• My siblings and I are all adults with our own families, careers, and mortgages.
• Time with just us and our parents is rare, but special.
• It reminds me of where I came from, and of younger versions of myself.

When my mom was younger and my siblings and I moved out, she really struggled with empty-nest syndrome. Now that I'm a mom of three myself, I can totally appreciate how she must have felt.

As a parent, you pour so much of your love, time, and energy into your kids. And then one day, they leave. I imagine it must feel incredibly strange. I already dread the day my babies leave the nest, to the point where I sometimes cry to my husband about it.

The other day, I was having one of those moments, sobbing on the bed, when my husband found me. I told him how I felt, and he said, "For God's sake, honey, our youngest is four! You have at least another 14 years with her at home." Fair point.

Time with just my parents and siblings is rare

Now that my siblings and I all have families of our own, the time we have with my folks is often chaotic. Inevitably, one of the grandkids is throwing a tantrum, complaining about being hungry, or announcing they need the toilet, and conversations are often start-stop affairs.

But a few years ago, I had an epiphany. It was my sister's 50th birthday, and we were in Bali with all the extended family. To celebrate, we went out for dinner, just the original six of us — Mom, Dad, and the four of us siblings.

It was one of the most incredible nights. We told stories from childhood, talked about getting older, and shared what actually makes us happy and what we love about each other. There were tears and plenty of laughter.

Afterwards, I realized how much I'd missed my original people. The ones who've known me the longest. The people who remember what I was like as a naughty four-year-old who would scream the F-word in the supermarket if I didn't get lollies, or as a pimply teenager going through puberty. The people who knew me before I had a husband, children, a career, a mortgage, responsibilities, or any real idea of who I was or where life would take me.

As adults, we inevitably morph into different versions of our younger selves. We form new identities, build our own lives and our own ideas.

But there's something so incredibly beautiful about being able to return to those younger versions of yourself, if only for a few hours. For me, I've always been the baby of the family, and somehow, if I'm alone with my parents and siblings, I revert straight back into that role. Goo goo, ga ga. Even at 41, I'll always be the baby of the family.

Spending time together is special for all of us

Since that dinner all those years ago, I've made a concerted effort to organize catch-ups with the original clan only. Partners and children know they're not invited, which I'm sure has offended a few people along the way, but nowadays the spouses are used to it.

My sister lives in Africa, and we are all in Australia, so getting us all together can be tricky. But when we do, we have the best time. There's always a lot of reminiscing and laughing. Often, too, a few inappropriate jokes, and inevitably, the occasional argument or two.

I think for my folks, who are now in their 70s and 80s, these moments are golden. There's no doubt they adore the grandkids and partners. But there's something different about having their kids all to themselves for a couple of hours.

No tantrums. No one cartwheeling through the living room as we attempt a conversation. Just us.

At the end of the day, no matter how old we get, we'll always be their kids. You can grow up, move away, become a wife and mother, and build an entirely new life. But when we're all together again, somehow it feels exactly the same.

• The author and his mother graduated from college in May 2026.
• Despite earning their degrees, both struggled to find jobs in their fields.
• Their experiences challenged the promise that a college degree guarantees a better life.

I grew up believing that I had to work hard, go to college, get a piece of paper, and unlock a decent life. My mom believed in it even more than I did.

In May 2026, we crossed the finish line together. I was 23, graduating from New York University with a degree in Film and Television, ready to launch a career in journalism and filmmaking. My mom was in her late 40s when she earned her bachelor's degree in psychology after decades of putting her life on hold.

My mom raised me while taking care of family members

For as long as I can remember, my mom has been running on empty. Back in Alabama, she worked hospital shifts by day and cleaned corporate offices at night, riding public buses through the heat. She was also raising my brother and me, caring for my grandmother through cancer, and looking after my paralyzed uncle. Going to college felt impossible.

When my grandmother and uncle died shortly before I finished high school in 2022, our family was grieving. But my mom also had a moment to think about what she wanted for herself. She decided to start college and pursue her psychology degree. In 2024, after my brother graduated from high school and headed to college in upstate New York, my mom packed up and moved out of Alabama. She settled in Albany to be closer to both of us. I was living in New York City, attending NYU.

From 2022 to 2026, we both worked toward our degrees. While I stayed up finishing college assignments, my mom balanced her nursing shifts with classes and the costs of building a new life in Albany.

But graduating didn't make the next steps any easier.

Getting a job as a recent graduate wasn't easy

I thought an NYU degree would give me a real foot in the door. Instead, I entered a job market where entry-level roles demanded years of experience, while rent and groceries kept getting more expensive. I've had employers tell me during interviews that they loved my work and thought I'd be a great fit, only to never hear from them again. It happened more than once, and each time, it became harder not to wonder what I was doing wrong.

The numbers suggest I wasn't alone. In the second quarter of 2026, 42% of recent college graduates were underemployed, according to the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Finishing school didn't guarantee a career. For many graduates, it meant entering a crowded job market and hoping someone would give them a chance.

My mom faced her own version of that wall. She's currently working toward her master's degree, hoping to eventually become a licensed therapist. In the meantime, she's been trying to get her foot in the door through entry-level jobs such as behavioral health or psychiatric technician roles. Despite decades of frontline healthcare experience and a bachelor's degree in psychology, applications went unanswered, and automated rejection emails kept arriving. After years of working and caring for others, she was still struggling to get someone to give her a chance.

A few weeks after graduation, I sat with her in her living room as she refreshed her inbox. Another rejection came in. She closed her laptop and looked down at her framed diploma, exhausted.

If my mom was struggling to find work after everything she'd done, I couldn't help wondering what my own degree would do for me. A degree can still make a financial difference.

In 2025, full-time workers aged 25 and older with a bachelor's degree earned a median weekly wage of $1,578, compared with $966 for those with a high school diploma, according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics. But those figures describe people who are already working full time. They don't guarantee a recent graduate will land a job, earn those wages, or afford to live in the city where they're trying to build a career.

For my mom, college was supposed to rewrite her story. For me, it was supposed to be the launchpad. When we look at our graduation pictures, the pride is real; neither of us will ever downplay what it took to survive those years. But a diploma can't pay rent. A piece of paper can't buy health insurance, a stable job, or peace of mind.

My mom and I did what we were told would lead to a better life. We're still trying to figure out when that life is supposed to begin.

We did everything right. Somehow, it doesn't feel like enough anymore.

• I remember how overwhelming motherhood was, and I see my sons facing similar challenges.
• I sometimes disagree with their parenting decisions, but try to listen instead of offering advice.
• I'm learning that supporting my adult children means giving them room to make their own choices.

I remember vividly how hard the preschool years were.

My world was turned upside down while my husband's life remained virtually unchanged. I was swamped with diaper changes, feeding, bathing, and preparing for my fifth-grade class the next day.

He accepted a longer commute so we could live closer to my work and both of our families for support. His impediments consisted of challenging weather and swerving to avoid wildlife, but mostly he enjoyed driving to his tunes without kids whining or fighting in the back seat, something I would have traded my right arm for on many occasions.

He came home to a home-cooked meal and continued playing hockey with the guys a couple of nights a week. He was no deadbeat, though — he put in long, physically demanding days working outdoors in all weather. Then on weekends, he kept up with the seasonal demands of our 23-acre property.

In those early years, his help with household chores and children was minimal. It was our system, and not uncommon in our generation.

My sons are more involved parents

Thankfully, gender roles have changed since then, and a generation later, my sons have taken on more significant parental duties. It is not for me to judge whether they do their fair share, but they certainly do more meal-making, cleaning, and childcare than their dad did.

I also remember my delusion of believing I would be a better mom than my mom was. I thought I could be more emotionally present, able to provide and respond to my kids' every physical, mental, and emotional need.

I juggled raising three rambunctious boys alongside my often absent husband while aspiring to be a perfect mom and teacher. Something had to give, and I refused to let it be family, so when my burnout was diagnosed and labeled as depression, I took a sick leave from work. Creative workshops, me-time, time with family, and a diet-and-exercise reset helped me recover enough to return to work, choosing part-time to avoid the same pitfalls.

My mother's unconditional support was essential, and so was learning to ask for help

This is the point where I became more forgiving of my mother for not meeting all of my emotional needs growing up. I finally understood that I could not be all things to everyone, and despite my resistance, I still needed my mother's support to deal with all of it. I felt both too proud to ask for help and humbly grateful to accept it.

My mom never judged me. She calmly listened and offered support, something I have always deeply appreciated. I was too proud to confide my deepest insecurities, and she never pried. I hid my low self-esteem and low self-confidence by projecting false bravado to the world, but I'm sure she saw right through me. Her unconditional love and support generated and now drives my need to honor her by paying it forward to my own kids.

My kids are approaching this same point in their lives. Their perfect parenting honeymoon is over, and they often find themselves in survival mode. It is hard to watch as I remember those times well and how hard I fell. It must have been just as difficult for my mom to see.

As I listen to my sons and daughters-in-law share their challenges, I remember how the business of meal prep, naps, bathing, grooming, and potty training takes up so much mental space. Previously able to eat and sleep according to your own goings-on, you suddenly pivot to adapting to the kids' needs and current schedule. Although I hear them proudly declare they are handling it, they underestimate my ability to read their betraying eyes.

I'm trying my best to pay it forward without losing myself

I am careful about offering unsolicited advice. I want to be supportive without meddling, so heeding the fact that I have two ears and one mouth, I try to listen twice as much as I speak. Instead of voicing my opinion when I would do things differently, I hold my tongue as I am certain my mom did when she questioned my way of doing things.

So many times, I had to be brave, reading the fear in my sons' eyes as they experienced various growing pains, both physical and emotional. I learned to transition from hand-holding to standing by their side to finally letting them go to live their own journey. I must be brave again as I now watch them struggle with their own children's growing pains, knowing that their problems and wounds will increase in direct proportion to their age and physical growth. I will stand by as my mom did, watching my pain, powerless to protect me, knowing I had to learn on my own.

I am also mindful not to forsake my whole life for them. It is important to me to be an honest role model by being just as kind to myself as I am to them, as the analogy goes: put the oxygen mask on yourself before you can save others.

• I've been a doctor for more than a decade and have a family of four.
• I've traded traditional health insurance for direct primary care and a medical cost-sharing group.
• For the first time, I feel like I'm truly in control of our healthcare.

I've spent more than a decade navigating the labyrinth of American healthcare. I've worn the white coat, spent sleepless nights on call, signed the charts, and cared for thousands of patients.

A few years ago, I realized I couldn't keep participating in a system that felt like it was designed to fail the very people it was meant to serve.

Today, my family and I are uninsured in the traditional sense — and I'm confident that it's the best financial and medical decision I've ever made.

I hit my breaking point

For years, I worked in a traditional, insurance-based primary care practice. My days were a blur of 15-minute appointments, dictated not by medical necessity, but by billing codes and insurance reimbursements. I felt completely beholden to the behemoth of corporate medicine. Patients were waiting months to see me and were almost always shortchanged on the time I was able to spend with them.

I felt like the insurance companies were the invisible third party in every exam room, deciding which tests I could order and which medications my patients deserved. I wasn't just a doctor anymore; I was a data-entry clerk for multibillion-dollar payers. The result was a total, soul-crushing burnout that followed me home every night.

On the other side of it, some of my patients were forgoing necessary care because the costs presented to them were simply too high. Did it make sense to spend $300 to check a thyroid test to ensure the $10 per month medication I prescribed was working as it was supposed to? Many patients, rightfully so, decided to spend their money elsewhere.

I knew I had to get out — not just for my own sanity, but to actually provide the type of care I believed in.

Direct primary care offered something different

I eventually traded the treadmill for Direct Primary Care (DPC). In this model, my patients (or their employers or an insurance company) pay a flat monthly membership fee directly to me (around $100 per month). This type of care is affordable— my current patient panel includes attorneys, electricians, teachers, and retirees. There are no co-pays, no deductibles, and most importantly, no insurance companies breathing down my neck.

The difference was night and day. Without the administrative bloat of insurance billing, I finally became the doctor I trained to be:

• Time: I went from seeing 20 patients a day to seeing six or eight.
• Access: My patients can text me directly. We have hour-long conversations instead of 10-minute sprints.
• Cost: By cutting out the intermediary, I'm able to offer wholesale pricing on labs and imaging that are often 90% cheaper than hospital rates. That $300 thyroid test from my previous job? I now offer that for $8.

I took my own family off the grid

Once I saw how much better medicine functioned without traditional insurance interference, I took the ultimate leap. I took my wife and children, now 9 and 6, off our health insurance plan.

Instead, we joined a medical cost-sharing community. It isn't insurance; it's a community of members who share each other's large, unexpected medical expenses. When I combined a DPC membership for our routine care with a health share for the big stuff, I realized I had found a better way to protect my family — and was paying far, far less for it.

The math backs up my decision

To understand why we left, look at the cost of childbirth. When our first child was born under a supposedly high-end traditional insurance plan, we still walked away owing about $10,000 after paying our insurance premiums. We were paying twice: once for the premium and again for the actual care.

My wife spent hours of her precious maternity leave arguing with insurance companies about the services we received in the hospital. When our infant son was hospitalized a few months later, she was back on the phone again, having to advocate for his coverage during the time of a family crisis. We spent years paying off the cost of the birth and his illness.

With our second child, we looked at the numbers through the lens of a cost-share program. On a plan like ours, the Initial Unshareable Amount (IUA) — the part we pay before the community kicks in — was only $1,500.

Beyond that $1,500, the community shared the rest. We didn't have to spend my wife's recovery time fighting with a claims adjuster or waiting for pre-authorizations. We knew exactly what our responsibility was, and more importantly, we knew our family was covered by a community, not a corporation.

I feel like I took back control

As a physician, I've seen the insurance trap from both sides. We've been conditioned to believe that without a blue or green plastic card in our wallets, we are unsafe.

The reality is that for some, traditional insurance has become a barrier to care rather than a bridge. By opting out and pairing Direct Primary Care with a health share, I've reclaimed my time as a doctor and my peace of mind as a father. I'm no longer waiting for an insurance company to tell me how to care for my kids or my patients. As a doctor and as a father, for the first time in my career, I feel truly secure.

• Where I live, some parents enter a lottery to choose their child's school.
• I expected my son would end up where his older sister is, but he was waitlisted.
• He's now attending our local middle school and I'm seeing some unexpected benefits.

I love living in Washington, DC, but navigating the complex public and charter school admissions system is tough.

Students have the right to attend their neighborhood school, and many do. However, every year thousands of parents choose to apply to public schools in different neighborhoods or publicly funded charter or magnet schools throughout the city.

There are rarely enough spots to meet demand at the more desirable schools or specialty schools, ranging from arts and hospitality to college-prep programs and the sciences. To decide who gets to go where, DC instituted a lottery system.

Parents across the city often create spreadsheets to track programs and their child's odds of getting into a particular program, before entering a lottery, ranking schools in order of preference, and hoping for the best. Such an uncertain system makes planning difficult and sometimes leads to unpleasant surprises. That was the case with my son's foray into middle school.

I thought I had found the perfect middle school for my son

When my son entered his last year of elementary school, I thought I knew what his next steps would be. For years, I assumed that he would follow in his big sister's footsteps and attend an International Baccalaureate charter school starting in 6th grade.

The charter school isn't perfect; no school is. However, my daughter, now a junior, often says she enjoys school, which is a shocking statement for a kid of any age, let alone a teenager. An environment where at least some kids are happy to go every day would be reason enough for me to send my son there. However, I was also convinced the school's rigorous program and strong emphasis on world cultures would be a perfect fit for him. After all, he is a triple citizen and a world traveler at heart. I also appreciate the school's diversity and range of classes, from sneaker culture to advanced sciences.

Although a spot for my son was never guaranteed, I assumed his sibling preference would help secure one. I was in for a rude awakening.

I had to face reality

When my son was put on the waitlist after the first round of admissions, I didn't panic. Instead, I spent most of the summer in denial, convinced that if I just waited long enough, he would get in eventually.

The week before school started, I had to face reality. No spots were available for my son at the school I had grown to love and was convinced would be perfect for him.

Without a viable alternative, I enrolled him in our local middle school, which I thought was very large and very chaotic. I kept telling my son how excited I was for him to start middle school, but I couldn't hide my worry.

I was nervous about sending him to a large school

My son's elementary school had about 400 kids total, from pre-K4 to 5th grade. For a big city, it's a small school where most teachers know all the kids, and the community is tight-knit. I worried about how my son would transition to a large school with nearly 1400 students across just three grades, in a building that occupies nearly an entire city block. Despite my worry, he walked in with confidence on his first day.

Not everything about such a big change was easy. My son got lost a few times trying to find his classes. While many of the other incoming sixth graders knew each other from elementary school, my son didn't know a soul. He was upset when recess, his favorite part of the day, was cut short because other kids wouldn't stop talking. It's almost impossible to get a timely email response from the school administration, who seem swamped by the sheer number of students. Still, my son rolled with the punches and started to adjust.

I now see the benefits of a neighborhood school

Even though my son had to start his middle school social life from scratch, he quickly found his crew: other kids who love soccer. He first spotted potential friends by looking for kids wearing Real Madrid jerseys and kicking a soccer ball around at recess. Once he found his tribe, he could easily meet friends after school for walks to our local playground and pizza shop. Those are things he wouldn't have been able to do if he had gotten into the school I had been hoping for, which draws students from across the city. Within a few weeks, he rattled off at least a dozen new friends' names. I wondered whether he could have made friends as easily at the smaller charter school I wanted him to go to, with a smaller pool of potential friends.

I also appreciate the resources such a big school has, including a range of after-school activities. Although my son hasn't wanted to try most of them, I appreciate that options like an archery team and a Rubik's Cube club are available to him.

There are other benefits as well. Because our neighborhood is just over a mile from our home, my son can easily walk or take a short bus ride there and back, giving him even more independence. Not having to drive him saves me at least seven hours a week, and the school's proximity to our house gives my son more free time.

Now that we are well into the school year, I realize I should have given my son more credit for adaptability. I also should have been more open-minded about what kind of school would be "right" for my son. Although I am still sad that he doesn't get to attend the same school as his sister, I now know there is more than one answer to what makes a good school.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jeff Kinney, the 55-year-old author of the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series, who lives in Plainville, Massachusetts. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I wrote "Diary of a Wimpy Kid," I worked on it for eight or nine years without thinking I was writing a book for kids.

I thought I was writing a book for grown-ups that would feel like "The Wonder Years" or "A Christmas Story" — looking back on childhood through the lens of an adult.

The first thing that surprised me was that my publisher said I'd actually written a children's series; it caused a lot of cognitive dissonance.

But what also surprised me was that kids understood the irony in the books. They understand that Greg is an unreliable narrator; they seem to get the joke.

After writing the series, and after raising two kids of my own — ages 21 and 23 — I've learned a few things about kids. Here's my best advice about getting kids to read, screen time, and more — plus a few things I'd go back and change if I could.

1. To get kids to read, feed their interests

I recently heard author Jack Gantos say that after dinner, he and his family would get out their books and read. I think that's really cool and also very old-fashioned, in a way. I wish we'd done it when raising our kids.

With reading, I think the most important thing you can do is feed your kids' interests, whether they're interested in Pokémon cards or sharks or tornadoes. Get them books or magazines that speak to their interests, rather than trying to give them books that we read as kids or books that are too high-minded for their age level.

A lot of authors who write for kids start with some sort of a lesson, and there's a time and place for that. But kids read for the same reason that adults read: to be entertained. If we start from a position of trying to teach kids a lesson, they'll sniff that out and turn away from it.

It's really important to encourage kids down a path that gets them reaching for the next book. I want them to feel a feeling of success in having finished a book because that's an important act of completion. But mostly, I'd like them to keep reading, whatever form that might take.

2. Listen to them

In everyday parenting, sitting at dinner with our kids and hearing about their day without judgment is a really good foundation. Just about everything that kids today are going through, we've been through in some form. The most powerful thing that we can say to kids is "I understand," or "I've been there myself," and share stories, making sure that they feel seen and heard.

As parents, we should make ourselves vulnerable to our kids by telling them about the struggles that we went through.

If we do that without moralizing and without judgment, I think it draws us closer to our kids and turns us into a resource for them.

3. Envision your future relationship

I've always thought about my relationship with my kids by imagining, How do I want our relationship to look when my kids are adults? I've tried to anticipate that and treat my kids that way the whole time.

I think it's working out because my kids will call me and want to go see the Patriots or the Celtics with me. I think that's partially because I've always had this version of our relationship in mind.

4. Don't get too wrapped up in kids' sports

As parents, we live and die by our kids' successes in sports. I certainly got too caught up in it and couldn't really anticipate that there would be a life beyond sports for my kids.

If I were to go back in time, I probably would change my approach on that. We like to see our kids succeed, and of course, sports is a big stage where there's a lot wrapped up in their success, including social issues and self-esteem.

When our kids are thriving, we feel really good for them, and when they're failing, it's tough for them and us. I can understand why that happens with parents, but I can also see that it's good to take a step back.

5. Help them understand that social media manipulates

Social media bullying is something that we never had to face growing up, and it's really unfortunate and damaging.

Screen time has changed things — you see studies finding that kids are dating a lot less, and there's a loneliness epidemic.

As parents, we can help kids by educating them and helping them understand that social media companies are incentivized to make you spend more time on your screens. The more that my kids, who grew up immersed in the social media world, began to understand that, the more they wanted to move away from it.

They get out there in the world — touch grass, play sports, and pick up basketball. My son will put lockouts on his social media.

It's important for us to think for ourselves before we turn to AI

As AI becomes a part of schoolwork and daily life, my concern is that AI makes a lot of things very easy.

At times, I look for solutions through AI that I could conjure up myself, so I worry about how that rewires the brain when you feel like there's always an agent that can solve your problem for you. It could reduce your own capacity for problem-solving.

It's really important for kids to be able to think for themselves before turning to the tool.

To counteract that, getting out in the world and interacting with one another is really important. Put kids into social situations; for example, my son has been working as a bookseller this past year, where he's had to interact with lots of different types of people and solve problems.

A lot of kids or young people in this generation are more isolated. They spend a lot more time in their rooms on their phones, and so I think that getting them out there interacting with other human beings is going to give them a competitive advantage.

• My 21-year-old son wanted to visit a lively beach club during our family vacation.
• I never expected my parents, both in their 70s, to get up and dance to ABBA.
• Seeing their joy reminded me that getting older doesn't mean giving up new experiences.

My 75-year-old dad told me he'll feel like he's closer to dying if our annual family vacations stop. He's not ready for that. Neither am I.

It stopped me in my tracks and frankly scared me a little. While I know my parents are aging, I haven't begun thinking about life without them, and I found myself spending the rest of the vacation looking through this new lens.

For the last 12 years, my husband, my parents, my son, and I have traveled all over the world on an annual multigenerational trip. And while the sights have been spectacular, what struck me most on this last vacation is just how much each of us has grown to value these trips.

I'm in the middle between my parents and my son

The dynamic has certainly evolved. My son was 9 when we started, is now 21, and brings his girlfriend along. My parents are now in their mid-70s, with some health challenges that require more patience and care. And I'm in the middle, adjusting the trip so everyone can still participate. I used to plan for adventure. Now I'm thinking about walking distances, downtime, unpacking, and what my parents can comfortably do, while still making it fun for the 21-year-olds.

But what I learned on this trip was that sometimes, when choosing something for the youngest generation, a magical memory is created for the oldest, like when we went to Nikki Beach in St. Tropez at my son's request. We had been there for lunch a few years prior, and we wanted to return, this time when we could see the true Euro summer beach club vibe in action, complete with waving white napkins and ABBA blasting from the DJ booth.

I never would have guessed it, but both of my parents were up and dancing that day. My mom has since declared the whole day one of her favorites. Who knew? Maybe all they need is a "darty" (day party, as my college kid tells me!).

These are not just vacations for my parents

After what my dad had said earlier in the trip, I watched him differently that day. Seeing him dancing with my mom, laughing and completely in the moment, I understood a little more of what he meant. These trips aren't just vacations to him. They are something he still gets to look forward to, proof that there are more places to go, more memories to make, and more life ahead of him.

The thing is, for the first few years of these trips, I just wanted to knock places off my bucket list. Now, I want to figure out how to bottle the time and have lasting pictures in my head because a time will come when they stop, when it is no longer feasible for my parents to travel, and when my son will be busy with work and his own family.

I know the finality of life all too well, as I still struggle with the loss of my son Jake after 15 years. I know firsthand the fragility of life and how it can all change in an instant.

My dad's comment also made me realize that I've been thinking about these trips mostly from my own perspective as planner and caregiver. I worry about how much walking they can do, whether they need an afternoon off, or if I've planned too much. He's thinking about something entirely different. He's thinking about what it means to still be able to go.

The goal is to spend time together

The success of these trips used to be measured by where we went and what we saw. Now they are measured by how much uninterrupted time we have together. As we've shifted from bucket-list places like Africa and the Galápagos, we've begun to choose places where we don't have to pack and unpack every three or four days, where we can settle in and spend time together.

We've all learned that the real moments of these trips do not lie in the over-the-top experiences. They lie in the moments after the excursion, when we are all having cocktails by the pool and sharing time, the most valuable gift we all have. It's in the final glass of wine, listening to music, or playing Flip 7 or Pass the Pigs. It's when we are tired from exploring and stop to have a beer on a random street in a random place that we may never find again.

I don't know how many more years the five, now six, of us will be able to do this together. I hope it's many. But my dad's comment made me realize that counting the years almost misses the point. We got this trip, and while we were there, everyone could still dance.

Perhaps the most important thing is that when my parents started this tradition all those years ago, they started something that won't end with them. I know someday these trips will be for my son and his family. I love knowing my parents gave us that tradition. I'm just in absolutely no hurry to inherit it.

• Years ago, I made fun of sports parents who went all out and spent thousands on their kids.
• Now I'm one of them.
• Last season cost our family over $8,800. Looking back, I have no regrets and would do it all again.

Ten years ago, I was the mom making fun of select sports parents. I thought they were crazy. Nuts. Over-spenders. People who didn't understand priorities, or budgeting, for that matter. Then I became one of them.

It didn't happen overnight, but gradually. My then-7-year-old son was asked to try out for a team. At the time, it seemed more competitive than the rec league he had been playing in, but not overly so. Practice times doubled. Costs also doubled. The following year, it happened again, and they doubled again. And now, I'm a mom of 5, with an 11-year-old who is obsessed with his select baseball team. Well, career. It's called a career, he's told me.

And that would be fine, but it's the unexpected costs that really caught me off guard. Over time, I got used to the idea that team fees would pass the three-figure mark. I was okay with that, because I saw the joy it brought him and realized that he's a young athlete who is more naturally competitive than rec teams typically allow for.

What I didn't anticipate were the extra costs. Here's how much it really costs to be a select sports family. And as select sports families might note, this isn't even for the most competitive, select travel teams in our area.

The real cost of select sports for our family

Growing up as a competitive gymnast, I look back and realize what it really meant for my single mom to shell out $90 for a competition leotard — and that was 25 years ago. Now, I see just how those extras add up and can tank a budget unexpectedly, one little overpriced concession stand hot dog at a time.

If I sit and add up the cost of the sport, which I do periodically, I find that it's a lot, even if I'm focusing on the more conservative end of our expenses. Here's how last season played out for us:

• Concession stand spending: $40 per game, estimated at $2,000 for last season. Our family of seven attends 40 to 60 games a season. Yes, we could pack our own food, but here we are, imperfect and flawed parents, just trying to find a uniform 10 minutes before warm-up.
• Gas: at least $700 per season. Our local practice field is over 20 minutes away so we do our fair share of driving for the sport. We also have tournaments in cities that are hours away, our furthest was about a 5-hour drive. In a season, this accounts for 10 to 12 tanks of gas, which of course varies with the price we pay at the pump. If we drive our large Sprinter van with the whole family tagging along, it's even more.

• Gear: around $1,250 last season. I consider myself a slightly scrappy shopper, having grown up on garage sale gear. So as an adult, I try to walk the line of buying new items, such as baseball gloves and pants (used pants at this age are often very worn), cold gear for chilly practices, hats, gloves, catcher gear (used on eBay), cleats, socks, and more. Then, there's gear from the actual team, such as belts and casual wear like hoodies and shorts. None of this includes the overpriced composite bats, which range from $200 to $500 apiece and come with the promise of "hitting bombs." Sure, we don't buy everything new every season, but looking back over my credit card bills reveals this past season was a pricey one.
• Private lessons: $300 a month for six months. As anyone with a semi-serious athlete knows, regular practice never seems to be enough. When my son became a catcher, we had to, well, catch up and learn catching. When he hit a mental block with hitting, his private lesson teacher scheduled extra sessions.
• Babysitting: $600 last season. When a game starts at 8 p.m. and ends after 10, parents with little kids need other options. Sometimes, we have our local babysitter chip in and help the other kids maintain a more normal schedule, including bedtimes. This can add up, but sometimes it's just nice to watch your older kid play without toddlers climbing on you with sticky hands. We pay our sitter $25 an hour and used them several times last season.

• Parent gear: $400 last season. Parents are the fan club, and they need to look the part. Even if each parent buys just an item or two from the team pro shop, it adds up. I might have also grabbed the super-cute Bauble Bar Perfect Catch Earring Set this year, along with team-colored HOKA sneakers for lugging gear around the city and getting some steps in during warmups. Finally, with so many kids, we invested in a double-decker wagon that hauls kids, chairs, drinks, snacks, and diaper bags from game to game.
• Hotel stays: $1,200 for four nights away. I know this is lower than many teams with a heavier travel schedule, but our cost is higher because we need a suite or two rooms for our large family. Teams often require these stays, and hanging out in the hotel pool is a big part of the kids' memory-making that can't be skipped.
• Registration fees: $900 per season. There are options to fundraise for parts of this, but I very rarely feel good about asking others to pay for my son's sports. I know it works for some people, but for me, going to the same people over and over to chip in feels off (aside from the grandparents who are always down to buy a coupon book).

The total isn't the point

When I say I really don't want to add this list up, I mean it. But for the sake of other parents who feel stressed about so much of their family budget going to sports, or those who need a real look at what it entails, I will.

Before I do, though, I have to acknowledge what all these extras mean for my son. The movement outside instead of getting addicted to screens: priceless. The self-esteem and confidence gained by overcoming stress in a high-pressure game: priceless. The camaraderie and friendships on a team: priceless. The bonding experience of watching the sunset with toddlers screaming their brother's name and number: priceless.

The grand total for the past season landed around $8,850, give or take a bag of popcorn or four. I'm off now to get a second job.

Spring signups are happening soon. I'll do what I can to save, and hope my son doesn't need a new bat, but I know I'll gladly be paying close to this again for yet another season. After all, the popcorn is decent, and my son's joy is contagious.

The basketball star seems proud to leave the job to his partner. That’s so last century

Nobody can accuse the basketball star LaMelo Ball of being bad at his job. That said, the Minnesota Timberwolves point guard doesn’t seem to be a huge fan of dribbling.

Ball has a nine-month-old son, LaOne, with his partner Ana Montana (real name: Analicia Chaves) and is apparently uninterested in dealing with all the body fluids that come with a baby.

Arwa Mahdawi is a Guardian columnist

• My husband and I lived in NYC for six years before becoming parents.
• We have plenty of memories there, and recently went on a family trip with our two girls.
• We didn't get to do a lot of things on my itinerary, but I'm still grateful for our time.

New York City was home to my husband and me for six years before we had kids and moved to Asheville, and it will forever be a place that holds so much for us. That's why when the timing, cost, and opportunity aligned for our family of four to vacation there for a week recently, I was chomping at the bit to return, enthusiastic at the prospect of sharing this colossal, important place with our 4- and 6-year-old daughters.

It was easy to have high expectations for a trip down memory lane, but the reality is that any trip with kids will be what it will be, and we can only hope that something along the way — a bump in the road, a detour, a singalong — cements into their memories and crystallizes into sentimental gemstones that they turn over and over in their minds with time.

I created a full itinerary for our trip

Leading up to departure, I planned a weeklong itinerary with suggestions for each day on where to go, what to eat, who to see, and what to do. Knowing my kids would need some rest and recovery, I built in plenty of downtime — or so I thought. Still, as with all things parenting, I was rudely reminded that even with my experience and expertise as Mom, I could not foresee every breakdown.

By midweek, my daughters hit a physical, mental, and emotional wall. I had planned to take them to the Met, but instead, I was met with loud, convincing pleas to spend a couple of hours in the hotel room. Crestfallen, I agreed. They didn't know about the daydreams I'd had of walking them through the museum to see the Temple of Dendur, the Medieval Sculpture Hall, and rooms where Degas's ballerinas, Monet's water lilies, or Van Gogh's self-portrait lived. Sigh. I'm an art lover — I enjoy meandering through vast halls and admiring human creativity and intellect. It brings me great peace and joy.

I was disappointed that we didn't go to any museums

A few days later, I found myself in the same situation at the Whitney. My generally agreeable kids protested once again, so we switched gears. We took a stroll on the High Line, grabbed pizza from Chelsea Market, and landed at the Diller — von Furstenberg Sundeck & Water Feature between 14th and 15th Streets. There, they were all smiles — delighting in the sun, in the relief of cool water, barefoot, holding up their dresses, splashing, squealing, happy.

My kids are still young — 4 and 6 — and have only experienced small art museums. They don't even know what they're missing! So, naturally, when it was clear that we weren't going to visit any art museums, reality stung. This is one of the painful aspects of parenting: accepting that the things you really want to do just don't happen for one reason or another. Of course, you could force your child to do what you'd like to, but what memory does that create? What good does that serve?

However, I realized that there would be other trips and was grateful for the time we had

I let out another deep sigh and told myself, It's OK. There's always next time — hopefully. I smiled, thinking about the next time, and I began to daydream once again. All was well. What mattered most to me on this trip was visiting the place we once called home and introducing it to our girls — acquainting them with the place their mother and father made countless memories, befriended incredible people, grew stronger in their marriage, became parents during a pandemic, and tearfully bid adieu.

Parenting continues to be one wide and winding journey, where I'm constantly toeing the line between curating memories and allowing memories to make themselves in the most ordinary of places: on the 32nd floor of a hotel room, on a playground in Central Park, on a Subway train, on a city bus, on an airplane in the clouds.

In addition, I'm still learning that parenting is mostly a selfless act. Yes, there are moments we get to share with our kids that allow them to see what fills us up as human beings, but it's often an unwieldy and imperfect balance.

Many of the decisions we make come at a cost, and, for this trip (and future trips), I'd rather the cost be one that I pay — not them. Their joy is my joy. And, in this chapter of life, it's bigger, grander, more powerful than any selfish indulgence that life has ever afforded me, and, honestly, I'm here for it. I'm grateful.

• Palantir cofounder Joe Lonsdale's wife has an interesting nickname for their AI agent.
• She calls it "Tradbot," he said, a name inspired by the social media trend of tradwives.
• The Lonsdales use their "Tradbot" for help with parenting.

What does Joe Lonsdale's AI agent and Ballerina Farm have in common?

Lonsdale, who cofounded Palantir before building his venture capital firm, told CNBC on Thursday how his wife, Tayler, uses AI — and the nickname she's given their agent.

"My wife has Grok Bot at home," Lonsdale said. "She calls it the 'tradbot' for tradwife."

For those unfamiliar, a tradwife is a woman who embraces traditional gender roles, such as supporting her husband with household work and taking a primary role in raising kids. Some of these tradwives become influencers, posting videos of their ornate meals or gifts for their husbands.

The Lonsdale family's "tradbot" helps them manage parenting duties for their six children. Lonsdale said the AI agent tells them about health appointments and activities.

He asked the "tradbot" to help his two-year-old break up with his binky. "It's telling me when to and when not to give it to him," Lonsdale said.

Parents have been employing AI for all kinds of use cases. One mom of two previously told Business Insider that she sends voice memos to Claude to help organize her life. Another said that she built AI agents to help manage schedules and school emails. Business Insider's Amanda Hoover declared mom, dad, and AI the "modern parenting throuple." The debate of how much — if any — AI should be involved in parenting continues to rage online.

Lonsdale is a vocal proponent of AI, having invested in it heavily through his venture capital fund, 8VC. During September's AI extinction freak-out, Lonsdale reassured the public: "The world is going to be alright, guys."

Clearly, Lonsdale's use of AI has extended beyond the office. "My wife's definitely using it at home," Lonsdale told CNBC, "and we're using it a lot at work as well."

• Jen Eaves' mother is 79 and lost more than $3,000 to online scams.
• Eaves now monitors her mother's finances and says that was a hard conversation.
• Digital caregiving is an important part of supporting aging parents, she says.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jen Eaves, Digital Caregiving & Elder Fraud Advocate at Aura. It has been edited for length and clarity.

It's an odd shift in dynamic when you start caring for the people who always cared for you. My mother is 79, and lives with my brother, who handles most of her day-to-day physical care. I'm the one who handles the administrative side of care, like scheduling doctor appointments and keeping her safe online.

About six years ago, my mom had a stroke, and while she recovered fairly well, she wasn't the same cognitively as she had been before. Around that time, I began noticing her falling for scams online.

Once, she ordered a cure for diabetes, which she has. The product was supposedly being sold by a famous TV doctor. When she showed me the video ad, I could see it was badly done AI, with the supposed doctor's lips not matching his words.

There have been other scams and pitfalls, too: online orders that never arrive, or even a legitimate credit card that my mom opened without realizing what she was doing. All in all, she's lost about $3,000 to scams, though I've been able to recover most of it through her bank.

I've realized that I need to take a more proactive approach to digital caregiving to protect my mom's finances. Here's what I'm doing.

Approaching from a place of help and dignity

After my brother and I had taken my mom's keys away, her phone became her connection to the world. I wanted to respect that. While some people have to restrict their older parents' access to phones, that didn't feel right in my case.

It was critical to me that my mom kept her dignity and as much independence as possible. At the same time, I saw there was an emotional side to falling for a scam: she would feel frustrated and confused when it happened, and I wanted to spare her those negative emotions.

I never want my mom to feel like I'm parenting her. Instead, I pointed out the patterns I was seeing and emphasized I'm here to help if she's willing to let me be involved. The choice, ultimately, is hers. This would be a lot harder if she wasn't willing.

Talk about scams

My mom wasn't particularly tech savvy, even before her stroke. I've had to educate her about what scams look like. When she shared the famous doctor video, I pointed out the aspects that seemed AI-generated to me. I remind her that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I emphasize that urgency is a big sign of a scam. The bank, I tell her, is never going to call you.

Once, she had a scam caller claiming to be Apple support. They asked for her Apple ID and password, which would have given them access to pretty much everything she has online.

Because of our conversations, my mom hesitated. She patched me into the call and asked the scammer to explain the situation to me. I was very proud that she recognized the scam and knew to ask me for help.

I monitor my mom's accounts

I worked in cybersecurity at Aura, which offers a lot of great products for keeping kids safe online. But my experience with my mom made me realize we were missing a whole vulnerable population: older adults.

I helped develop Trusted Family Access, which allows family members like me to see alerts from their loved ones' accounts, with permission. This gives me peace of mind that I can catch any issues quickly. It's also made other aspects of caregiving easier, like handling medical appointments, because I have access to all my mom's information in one place.

When my mom was scammed, it felt like I was a victim too. I spent hours calling her bank and credit cards to get her money back. If she were to lose her savings, it would impact the whole family. I'm grateful we've found a solution that empowers both of us to keep her finances safe.

• Pat Zawko, a 67-year-old nurse, raised her grandson and now helps raise her great-grandson.
• Pat adopted three children, facing challenges with their health and legal issues over the years.
• Pat balances full-time work with supporting her great-grandson, cherishing her role as a grandmother.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Pat Zawko, 67, who lives in upstate New York and works full-time as a nurse. Zawko raised her grandson from birth, and she is now helping him raise her great-grandson. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

My husband and I raised our grandson from age 5 months to adulthood. We are now helping him raise his son, whom he raises as a single parent.

I was raised in upstate New York in a very rural area. I was one of nine children, the first girl after six boys. My grandmother helped shape who I am today. I didn't go to college until I was 29, and I became a nurse. I progressed to completing my Ph.D.

All our children are adopted. We made that decision very consciously. I found out that I couldn't have biological children, so in 1982, we adopted our first son. He had lots of health issues, and he was in and out of psychiatric facilities. We paid for all of his rehabs and facilities, and he didn't qualify for any subsidies back then. My husband and I decided to adopt two more children, and both of them are very successful in their adult lives.

We got custody of our grandson when he was an infant

When he was 17, he and a young lady ran away to Florida, and they had a child. They were involved with drugs, and we got custody of their son when he was 5 months old. My son died when he was 23.

Raising our grandson wasn't really a choice, and we had to do what was right. He had special needs, which brought with it an entirely new set of needs medically, psychologically, and educationally. There were many challenges in raising him. We couldn't get him insurance for about six months. My husband didn't grow up with money, and he worked very hard in his life, but he never questioned taking the money that he had saved long before he met me and pouring it into these children.

He went down a similar road to his biological father. He got a young girl pregnant, and he became a single dad. He was left with this baby. We were living in Ohio at the time, and we moved back to New York to help him. The parents of the baby's mother are wonderful people and are very supportive financially, physically, and emotionally. There's never tension between us. My great-grandson's birth mother hasn't seen him in two and a half years.

When we took in our grandson, my other children were 10 and 11. We didn't have any baby stuff. We didn't have day care. We were used to sleeping all night because our kids were pretty independent.

Getting my grandson upset the equilibrium of the family. We had to give our kids the attention they needed, but we also had a baby with different needs.

My grandson is 25 now. Back when we started raising him, nobody was talking about the financial and emotional impact that grandparents raising grandchildren has. Nobody stopped to look at how it impacts family dynamics. We couldn't get help. You're stretching out that time period when you're parenting, where you think that you can't be a grandmother because you have to parent this child.

I see it more frequently in my profession, where grandparents, some of them older than I am, bring in grandchildren, sometimes four or five little ones running around.

My grandson needs a fair amount of support with his autism diagnosis. It's a huge transition for him, and he's needed lots of support and guidance.

I can be a grandmother to my great-grandchild

Now that my grandson has a son, I can finally be a grandmother; before this, we were our grandson's only parents. There were times that I felt robbed of being a grandmother with my grandson, as we had to be parents. I wanted to spoil him and send him on his way, but I couldn't.

Now I am technically a great-grandmother, and being able to be a grandmother for the first time. I am overjoyed and thrilled to finally be a grandma and not a parent. I can spoil him, play with him, teach him old songs, and send him home with his dad.

I still work full-time at 67, partly because raising grandchildren is very expensive. I often put in 12-hour night shifts at the hospital. I also had to pay for cancer treatments that ate through my retirement. We poured much of our life savings into making sure he had everything he could to become a productive member of society. He has a home and a car. He works full-time. He's able to experience success in being a parent, which neither he nor I ever dreamed was possible.

We know we did the right thing, but you don't think about the strain it puts on your finances, especially as you approach retirement in your later years. It takes a village to be successful as grandparents raising grandchildren. We don't have the energy that we did when we were 30.

We raised kids for 35 years

For 35 years, we raised kids, and now we have to take care of ourselves, which is not nearly as easy as one might think. We feel the pinch now with our health. But these kids have been worth the investment.

My great-grandson is 3 years old, and helping raise him is the greatest thing I've ever done. He's the light of our life. They don't live far from us, and the baby often stays with us. We get to impact his life on the level that grandparents should. We're probably more active in his life than the average grandparent. He knows nothing other than absolute unconditional love.

When he comes here, we call him the "hurricane" because he trashes the house. When he leaves, we clean it up and take joy in that. He's able to be a kid. We don't need to worry about his doctor's appointments or getting him into preschool.

My other son came by and saw we had given the baby Cheetos. He said, "You would never let us eat that. How come you're letting him?" I told him it's because I don't have to worry about all the other stuff. I understand that a Cheeto is not going to ruin his life, whereas when you're raising your own children, you are so worried about everything that you're going to make a mistake that's going to derail their life.

I used to say that we can make every generation better. If my great-grandson can have a better life than his father, and his father can have a better life than his father, that's the goal.

Who could have predicted that age-gating large sections of the internet in a crusade to shield children's eyeballs from vaguely defined "harmful content" would have disastrous consequences and wouldn't ultimately protect kids? Apparently, the United Kingdom's online regulator, Ofcom, couldn't. 

On Thursday, Ofcom released a report assessing whether the government should make changes to the content categories of the 2023 Online Safety Act, a set of laws which require companies operating in the U.K. to prevent children from "accessing harmful and age-inappropriate content and provide parents and children with clear and accessible ways to report problems online when they do arise." The act's "child safety regime" (Ofcom's words) went fully into effect in 2025, when porn websites in the country began checking IDs. Unfortunately, as Reason's Elizabeth Nolan Brown has pointed out, the age-verification rule has impacted far more than adult websites. Already, the Online Safety Act has age-gated a wide range of content, including war news, the "NoFap" subreddit, and a historic art image, creating a mass chilling effect online. 

Ofcom's report, however, says little about these age-gating concerns for adults, and its own findings highlight the act's underwhelming results. In the report, Ofcom notes that "Most children in the UK say they have encountered at least one piece of harmful content online in a four-week period." It adds that "at a total level there was no significant change in the proportion of children encountering harmful content over the first nine months after the children's safety duties came into force in July 2025." So, it appears the act is requiring adults to fork over their IDs to access a wide range of content, some of which is innocuous, while playing a never-ending and unsuccessful game of whack-a-mole trying to eliminate "harmful" online content from kids' feeds. 

Instead of suggesting to repeal the Online Safety Act because it does not seem to be working or because it imperils online freedom, Ofcom's report proposes to broaden the law's scope. The regulator recommends adding "body stigma content and depression content, currently identified by Ofcom as kinds of non-designated content, to the category of priority content that is harmful to children." Priority content is defined as "content that services must protect/minimise the risk of children in age groups judged to be at risk of harm from encountering." In other words, online platforms could have more reasons to potentially age-gate, block, or avoid publishing out of fear of violating the law. 

The report does not address the U.K. government's plans to ban children under the age of 16 from accessing social media, and Ofcom says it will soon publish an assessment of "what highly effective age assurance looks like" for determining whether someone is 16 or older. But if the social media ban unfolds anything like it did in Australia, where kids are easily circumventing it, it is likely to flop, just as the Online Safety Act has.

The post The U.K.'s Online Safety Act Has Been a Failure. Regulators Want To Broaden It Anyway. appeared first on Reason Magazine.

• After my divorce, I wanted something special for my first mother-daughter trip with my 8-year-old.
• We decided to spend a week at a luxury dude ranch in Colorado.
• The trip helped me show my daughter

Resting by the heated pool in my cowboy hat, breathing the fresh mountain air, I watched my daughter laughing with her new friends and felt something I hadn't in years: a sense of peace.

Earlier that year, my husband and I inked our signatures in separate rooms, ending our 16-year marriage. Our divorce was one that could be labeled "volatile," and not just for us, but for our 8-year-old daughter.

When it came time to plan our first summer vacation with just me and her, I knew it would likely be a splurge, but I needed it to be special. We needed activity. We needed reconnection. We needed a dude ranch.

This was our first big adventure for just the two of us

My research led me to an all-inclusive ranch in Colorado. The website had footage of horses running across a bridge over a winding stream. It looked perfect.

Although I was apprehensive about the two of us traveling from Texas during the week of July 4th, I inevitably found it liberating. Wheeling luggage stuffed with heavy cowboy boots while lugging backpacks through airports, shuttling to the rental car, and navigating unknown mountainous switchbacks could have been disastrous, but we managed it well. It was our first accomplishment in independence.

We encountered some surprises

"You have arrived," the navigation system announced in our rental as we turned onto the dirt drive lined with quintessential log cabins with thick white chinking, set on manicured lawns before the Rocky Mountain backdrop. Each porch had bright pink, purple, and red petunias hanging in baskets above shellacked wooden rocking chairs. It was just like we imagined it.

After parking our red Wrangler, we were greeted by ranch staff in full cowboy gear who guided us past the soft pink peonies nestled between the grayish-white aspen trees to check in.

At check-in, while planning our next seven days, I discovered that children eat dinner most nights with the other children and their counselors and take separate trail rides twice a day. This concept is great for families, giving mom and dad a chance to reconnect over gourmet meals, but I wasn't so sure how our new life would fit into this scenario.

Initially apprehensive about the separation, my daughter and I soon discovered this daily dose of division was liberating, forcing us to foster new friendships.

Our expectations were exceeded

Later, we met the director of equestrian operations, and she asked about our riding experience and personalities to best match us with one of her cherished horses. We were excited to meet our horses the next day.

Meanwhile, our newly renovated western chic room was complete with leather-branded throw pillows, a fireplace, and a welcome basket full of healthy snacks, a red bandana, and a bottle of wine.

We quickly fell into a daily routine, bonding with our horses, riding and grooming them each day, and creating connections with other guests. We also tried out fly fishing (I caught three trout), hiking, archery, and ziplining. I especially enjoyed relaxing at the outdoor spa in luxury tents built over the creek, immersed in nature's music of bird calls and horse neighs.

We danced into the night and our next chapter

The whole trip was exceptional, and our favorite event was an evening barn dance. We dressed in full cowgirl fringe and ended the night with an elaborate fireworks display just for the resort. Sitting on the lush green grass watching red, white, and blue explosions just a few, yet safe, feet away, she and I weren't just celebrating our country's freedom, we were celebrating our own.

I had not realized until that moment I was introducing my authentic self to her — the woman I was before my marriage unraveled — and reminding myself of that version of me. Free. Capable. And full of adventure.

• Makeup and beauty routines have never been very important to me.
• My daughter is obsessed with self-care and knows a lot more about products than I do.
• I'm always happy to indulge her interests in this area; it gives us a nice way to connect.

"Can we go to Sephora?" my daughter asks, with her rather flawless teen reflection in the mirror standing on a blush-stained rug. Excited that she asked me into her room, I think, "Sephora again?"

With no room for more makeup around her cluttered sink, I question the need for any more beauty products. At the same time, my daughter is asking to spend time with me. "Pick up the towel off the floor and pull up your Oliva {Rodrigo} playlist," I say, smiling as I walk out the door. "We are leaving in five."

I learned to embrace the suck

As the true definition of a tomboy, now in my early 50s, my makeup knowledge ends with applying lipstick and mascara — without smudging.

Walking through the aisles of makeup and skincare products, I read the labels, dumbfounded. What even is skin milk? Would I apply that before or after serum?

Just as I tell my daughter the coined elementary school phrase, "The power of yet, you can't do it yet," when she struggles with things, I have learned to accept that I don't feel confident applying makeup or following my skincare routine yet. Not long ago, she flipped those words back on me, the ones I so often tell her, as I struggled to apply eyeshadow while we got ready for a concert together: "Accept that struggle is part of the learning process." If embracing the suck means more quality time with my daughter, please sign me up over and over again.

I let her lead

Life lessons, especially in the tween and teen years, come fast and often. Relating to teen interests and experiences is also harder than it used to be in this modern, technology-driven world. My daughter's obsession with self-care has given her a chance to teach me a thing or two about what matters to her. She's created a space for us to share experiences on a platform she understands and values.

On a recent trip, I fumbled through the 20 or so shades of skin tint with SPF. Putting up my I-give-up hands, I watched my daughter take my wrist and rub a shade of tint on the back of my hand. "You need something a bit darker," she said, grabbing a darker shade and taking the lead with the confidence of a well-trained beauty store employee.

Who would have thought the back of your wrist was a good place to match your face foundation? I sure didn't. I'm not raising my hand in the back to say I know the difference between essence and face oil, but ask my daughter, and she'll exude self-assurance and rattle off the answer with a smile.

I have savored our time together

Between work and school commitments, friends, and extracurriculars, it's hard to find time to just hang with my teen. Besides a before-school Starbucks run, a trip to the beauty store is one date my daughter never says no to.

I know the last time we do our Sunday self-care routine of gossip, masks, and eye patches will come. Some day she might even want to shop for makeup just with her friends. For now, I'll keep singing Olivia at the top of my lungs with her in the car on the way to and from the store. Even if I always feel like a fish out of water in a beauty store's sensory overload, I will embrace it all for some one-on-one time with my daughter. Plus, my skin has never looked better.

• My husband and I enjoy hiking, but our kids, 7 and 10, often complain along the way.
• On a visit to Finland, we went hiking with a guide, and my kids were engaged the whole time.
• It encouraged me to change a few things about the way I approach and plan family hikes.

It was an hour into our hike through Southern Konnevesi National Park in Finland, and neither of my 7- and 10-year-old daughters was complaining. It was glorious.

Normally, within the first hour, I would have already heard the question "How much longer?" One of them would also declare, "It's boring. We're just walking."

So what was different about this hike? Why weren't they complaining? It's because I took a different approach to this hike than I have with past ones — and it worked. Here's what I did.

A stranger motivated them more than I ever could

For this hike, we had a local guide with us, and my kids hung on her every word. They were asking questions non-stop and following her down the trail without a single complaint.

I almost laughed when I saw them literally stepping in her footprints and mimicking every move she made. This is not what my husband and I were accustomed to.

When she leaned on a rock to hear "the whispers of the forest," my kids did the same. When she found edible berries, my kids rushed there to try them first.

I do my best to make hikes interesting for my kids, but I am also a first-time visitor to most of the places we explore. No matter how much I research beforehand, I usually can't predict what they will find interesting along the trail. By contrast, this local guide knew exactly how to keep them excited, which kept them moving along.

Having a job kept them interested

I also noticed that the guide occasionally gave them "crucial" jobs along the trail. Who could find the next patch of berries, who could spot mushrooms growing on a log, or who could hear a bird singing?

When we are alone, I try to do these things too, but I cannot always answer the questions that ultimately follow: "Are these berries edible?" "What kind of mushroom is that?" or "Which bird is singing?"

I know my kids are naturally curious, but I wondered why my kids seem uninterested when it's just us. I began to realize they stopped asking me questions because they knew I didn't always have answers. Since our guide did this time, they asked her. They were eager to learn.

I tailored the goal to their needs

I also noticed they had not asked the dreaded question, "How much longer?" Not even once on our 2.5-mile hike.

I kept thinking about my usual responses. I say things like, "Look at the beautiful forest. Just enjoy the view and breathe in the fresh air," or, "Come on, we're almost there. It'll be worth it when we arrive."

Kids care about what's happening in the next five minutes in a way that's different from how my husband and I approach things. I was expecting them to hike like adults, getting from one point to the next. If they can discover something new at every step, they will relish the journey and won't feel time passing slowly. That's something I'm planning to incorporate into our future family hikes.

On a different trip, we tried forest bathing with a local guide in Austria, which lasted over three hours. When it ended, my kids frowned and said, "That was so short. Can we keep going?"

We allow time for free play along the way

After these experiences, I became much more careful about which trails I choose when hiking with my kids.

I know now that the best trails for my kids are the ones that offer exciting experiences along the way: a lake where kids can swim with tadpoles, a stream to cross, or rocks to scramble over.

I've also learned not to rush the stops. My daughters love spending time throwing rocks into a lake, sending leaf rafts down a stream, balancing on fallen logs, building hearts from flowers, or watching frogs or insects.

The biggest change for me has been to stop measuring a hike's success by how far we get and start measuring it by how much fun we had.

In Finland, I realized my kids already enjoy hiking. They just enjoy different things during a hike than I do as an adult. I should never forget that sometimes the part they remember most has nothing to do with the trail itself.

During one of his son’s hockey games, Nick Paumgarten watches as his eight-year-old is hit from behind, only to rise to his feet and use his stick to hit the side of his opponent’s head. Alongside his concern for his son’s head and neck, Paumgarten, who has written about his own hockey-related concussions, rapidly processes the outcomes of the exchange: a game-deciding penalty, his own reflexive rationalization, and the evaluation of other parents who “held me in some way responsible, as both father and coach, for the violence and loss of self-control.” Paumgarten’s essay is rich with such moments of parent-coach double-consciousness, and sensitive to the numerous ways, some of them awful, in which those two identities intrude upon each other.

That Sunday, it wasn’t yet 8 A.M. when a Rye player shoved James from behind into the boards. James went down awkwardly and stayed prone a moment, then leaped up and, with an implausible ferocity, cross-checked the other kid in the ear. The Rye boy collapsed to the ice, and the other kids poured in and began grappling with one another, while parents shouted and pointed. Soon there was a pile of mites, with the two referees pulling players off and flinging them aside like puppies. Through the windows, you could see that the sun had risen over the Long Island Sound. I thought of my son’s fellow second graders back in the city, likely still asleep or watching cartoons in their pajamas or getting dressed for church or whatever the unrinked got up to on weekend mornings, but here at Playland my boy had instigated a munchkin brawl.