurities because, from where I sit, a world run by women like Jenni seems like paradise.
We’ll call this an early Mother’s Day piece, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I am not thankful for my partner on this journey through life.
