So, you know how you go downstairs to do laundry because you’re out of underwear, and realize that the trash can full of dryer lint has been knocked down every time you’ve gone to the basement for the last two weeks, and you know the only logical explanation is that there is a critter causing the trouble, or a ghost, and you’re hoping it’s a ghost, and then your husband goes outside and finds a flat tire, and while he’s changing the spare tire, he spills all of his coffee, so he makes more coffee, then he spills that too, so you don’t get any coffee and neither does he, and then you look in the mirror to see the painful spot on your ear where you thought your glasses were rubbing you is actually a big zit, then you get a phone call from your son’s school telling you that he can’t participate in any of the Mardi Gras celebrations because he’s not being responsible, and you’re all, “I KNOW! I don’t know what to do with him! I even write ‘BE RESPONSIBLE’ on his napkin every day!” and you want to cry because you really don’t know what to do with him, and you secretly wish it was wine o’clock, and then your daughter comes home from school with a migraine?

Yeah, me too.

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The Scene: 8th Grade Girls vs. Moms Basketball Game, Sometime Before I Did a Deep-Lunge and Traveled at the Same Time

The Culprit: Happy New Year Cardboard Horn for Use in Cheering for Mom’s Team

The Victim: My 10 Year-Old Son, Previously of Putting-His-Teeth-Through-His-Chin Fame and Known for Stopping a Skateboard with His Face

The Incident: A Fall While Holding the Horn in His Mouth, and a Traumatic Injury to the Uvula

The Result: Advil for Both of Us and an Extra Serving of Zoloft for Mom

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As I sat on the plane waiting to leave Houston and Dad 2.0 Summit, after a weekend of listening to men speak freely and without judgement about what it’s like to be a father (in a space where I thought I might feel like an interloper, but instead was welcomed freely and without judgement) I noticed a young man who was probably a little older than my daughter. He entered the plane and tossed his scruffy, One-Directionesque, side-swept hair, all brown and wavy in the style that makes teen girls swoon. I eyed his bright smile which was likely just freed from braces and wires.

A few feet from him was a man shoving his heavy, black bag into the overhead bin. He was bald, wearing wire-rimmed, round glasses that matched his belly. I guessed he was 60. He looked tired.

There were such obvious physical differences between them that I couldn’t help but wonder, despite the fact they were males, with whom I had more in common.

Want to guess where this is going?

I’m nearing my 42nd birthday so if the boy was 18 and the man was 60, I’m squarely in the older group and despite what you may think, that actually isn’t all bad. Sure, he has that belly to contend with and he probably has his fair share of aches and pains, but I’m going to go ahead and state that the elder fellow has better taste in music. Zeppelin wins. Every time. Plus, he doesn’t have to worry about doing his hair.

It was also legal for me to order a vodka and cranberry on the flight and I apparently looked just haggard enough that the flight attendant gave me a drink, plus another one, and both of them were free. She said, “I always pick someone to be nice to and you look like you need it.” Another good thing about being older is that you know insults are easier to bear when there is free alcohol involved.

Although I don’t doubt the young, wavy-haired boy has a lot to offer, he can’t possibly be sure of himself yet. He thinks he’s sure of himself, but that’s just his body trying to trick his mind. If he’s a typical teen, he doesn’t know the challenges he will face. And, there will be many.

School is hard, girls are harder, but throw in kids and a mortgage and then we’ll see if that kid doesn’t look like he could use some free liquor. Also, another benefit of age is knowing when to STOP drinking free booze. There are many times that I wouldn’t have quit at two. Go ahead and ask all the friends who’ve held my hair back.

Just because you look like you’re strong and capable it doesn’t mean you are. And, I don’t think I was even confident enough to make that statement at the age of 18. Sure, I’m capable! Do you think I’m, like, capable? What about that guy in my English class? Does he think so? Where’s my Aqua Net? I CAN’T BE CAPABLE WITHOUT BIG BANGS!

Me and that 60 year old, we may have issues, but we have the history to show we can make it through them. Either that, or we’ll die trying.

Pass the vodka.

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Sometimes, when we are just sitting around, my mom will burst into tears and tell me what a good father my kids have. I nod. “I know, Mom. I know.” And, I do.

I think part of the reason she cries is because she had a good relationship with her father and she misses him. He’s been gone since I was a child, but she still talks about him a lot. I think there is also something to be said for the fact that my mom is 78 years old and has known a lot of people who didn’t have close relationships with their dads. My grandparent’s generation wasn’t exactly known for wearing their emotions on their sleeves.

Actually, some members of my generation aren’t known for it either. There is no denying that my husband is a curmudgeon (seriously, he won’t even deny it), but he loves his kids, does all kinds of activities with them that I probably never would, instills in them a sense of responsibility, shares his faith and his dreams with them, and even though he is one of the biggest sports fans I’ve ever known, he doesn’t blink an eye at the fact that our special needs son will never be a star athlete.

Of course, my husband gets all of his parenting skills naturally because he has a great dad. As do I. Our fathers are both funny, kind, generous and loving.

Way back in 1997 I spent an amazing August afternoon dancing with all of these men. I happened to be wearing a wedding dress and at one point or another was twirled around the dance floor by my brand-new husband, my dad, and my father-in-law.

The other night my daughter’s dance club threw an event for the parents. It was held in the same hall where my husband and I had our wedding reception, and when my groom and our daughter took to the dance floor – the same dance floor where I had danced with my dad – I was the one doing the crying.

I have been so lucky to have these dads in my life and I wish the same thing for my girl.

So far, so good.

Speaking of dads, I’ll be on a panel at the Dad 2.0 Summit in Houston this weekend where some of the best parents in social media will be gathering to declare, “Parenting isn’t just for moms, and neither is blogging!” I just made that quote up, but I’m pretty sure they’ll want to to put it on a bumper sticker.

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