About a month ago, Lil Sis announced her and a friend intended to find an apartment and her time frame showed a very soon move-in date. 

“Yeah, whatever,” the missus and I mumbled.

Well, she wasn’t kidding and as soon as the seriousness grew obvious, the banana peels commenced to piling up.

It’s a strange time, really.  It’s not a surprise that the time has come, but my personal opinion is I’ve not done a whole lot to beat my chest about in regards to being a husband or a father, but as a dad? Head Zoo keeper, if you will.

It’s been my favorite job of all time. I learned ‘em how to have F-U-N soon as they were able to make us laugh, because I’ve always thought having fun was, well, fun! (The Man used my world-view against me on performance reviews for years…but that’s another blog.)

Now, I know nothing actually changes, relationship-wise but the dynamics will; some of you who have pushed past 50 know all too well. My other two kiddos moved out two and three years ago, so I know the role changes. This one is different for obvious reasons.  She’s the baby - the one dribbling rice cereal on her bib a few short years ago? Well, just about twenty short years ago, anyway. 

It’s a mish-mash of emotions, and a fruit salad that will take some time to pick through. Over the next little while I’d like to share some stuff from when they were all younger. It’ll be fun. I think Mighty Joe will enjoy it too. 

(To Pushing 50's who find themselves in a tough spot, career-wise - been there, done that, boys. Keep your smile on, your resume updated ...)

The air temperature was ninety-two, but in his small enclosed space, it felt more like one hundred and ninety two. More sweat, always more sweat, but somehow he found the strength, the guts... the gas in the tank to carry on.

His assistant ventured into the room, and cleared her throat, but he waved her away like a broom sweeping dirt and grass from a sidewalk.

The software program on the rocket booster was all dorked up for some reason, and although this technical stuff was foreign territory -- he was a nuts and bolts man -- he plunged ahead. There wasn't enough time to call the engineering guru in. He'd mow this problem down himself.

Minutes turned to hours. As he worked, he thought about the assistant. The world famous rocket scientist figured she secretly had a crush on him, but it mattered little. The work was the important thing. National security was not a trifling matter, and it left little time for affairs of the heart.

Late in the day -- isn't that how these things usually go? -- he turned a wire this way instead of that way. He swore he'd done this a thousand times, but in reality probably never had. It did the trick.

He had to calm his hands and steel his nerves against the mistakes of enthusiasm. Piece fit into piece quickly now, and he hummed along with deliberate efficiency. It went together like ham and eggs, like chips and salsa, like Briggs and Stratton.

The assistant stuck her head in the room. He paused to look at her, and for some reason, he hadn't ever recalled her as lovely. Maybe there was a possibility...

Moments later…finished. He paused, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. It was done. The tears welled up, and he let them flow. They flowed for all the sacrifices, for what this would mean to mankind.

He stuck his head out the huge door, and the sun instantly blinded him. It warmed him in a strange motherly way. Mother. How proud she would be, how she would beam at his accomplishment. There was only one thing left to do.

He began his countdown, silently at first, then aloud. As he got to, "Five-four-three," he shouted it. The joy was unbearable. He screamed, "Two-one," at the top of his lungs as great tidal waves of tears crashed down his cheeks, and then "zero," and then the moment.

It roared to life.

He jumped around like a child. Giddy, loosey-goosey. The sheer magnitude of his accomplishment hit him, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. Then the assistant came into the garage.

"What's all the shouting about?" my wife asked. "Anyway, I guess I'll call the repair shop about the lawnmower and see when. . . . Hey! You fixed the lawnmower?"

"Yes! Yes!" I yelled with eyes blazing. "We have lift-off!" And I got up and danced around some more, pushing the machine around the garage, pulling the new shortened cord to start it, shutting it off, and pulling it again.

"Bubba," she said as she looked over her sunglasses, "we gotta get you back to work soon. By the way, the handle on the toilet broke, I don't know if there's anything you can do, but. . . "

"Um, I'll go see."

* * * *

The bang from the bilge tank almost made him drop the fragile Flapper Valve Reactor Core.

"I should post a "Do Not Disturb' sign," the world famous unemployed nuclear ship builder thought to himself. . .

(...and start a journal!)

I have a couple three pair of shorts I call my everyday shorts. They are properly tore up, and reach about mid thigh.  They’re worn as PJ’s, worn around the house, for cutting the grass, cooking on the grill, and watching TV. I also have shorts for going out into the world; the kind the missus gets now and then at The Store. 

The Store is a retail outlet that often sends out double super secret mail discount stickers. When the missus gets a 30% off sticker, she immediately and repeatedly smacks her hand on her mouth, making a, “Loo-loo-loo-loo”, sound. She dances around chicken bones on the kitchen floor and calls the neighbor. I hear the reply (“loo-loo-loo-loo”) and they head over there, intent on implementing their own, more localized, financial bailout package. Then I usually end up with new, strange, and allegedly fashionable knick-knacks in my house. And, as illustrated in this story, a pair of shorts.

The shorts added to my *cough* extensive wardrobe the last couple years look strange to me. They looked strange the minute I saw them strewn across the bed, new tags hanging jauntily off to the side.  I’m not a little guy, but they looked…well…seldom does a Pushing 50 husband question what the missus buys him for clothes unless it’s ‘that’ shirt (a discussion for another day), so I just put them on.

Man, they are long, I thought. Like baseball pants long. But when I put on my well-worn, everyday shorts, I notice they kinda look like something Will Ferrell wears in his movies.  Hmmm.

As each generation meanders into its late teen and early twenties, it embraces a set of sillier than all get-out fashion rules.  Each generation honestly thinks those rules make common sense; they also know the generations before it had sillier than all get-out fashion rules. My twentysomething son and son-in-law were having a conversation the other day, and then they were talking about shorts.

I don’t know the exact context, but one of them said to the other, “Yeah, I wore them too, but my knees showed and it really sucked.” 

The other one laughed knowingly and said, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

O-o-oh, I thought. Now I get it. Cool guys don’t show their knees. Got it. But what is a Pushing 50er supposed to do for shorts? Cool went out the door a long time ago; we just need to be comfortable. The waters are muddy, that’s for sure.

It’s this generation’s turn, I guess. So just to make sure I have it straight, a guy can’t show his knees, but if he chooses, he can show half his print drawers. Right?