• I was diagnosed with ADHD at 38. I spent most of my life masking things I didn't know were ADHD.
• Instead of pretending I'm fine, I tell my sons when my brain is full and my battery is running low.
• I'm teaching them that everybody has different limits and it's important to know and respect them.

There are nights when I look at my two boys, 13 and 10, and announce, "My battery is at 1%."

They know what this means.

I get much quieter. The pile of clothes I told myself I was going to fold gets moved to the floor and becomes tomorrow's problem. Video game sounds that normally wouldn't bother me suddenly send my whole system into overdrive. If both kids are talking to me at once, I sometimes have to say, "I can't process what either one of you is saying right now."

Eventually, I can hit what feels like an actual wall. I go into a burnout shutdown where decision-making becomes almost impossible. My brain feels frozen. I know there are things I should be doing, but I can't organize them into a next step. If I'm overstimulated enough, I can barely formulate a cohesive thought.

Sometimes the only thing that helps is going into my room, closing the door, and sitting in complete silence.

I don't hide this from my kids. I let them see it on purpose.

I spent most of my life not knowing my brain worked differently

I was diagnosed with ADHD at 38. Until then, I genuinely didn't know other people's brains worked the way mine did. The best way I can describe my brain is that there are three musicals happening on three different stages at the same time. There are songs, conversations, ideas, and a constant stream of thoughts all competing for my attention.

From the outside, I looked highly functional. I was an A+ student. I worked hard. I got things done. I became an entrepreneur.

Internally, I was exhausted to the point that it sometimes felt like an existential level.

I remember hitting this same wall when I was around the same age as my sons. My parents didn't understand what was happening, and why would they? ADHD wasn't something anyone was considering for me. I wasn't physically hyperactive. All of the pinging was happening inside my head. So I learned to push through it and, eventually, to look calm while doing it.

In our family, we talk about our batteries

Our family therapist gave us an analogy that has become part of our language: Everybody is like a cell phone. Our batteries drain differently, and they recharge differently.

My older son is an introvert like me. We can love being around people and still need significant quiet afterward. For me, recharging means real quiet — a chunk of time when nobody is talking to me, asking me a question, or needing me to make a decision.

My younger son, who also has ADHD, is almost the opposite. I always say he's fueled by people. Talking to friends and being around other people can actually charge him. I love that distinction because even people whose brains are wired similarly don't necessarily need the same things.

There isn't one correct way to recharge.

I want my kids to know before they're 38

Being a single parent means I can't disappear into silence every time my battery gets low. Sometimes the video game is still playing. Somebody still needs something. Life keeps happening.

I've stopped believing that being a good mother means hiding the fact that I have limits. I'm not asking my children to take care of me. I'm letting them know me.

I want them to understand that people who love each other get to be human in front of one another. You can say, "I need quiet." You can say, "I need people." You can say, "My brain is too full right now." Limits aren't character flaws, and rest isn't something you earn only after you've completely depleted yourself.

For most of my life, I thought strength meant pushing through until nobody could tell I was struggling. I'm trying to teach my kids something different: learn what drains your battery. Learn what charges it. Tell the people you love what you need. And don't wait until you're at 1% to plug yourself back in.

• I'm a dietitian and let my two kids enjoy Halloween candy without making them feel guilty.
• After trick-or-treating, I let them each choose five favorite pieces of candy to save for later.
• The Candy Fairy takes the rest and leaves a small toy, making the exchange fun rather than a punishment.

Editor's note: Do you let your kids keep all their Halloween candy? Do you have them pick a few they can keep? Share in the comments what your approach is.

Every Halloween, I know exactly what's coming: two excited kids, costumes, a neighborhood full of candy, and by the end of the night, bags that seemingly weigh almost as much as they do.

They look forward to trick-or-treating for months. Every year it's the same: despite my annual request that they wait until we get home to start eating their haul, more candy than I'd like gets eaten while we're still walking around the neighborhood.

I'm a registered dietitian, but I'm also a mom. Halloween is supposed to be fun, the kind of event that becomes a core childhood memory. I want my kids to feel "normal" in the best sense of the word. I want them to run from house to house, trade candy, and enjoy the same traditions as their friends without feeling like they have different rules because their mom happens to be a dietitian.

At the same time, I want them to understand balance.

When we get home, they may each have a few more pieces. Then we dump everything out, and they choose about five favorite pieces to save for later.

The rest goes to the Candy Fairy.

My kids write letters to the Candy Fairy

The Candy Fairy takes the extra candy and leaves a small toy in exchange. My kids even write her letters and put them in the mailbox. It turns getting rid of the excess into something fun instead of a punishment.

They still get the excitement of collecting candy and choosing the pieces they really love, while having some control over what stays. I'm not deciding which candy they're allowed to keep or telling them what they should like. They get to decide which pieces are worth saving and which ones they're ready to give up. I get to avoid having a ridiculous amount of candy sitting in the house until Thanksgiving.

My daughter may be starting to outgrow the tradition now, at 9 years old, but my son probably has a few more Candy Fairy years left. Eventually, though, I hope the tradition evolves with them.

Instead of sending the candy to a fairy, we can donate it to an organization they feel good about supporting. They'll still get that sense of pride and reward, only by then, the Candy Fairy will just be Mom, celebrating an act of kindness.

I want them to still enjoy their candy

There's also a practical reason this approach works for our family: our food environment matters. One phrase I often use is, "In house, in mouth." When I say that, I mean that food is harder to ignore when it's staring you in the face every time you open the pantry.

Halloween creates a strange kind of stress for parents. We don't want to teach our kids to fear candy, but we also don't want pounds of treats sitting in the house for weeks on end.

For me, it simply isn't worth that mental energy. I'm OK with having less Halloween candy around for a few days. Another family might feel fine keeping it for a month, and some may hardly be affected by it at all. There isn't a one-size-fits-all correct deadline.

I don't believe promoting a healthy relationship with food means pretending every food serves the same purpose. My kids know candy doesn't nourish their bodies the way the foods we eat every day do. It's a treat, a "fun food." Halloween is an occasion to enjoy those treats. I want my kids to enjoy their candy and not feel guilty about it. What I don't want is one night of celebration quietly stretching into a month simply because we happened to collect too much.

To me, teaching balance means holding both ideas at once: something can be enjoyable without needing to be available in unlimited amounts. That's the middle ground I'm trying to teach my kids. To me, food freedom includes structure. Boundaries simply make expectations clear.

The extra candy doesn't have to go in the trash

Families can look for local donation programs. Soldiers' Angels runs Treats for Troops, which collects Halloween candy for service members, veterans, and military communities. Some dental offices and community organizations may also serve as collection sites, so it's worth checking local options. Some families might freeze a few favorite chocolates or save candy for baking.

The point is not that there is one perfect way to handle it.

Our rule is simple: Enjoy Halloween. Eat some candy. Pick a few pieces you really love. Then let the Candy Fairy, or a good cause, handle the rest. For our family, that feels like the right balance.

My kids get to be kids, participate like everyone else, get excited about costumes, have fun with their friends, enjoy the candy on Halloween night, and learn that food freedom and boundaries can exist together.

Amid a growing trend of parent-child estrangement, experts say recognizing the early warning signs may help families address problems before they escalate into a no-contact situation.

Nearly four in 10 Americans are currently estranged from at least one close family member, according to a 2025 YouGov poll of 4,395 U.S. adults. That includes 24% who reported estrangement from a sibling, 16% from a parent and 10% from a child.

While estrangement can sometimes seem sudden, experts say subtle changes may signal that a family relationship is beginning to unravel.

CUT OFF BY YOUR ADULT CHILD? PSYCHOLOGY RESEARCHER REVEALS WHAT PARENTS SHOULD DO NEXT

The quiet signs

Mary McLaughlin, a licensed couples and family therapist in Vienna, Virginia, said early signs may include an adult child becoming less willing to share details of their life directly with a parent.

"You might find out about the trip, the new relationship or a promotion at work at the same time everyone else does," she told Fox News Digital.

The parent may still be in contact with the adult child, McLaughlin said, but the child no longer chooses to share parts of their life directly.

ADULT CHILDREN CUTTING OFF PARENTS AS SOME BLAME THERAPY FOR FAMILY ESTRANGEMENTS

Other potential warning signs may include skipping family holidays, birthdays or weddings; leaving texts and calls unanswered; and reducing communication to brief or sporadic exchanges, according to the expert.

The distance may become so noticeable that siblings, grandparents or other relatives comment that they have not seen or heard from the adult child in a long time.

A child who once readily joined family photos but begins stepping out of them may also be signaling that they are starting to see themselves as separate from the family, McLaughlin said.

Blythe Landry, a Pennsylvania-based therapist and founder of Blythe Landry Coaching, said other early signs may include a child becoming involved with a new social group that encourages estrangement over difficult conversations, or "beginning to rewrite history in a way that seems more damaging than what might have happened."

The adult child may also become less willing to let a parent spend time with their grandchildren.

‘QUIET QUITTING’ IN MARRIAGE: THE SUBTLE SIGNS A SPOUSE HAS EMOTIONALLY CHECKED OUT

The most telling sign may be a noticeable shift in the tone of the relationship, Landry said.

"You know your child, and you know when the energy has shifted in a direction that seems dramatically harsher than in previous interactions."

The shift to independence

Laura Wellington, a Connecticut mother who has been estranged from her adult daughter since 2024, said it can be challenging to distinguish early signs of estrangement from typical moves toward independence.

"It’s confusing to the parent because, a lot of times, they look like the general signs of a teenager moving into the young-adult zone — just pulling away and going off and establishing their lives," she told Fox News Digital.

"That’s what I think confuses many parents, because they want to give them the space to start pulling away and showing signs of their own individuality and carving their path."

"They don’t want to fight every battle, because if they fight every battle, then communication breaks down. So they try to pick and choose."

Loss of respect

One warning sign, according to Wellington, is if the child has an "I know everything, you know nothing" mindset.

"What's happening in our society today is … a lot of ‘I know everything, you know nothing’ toward the parent," she said. "There's no respect for what the parents experience. There's no tolerance for them speaking up and saying, ‘No, this is not what you should be doing.’"

In some cases, the child may begin treating the parent as a subordinate, according to Wellington.

Some parents begin to notice a shift when their adult children start treating them with disrespect, pushing back on their opinions and positioning themselves as the authority in the relationship, she said.

"They become the authority; they flip it. Anytime you say something, you’ll see them bark at the parent and push back on the parent. They really have no respect for the parent."

Different worldviews

Wellington also pointed to major differences in political, religious or lifestyle beliefs as a possible source of growing distance between parents and adult children.

She suggested that some young people who become estranged are "more liberal in thinking," while acknowledging that the dynamic can also work in the opposite direction when a parent holds especially strong ideological views.

"There is extremism sometimes where the parent is extremely something, and then the child … goes the other way," she said.

Richard Blake, Ph.D., a Texas-based psychology researcher who focuses on anxiety and family estrangement, said an adult child’s unwillingness to consider differing views may signal trouble.

He suggested that personality may play a role, with more argumentative adult children who are less willing to consider differing views potentially more prone to family estrangement.

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Repeated cutoffs

Another possible warning sign, according to Blake, is if the adult child has begun cutting off other people. He said parents should take note if an adult child has repeatedly stopped speaking to relatives or openly boasts about ending relationships.

"Chances are, they're going to cut off someone else, and it may be the parent," he said. "If you haven’t been cut off yet, you may be in the firing line there."

Communication breakdown

Ongoing communication problems may be an early warning sign, Blake said, particularly when an adult child feels that a parent refuses to listen or acknowledge the child’s point of view.

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"They may say, 'My parents just don’t listen. I cannot get through to them. It’s like talking to a brick wall.'"

Parents who consistently dismiss their children’s concerns should not be surprised when conflict develops, he said.

"If you don’t listen to your child, then don’t be surprised if you have conflict with them."

Blake recommends listening actively, avoiding interruptions, repeating back what the other person has said and asking a simple follow-up question: "First, you say, 'Is there more?'"

No clear warning

While there may be some early signs, Blake emphasized that estrangement can sometimes appear suddenly, with no warning.

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"A lot of parents will say, ‘My child never told me the issue. We were best friends. And then I got a letter saying, never contact me ever again.’"

"That is a big problem. It's like people don't even know why they get cut off."

TEST YOURSELF WITH OUR LATEST LIFESTYLE QUIZ

Landry noted that recognizing possible warning signs should prompt honest self-reflection, not just concern about the other person’s behavior.

"If there is an imminent estrangement, dig deep," she advised. "Do you have a part? If so, is there a chance of rectifying it before it occurs?"

Marijuana is becoming the new alcohol — or worse. And children are paying the price.

Not only is cannabis use skyrocketing in this country, with close to 70 million users every year, but parents are increasingly subjecting their children to wafting, intoxicating smoke.

A new study from the University of California San Diego, a school based in a state with a big marijuana problem, shows that nationwide approximately 6 million children are living with a parent who uses cannabis most days.

MARIJUANA USE RISES SHARPLY AMONG ONE GROUP OF AMERICANS, NEW STUDY FINDS

As I pointed out on "The Ingraham Angle" recently (both host Laura Ingraham and I are highly concerned about the impact of chronic marijuana use), children are twice as likely to use cannabis themselves if they live in a household where a parent is a regular user, according to the National Survey on Drug Use and Health.

Cannabis use has more than doubled in the adult population over the past two decades (it’s now over 8%), according to data from the National Center for Biotechnology Information.

MARIJUANA USERS MAY FACE HIDDEN DRIVING DANGER THAT STANDARD TESTS CAN MISS

Cannabis is highly addictive, and the THC content has increased greatly in all its forms, making it more and more dangerous. Edibles now typically contain up to 10 mg THC per serving, and concentrates and vape cartridges contain 50% to 95% THC (the psychoactive chemical in cannabis). The buds and flowers used for joints, vapes, edibles and concentrates are now 15 to 25% THC — a few decades ago, the amount was just 1 to 2%.

Children are the victims here, and the impact starts as early as the womb. Fetal exposure leads to nearly twice the risk of premature birth and a two-and-a-half-times-greater risk of being born underweight or needing immediate medical intervention in the Neonatal ICU. Yet national data shows that over 5% of pregnant women have used marijuana products over the past month, and the number is climbing. 

SHARON STONE'S TERRIFYING WEED WITHDRAWAL SPARKS WARNING ABOUT TODAY'S POTENT MARIJUANA

Plus, if a child is exposed to marijuana in the womb, research shows that there is a 2.5 times greater risk of THC product use during the child’s early teen years.

A landmark study from Harvard found that a mother’s cannabis use during a child’s first 12 years of life is linked to the child beginning to use marijuana by the age of 16. 

BRAD PITT SAYS HE CAN DRINK IN ‘RESTRAINED MANNER’ AFTER 7 SOBER YEARS, BUT EXPERT RAISES RED FLAG

Regular marijuana use is not just addictive and contagious; it also directly impacts parenting. Parents who are regular users are more prone to emotional outbursts, car accidents, poor parenting, and mental health disorders.

Regular cannabis use can also cause emotional dysregulation, mood swings, impaired judgment and unexpected outbursts of anger or irritability. Research shows that anxiety in parents leads directly to anxiety in children. 

Where do we go from here? Look to our long history with alcohol. Strategies developed and used over generations for dealing with another highly addictive substance, alcohol, can help parents develop the tools they need to help themselves and their children.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE FOX NEWS OPINION

In my new book, "The Angels Among Us," I share the story of how Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder Bill Wilson is inspired by God’s presence, which comes to him in a "blinding glare of white light." After previously living with debilitating alcoholism, Wilson discovers that sobriety becomes its own reward as he helps other alcoholics find a path to recovery. He finds that his method works best when he is sharing mutual experiences rather than preaching to other addicts. 

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Although 130 million Americans drink alcohol — twice the number who use cannabis — more Americans consume cannabis daily than drink alcohol daily. 

Bill Wilson’s humble strategies of connectivity and spiritual cures can be applied to both addictions.

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE FROM DR. MARC SIEGEL

• Yolanda Williams, 46, bought 3 acres in Arkansas and moved there with her daughter.
• She invited another single mom she met online to live on the property with her two kids.
• They now share expenses, childcare, and emotional support in what they call a "mommune."

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Yolanda Williams, 46, who lives in central Arkansas with her 9-year-old daughter on a farm with another single mom and her two kids. They help each other with childcare, mental support, and more. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

In 2021, after my daughter Gia and I got COVID, we decided to take a drive one day. I came across this one little road that I fell in love with.

We kept coming back, driving around this neighborhood in Arkansas, and it became our Sunday thing. We'd get in the car and get ourselves a sweet treat — me a coffee and her a cinnamon roll — and drive around for an hour looking at all the different farms and houses and really just visualizing the life we wanted.

We did that for two years before I found our 3.19-acre land in rural Arkansas. After visiting it, I purchased the land in 2023 on Facebook Marketplace, For-Sale-By-Owner. It cost $40,000 to buy, and I put down $12,000.

It was fully forested raw land, so I could only see part of it, but I used a real estate agent for the process. At the end of 2024, I secured a grant to help pay for the infrastructure, and I spent 2025 getting the land ready to move into. We didn't move until March 2026 because the land needed clearing and practical things such as a driveway and utilities.

The process was expensive because I didn't have much money left to build anything on the land. We got an RV as a place to stay, stash money, and build in the next five years.

Before I'm 50, I would like to have a permanent home built on the land

I'm from Southern California, and when I left in 2017, I was paying $600 to rent a guest room from my friend. Now, I pay $485 for my land mortgage and $400 for my RV payment a month. So, all in all, for me to be on this land, it's around $885 per month. Utilities run about $150 to $200 a month in the summer, and then $100 for water. It's exponentially cheaper to live like this, especially in Arkansas.

Here we have the freedom to roam and to be outside. I'm always in the garden. I've actually lost 30lbs since March because I move so much, and I didn't even realize it. I'm getting a lot more sun and exercise — so is my daughter. I feel more content, I feel more at peace.

However, this move has turned into so much more than that for us. I've been a single mom since my daughter Gia was born. She's 9 now, and I've never truly felt what it's like to have support, to have someone around all the time. By chance, that all changed this year.

I'm not sure who followed who first, but I met a single mom called Sunnie on Threads

She posted on the social media app Threads about wanting to buy land, and I commented back that she should consider Arkansas. I explained to her that land is cheap out here, and I gave her a bunch of information.

A few months later, I randomly saw her posting on Threads that she was in Arkansas with her two kids, who were 11 and 5 years old, looking for land, so I slipped into her DMs, and we exchanged numbers. I texted her to arrange a meet-up and to show her my land. Mind you, this was before I had actually moved onto the property.

The first time we met, we had pizza with the kids. They had a look around, and the kids played really well together. Gia likes the pizza crust but not the actual pizza, and one of Sunnie's kids likes the pizza but not the crust, so it worked out perfectly.

They helped me around the property as I was in the main stretch of getting everything ready for me to move on to. That's when we got to talking about her potentially living here while she searched for her own land.

Sunnie lived in a different city about an hour from me, and she didn't know anyone in Arkansas. I offered her the chance to stay with us to avoid spending money on hotels and Ubers. Although she wanted to buy her own land, I made it clear that she was welcome to stay with me as long as she wanted to. We now split the mortgage and utility costs in half.

That's how our "mommune" started.

Although we didn't know each other for long, I felt a strong connection and vibe

I loved that she was very much like, "I want to put my gloves on, and I want to help you," when it came to laying the foundations around the property, such as weeding, spraying for ticks, building planters, and sowing seeds. Now we garden together and grow as much as we can — like comfrey, lemon balm, mint, and basil. We even make our own fertilizer.

And you know, that's what's missing. A lot of people want this life, but they don't want to actually roll their sleeves up and get dirty to help one another.

Sunnie was essentially a complete stranger. But what I've been trying to do is listen to myself and trust myself. I really felt a great vibe from Sunnie, and my daughter really took to her. We got along, and it just felt right.

Yes, it's hard to build trust because you can't really trust anyone until you start to be around them all the time, but the whole thing with Sunnie is she came, and we sat, and we had a discussion about money and about expectations and about childcare. You just have to be willing to have the hard conversations in order to build a community, and I want to be around people who understand me.

We're now growing food together and raising wildlings.

This is our matriarchal community

What I always try to tell people is we need to decenter and deprioritize romantic relationships and just focus on relationships in general, whatever that support looks like.

Whether that's friendship or family, focus on building that community, and we will get the support we're looking for, but if you're only focused on needing a man or a husband or partner to have security to feel supported, then a lot of people will miss out on invaluable support with friends or other women.

For example, I was having a really hard time this Mother's Day — it's just a hard day for me. Sunnie saw that I wasn't in a good space, so she took the kids and left so I could get some alone time. Having that support and knowing that I can say "hey, I'm having a hard time with motherhood right now" and someone will not only understand but will help me through that by watching my kid for me, taking her to the park, or giving me some space — it has been life-changing. It's the support that I need.

We really just help each other out. When I have to leave and go somewhere, I'll ask her to come inside the RV or to watch Gia play outside, and she does. Vice versa — if she needs me to watch her children, it's really not a big deal. We just ask each other for favors like: "If you're out at the store, can you get me this?"

We communicate really well with each other, and we help each other out any way we need to, and that includes having dinner together sometimes, watching TV together, and I will let her kids come over here so she can have a break and be able to be in her RV by herself, or we'll go to the park so she can be by herself sometimes.

Ever since I met Sunnie, I can just tell there's a change in my nervous system. Having someone here means I can tap out. I'm 46 this year, and I wouldn't trade this mommune we've built for the world.

• I dreamed of being a mother for a long time; it is what I wanted most in this world.
• I have two beautiful children, and I think the world of them. They are my greatest joy.
• They are also my biggest burden, and that's never going to change.

My children bring me more joy than anything else. It's not an exaggeration when I say that I would do anything to make them happy.

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming a mother. I played with baby dolls and treated them as though they were real. My dream was never to have a big, fancy job or travel the world. I wanted to be a mom.

That dream came true in 2018, when my daughter was born. Five years later, my son came into the world, and my heart grew in ways I hadn't known were possible. My children are my greatest blessing, the loves of my life, and the source of a happiness I had imagined since childhood.

They are also my biggest burden.

Two truths can exist

I know my words might sound harsh. How can the people you love most in the world also be a burden? Before you judge, let me explain.

I am happily married and have been for going on 10 years. I have a thriving business, I have friends and hobbies, and we travel quite a bit as a family. I have many things in my life to be grateful for.

But none of those things bring me the kind of happiness, pure joy, and love that my children do.

But along with that kind of love comes something else. A burden, if you will. As long as I am a mother, I will worry about my children. It doesn't matter how old they get or how far away they go. They will always be a part of me, and a part of my mind will always be occupied by them.

My feelings will evolve

The worries will change, of course. Today, I might worry that they will fall at the park, come home crying about a bad grade, or have a fight with a friend.

Tomorrow, I may worry about whether they can find a job, if they are happy in their relationships, or whether they are struggling under the weight of life.

The older they get, the more I will have to accept that there are parts of their lives I cannot see, decisions I cannot make for them, and difficulties I cannot always help them overcome.

That is the hardest part. I can love them, guide them, support them, and do everything in my power to protect them. But I cannot guarantee that they will always be happy. I cannot shield them from every disappointment or make sure that life will be kind to them.

This is the burden I am talking about. Not my children themselves, but the weight of loving them so deeply that their happiness and well-being will always matter to me.

This is a feeling I can't turn off

I will never stop thinking about my children. In that sense, motherhood is a mental burden. It is the constant awareness of someone else's well-being, the knowledge that there will always be someone to worry about, even when there is nothing immediately wrong.

Sometimes, I think about the freedom of having a mind that belongs entirely to you. To be able to sit quietly, enjoy a moment, or make plans without a part of your mind wandering toward the people you love and wondering whether they are OK.

If I had only myself to worry about, I would surely still have problems, fears, and anxieties. Life would not suddenly become easy. But there is a difference between worrying about yourself and worrying about someone else, especially someone you brought into this world.

There is no real escape from this responsibility. I can be on holiday, enjoying a beautiful day, or sitting quietly with nothing pressing to do, and still find my thoughts returning to my children. The responsibility does not disappear just because, in that moment, there is nothing I need to do.

I chose this and have no regrets

Motherhood takes away a certain kind of freedom, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't give up the joy, the love, or the privilege of watching them grow just to reclaim that part of myself that existed before I became a mother.

But I can acknowledge that something has changed. Becoming a mother has meant that I will never again experience life in quite the same way. My heart is no longer concerned only with my own happiness. It is tied to two other people, and it will remain so for the rest of my life until the day I take my final breath.

Maybe this is what it means to be a mother: to carry a love so great that it brings you your greatest happiness, and your greatest worry, all at once.

• Nike CEO Elliott Hill said he schedules his personal and family time on his calendar.
• When he's not traveling, he follows a structured routine.
• He said his early workdays did not stop him from finding time for his kids.

Nike CEO Elliott Hill said he protects family time by scheduling them like work commitments.

Hill, who came out of retirement to lead Nike in 2024, said he follows a structured routine when he is not traveling.

"What time I try to get to sleep, what time I try to wake up. I get a workout in every morning, too. That helps keep me grounded and keeps me balanced," Hill told host Greg Byrne on the "You Got Byrned" podcast.

He said he makes a point of identifying what matters most to him and scheduling time for those priorities.

"I sat down, and I actually listed what was important to me: family, friends, my own personal — and then work — growth, and I put commitments underneath each one of those, and then I built them into my calendar," Hill said.

For example, he said he knew his work schedule meant he would miss his two kids before they headed to school, so he found other ways to show up for them.

"I knew I wasn't ever going to be there for breakfast with the kids because I was an early bird, and I was going to be in the office," Hill said. "But I did say I'm going to be home for dinner, and I had my admin build it into my calendar so that I would leave in time to be home for dinner."

He also blocks off parent-teacher conferences and other school events on his schedule, and said he would shift work trips when they overlap with those commitments.

"It all comes down to being very deliberate about what's important to us. Writing it on a piece of paper was very, very helpful, and then being planful enough to build it into your calendar. That's how I've always managed the balance," Hill said.

Hill joined Nike as a sales representative intern in 1988 and spent more than three decades in the company in a range of roles. He retired in 2020 after leading Nike's commercial and marketing operations, then returned in 2024 as CEO.

Other business leaders have also shared the systems and habits they rely on to stay organized.

Leah Solivan, a venture capitalist and the founder of TaskRabbit, told Business Insider in April that she uses six color-coded calendars to stay on top of her day.

The cofounder and CEO of Fishwife, Becca Millstein, told Business Insider in September that she does not hold company meetings without a written agenda.

Allie K. Miller, the CEO of Open Machine, told Business Insider in early October that she'll take regular "Claude walks," during which she'll walk for an hour while talking to AI or taking a call.

• I thought being a good mother meant being fair and treating all of my kids the same way.
• But each of my six kids has different personalities and abilities and needs their own set of rules.
• It can be hard for my kids at times, but I am no longer compelled to make everything even.

For years, I thought being a good mother meant being a fair mother. And being fair, I assumed, meant treating all of my children exactly the same.

With six kids, this seemed especially important. I didn't want anyone keeping score — or, more accurately, I didn't want to give them anything to keep score about. If one child had a certain bedtime at 9:00 p.m., surely the next one should, too. Chores should be divided equally. Consequences should be consistent. Privileges should come at the same ages.

Equal meant fair. Except it didn't.

My thinking evolved

The longer I parented, the harder it became to ignore what was right in front of me: I wasn't raising six versions of the same child. I was raising six completely different people.

One of my children thrives when given independence. Give them a responsibility and some space, and they'll usually rise to the occasion. Another needs more structure, more reminders, and more check-ins. That doesn't make one child more responsible or the other less capable. They simply need different things from me.

The same is true of privileges. I used to think that if one child earned a later curfew at a certain age, every child should automatically receive the same privilege when they reached that age. Now I understand that age isn't the only factor. Trust is built through choices. A child who has consistently demonstrated responsibility may be ready for freedom that a sibling at the same age isn't ready for yet.

Sometimes, I feel guilty

My decisions can be hard to explain when the inevitable "But they got to!" comes flying across the room. And sometimes, if I'm being truthful, the difference has nothing to do with the children at all. My youngest gets more bedtime stories than my oldest did.

That realization could easily become another entry on the endless list of things mothers feel guilty about. But my oldest didn't have the same mother my youngest has. Back then, I was younger, less experienced, and more concerned with getting everything right. I rushed through routines because there was always something else that needed to be done.

Six children later, I understand how quickly those routines disappear. I linger a little longer now.

That doesn't mean I loved my older children less. It means motherhood has changed me. The mother raising my youngest has learned things the mother raising my oldest hadn't learned yet.

I know this is the right way for me to parent

For a while, parenting my children differently felt like admitting I was inconsistent. Now I see it as evidence that I'm paying attention. My 8-year-old, who has always been an early riser, requires more sleep than some of his siblings, so he is the first to go to bed, while his younger siblings stay up a little later. It is unusual from the outside looking in, but it is what best meets his needs.

Fairness doesn't always mean equal chores, identical consequences, or the same privileges at the same ages. Sometimes fairness means giving more guidance to the child who needs it and more independence to the one who is ready for it. It means recognizing that one child may need encouragement while another needs accountability.

My children still notice the differences, of course. They are children. Keeping track of who got what seems practically written into the sibling job description. But I no longer feel compelled to make everything even.

My job isn't to make sure all six of my children receive exactly the same childhood; It's to know each of them well enough to give them the childhood they need. After years of trying so hard to be equal, I've finally realized that might be the fairest thing I can do. I won't always get it right. I'm still learning these six very different people as they grow and change—and trying to grow and change with them. Maybe good parenting was never about getting everything exactly right. Maybe it's simply about paying attention, loving them well, and doing the best I can with the mother I am today.

Maka Gogaladze’s debut feature looks at generational differences in the context of Georgia’s education system and emphasis on collectivism

The scars imprinted on impressionable young minds can never fully fade away. Aiming her lens at a rocky beach thrashed by crashing waves, Maka Gogaladze opens her intimate film with a painful anecdote from her adolescent years. Through on-screen texts against a stormy sky, the Georgian film-maker recalls the time she dumped all of her poems into the garbage. The impulsive decision was a gesture of rebellion against her domineering mother; Gogaladze had wanted her to feel guilty.

This debut feature would appear, at first glance, to be another act of revolt. Putting her mother in front of the camera, Gogaladze asks probing, at times blunt, questions about the strict education thrust on her in childhood. Together, they talk about piano lessons that ended in tears, and tough academic exams that continued to haunt the director well into her adulthood. Their contrasting personalities are fascinatingly revealed across these conversations in all their tension, yet these sequences also represent a moving effort to reach across generational differences.

• 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.