Drives to School

Michael Kerin and his teenage daughter Michaela of Bethany are co-contributors to the column, “Really Dad?” in which they explore the world through the eyes of their respective generation.

Michael

Black Converse kicks are propped on the dashboard of the TT, with the “Sound of Sunshine” pouring through the speakers. Michaela’s head rocks from side to side as she screams the lyrics: “And that’s the sound of sunshine pouring down, down down, down…” I turn down the radio to try to find out which bus she is taking home, and what she is going to be doing after school since I am flying solo this week while my wife, Lisa, is visiting with “her Mom and them” down on the Redneck Riviera.

She cranks up the lyrics and then mumbles something that I cannot decipher above the cacophony blaring from the Bose. I turn to ask her what she just said in time to see a swish of a camisole being pulled over her head.

“Dad, I said don’t look!” This time the instruction registers clearly in my eardrums that have been dulled by years of unprotected target practice decades ago. How was I supposed to know she had changed my car into an impromptu dressing room? The song keeps banging on.

“So I jump back in there where I learned to swim, Try to keep my head above it the best I can…”
I ask my daughter what was up with her sudden wardrobe change. She tells me that her blouse was too transparent, so she had to add a layer. Immediately, I wonder how I could have missed something so apparent after spending the last half an hour with her at home. But in the blur of getting breakfast ready, feeding the dogs, trying to address a few Christmas cards and organize some workout clothes, I had missed the obvious. The truth is she could have gotten into the car with her hair on fire, and I would have thought the car ahead of me was burning some oil. That would never have occurred on Lisa’s watch: she would have had Michaela hotfooting it back up to her room before she reached the bottom step of the stairway.
I muse about what a lousy father I am as we begin lurching across the speed bumps in the high school driveway, seeing the sleepy upper classmen stagger out of their cars and amble toward the front door. This time next year Mickey will be one of them, driving herself to and from school. I am reminded of a friend’s somber observation recently that he “lost” his daughter the day she got her license. How do the years unspool so quickly? Wasn’t it just five minutes ago that her feet dangled from her car seat as she gave me a good luck kissing hand before skipping into her elementary school?

I resolve to find out the particulars of her plans for the weekend as I turn down the radio again. Getting answers to the five W’s is the essence of good parenting after all. “So Mickey…” I manage to say before she jams up the volume.. She is smiling, rollicking in the beat that will not be denied. She knows just how far she can push me, and I am right at the brink.
“Here I am…Just waiting for this storm to pass me by…”

We pull up to the curb, and I am still clueless about her plans. She nudges me to join her in the chorus. We belt it out, as she gathers her book bag and candles she’s giving to her teachers. I realize with an odd mixture of sadness and pride that she had not needed me or her mother to tell her how to dress this morning. She handled it quite nicely herself. Now she’s almost out the door, and still, I do not know the plan. She clicks open her door, starts out, then turns back to grab my hand and deposit a kiss in it. “I’ll text you later about the plans…” Then she’s gone.
I idle down the driveway listening to the sound of sunshine coming down.

Michaela

A morning in the Kerin household is more hectic than any mall on Black Friday. When I wake up, I go down and take T-Bone and Chai out and make sure they are both fed and watered. On the way back upstairs, I turn on and/or refill the Keurig so we can all make coffee. My mom usually cooks breakfast which I know is done when the smoke alarm goes off. Then have to choose a tie to match Dad’s suit, shoes and a scarf to match mom’s outfit, and eventually, I get myself ready. The bell which initiates class dings at exactly 7:32 every morning. My first period class on most days is AP United States History, one of my most challenging. And my parents wonder why I am always late getting in the car.

For most people, the ride to school is a short period of peace and quiet to gather themselves: for me, it is no less hectic than the rest of the morning. While mom uses one eye and hand to drive and the other eye and hand to put on mascara, I rip the knots out of my hair with a brush until I can glide it through my luscious locks without making me wince. Then I plug the AUX cord into my phone and the jam sesh begins. My mom is beginning to gain an appreciation for my taste in music, which my dad continues to deem “nonsense.” Really Dad? My goal is to turn the music up loud enough that my mom can’t hear herself thinking of questions to ask about the day. My mouth and brain have a disconnect until at least 9 a.m.; I cannot yet handle the interrogation. Usually, the scheme works and the only words escaping through the beat are the lyrics to my favorite songs by Wiz Khalifa, J Cole, Kanye West, and all of the other rappers my dad does not approve of. On rare occasion, my dad is the one to take me to school, an experience my brothers dreaded when they were my age.

In elementary school, the drop off area was a large loop which parents would follow until they reached the school greeter and then they would follow the circle the rest of the way around and out of the parking lot. However, it seems my dad had witnessed a few too many of my horse shows because he would prance through the circle a few extra times, completing victory laps, beeping here and there so everyone knew who was arriving. The woman who ushered the children out of their cars began to cover her ears when she saw my father’s TT roll up. Then came middle school, and a different drop off scene. Here, the cars would pull in and follow a straight line from one side of the parking lot to the opposite end, and out onto the road. I honestly do not know if this was on purpose or just to humiliate me, but my dad would go the wrong way nine out of ten times and proceed to beep for the entire length of the road. Thanks for that one by the way, I got laughed at by the security guard almost daily.

And most recently, high school rides with dad. Where to begin? For part of my freshman year, I rode to school with both Caelan and Andrew. In just a few rides, my dad horrified all three of us in haunting ways, mostly targeting the boys. I’ll share a few instances. Usually, my brothers stormed out of the car while the wheels were still turning because they couldn’t get out fast enough. They would then whip their backpacks onto their shoulders (although I’m surprised they fit over their bulging egos) and swagger toward the side door. On one occasion when my dad didn’t scream something along the lines of “Don’t forget you have ballet practice tonight boys!” he did something worse. This time, the boys couldn’t pretend they didn’t know the crazy man in the sports car: they were trapped. My dad not only tied their backpacks together in the trunk, he tied them to the trunk. So when it came time, the boys hopped out of the car with their “cool dude tudes” as my dad calls them, and went to grab their backpacks but obviously couldn’t get them. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, my brothers for looking like goons, or me, waiting for them, revealing not only that I was related to the goons, but also, I was related to the crazy dude in the TT.

This year, with Caelan and Andrew gone, I am the new target. However, at this point, there is not much that my dad can do to embarrass me, I have seen it all. Riding with my dad is like riding with my mom, except when I blast the music it’s to drown out my dad when he screams out the window: “Michaela Kerin, is that the boy that you told me you want to go to prom with?” and other horrifying slurs. Suffice it to say, if mom isn’t available, I would rather ride the filthy bus than my other option.

The Last Goodbye

Michael

My heart refused to do the math: four minus one is three. For months I had tried to brace myself for the moment at the end of the summer when I would have to accept this simple computation, but it turns out there are some things in life for which you cannot prepare. On August 27th our family of four effectively became a family of three when we delivered my son to the college, he will call home for the next four years.

How did this day arrive so quickly? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we dropped off my little boy at the pre-school and waved at him through the window as he sobbed in his teacher’s arms? Could it really be time to entrust him to this institution of higher learning for the next four years? Had we imparted the last bit of wisdom that we parents had to offer?

Ready or not, we drove the two hours north, unpacked our truck and stowed his belongings in his dormitory. We met his two roommates and their parents, rented his books, had lunch in his cafeteria, and then attended a welcoming mass for the incoming freshmen and their families. The homily was given by the President of the school who foretold that just as St. Augustine encountered mighty challenges in his search for faith and meaning in his life, so too would our sons and daughters necessarily struggle in the next four years on their quest to shape their future. He suggested that like St. Augustine, our children would don and discard ideas like trendy clothes, and that like St. Augustine’s mother, Monica, who watched her son flounder, but never stopped praying for him to find his path, we parents must let go while praying that he or she will find his way. We found some solace in St. Augustine’s discovery that the heart is restless until it rests in the Lord.

And so we left the gym and walked our son out onto the quad where he was supposed to find his break-out group for orientation amidst the hundreds of freshmen milling about the sun-drenched lawn. This was the end of the line, the last goodbye. My son hugged me more tightly than he has in a long time, as he did his mother and sister. Lisa and Michaela dabbed at their eyes, squinting in the sunlight. I watched him slip away into the sea of wandering freshmen, trying to find their place in their new world. Suddenly Lisa realized we had not gotten one last picture together and was frantic to get one. I quietly told her he was gone, took her hand and Michaela’s and walked back to his dorm where we assembled the fan we’d bought in the bookstore, and each of us wrote a note for him to find in his room.

Of course, we got stuck in rush hour traffic, just at the moment we needed to put some space between us and his college, the delay only exacerbating the agony we each felt in our own way. We finally limped onto I 95 to head back to Connecticut. Somewhere just past Warwick my eyes fogged up as I allowed myself to replay snippets of our life together: spiking our hair after a bathroom break at a restaurant; teaching him to ride his bicycle in our front yard, watching him fall again and again on the soft lawn; riding cross-country with him when he turned 16; watching him throw fastballs from the mound; skiing the steeps in Vermont; free diving behind Block Island.

We had planned to stop in Mystic for dinner on the way home, but none of us had much of an appetite. Instead, I called my mother, who reproved me for being so glum on such a “glorious” day. She reminded me of a day many years ago when one of her sons drove himself and the family dog to college, honking his horn all the way out of the neighborhood, a cigar clenched confidently between his teeth, as he stormed headlong into his own destiny. Yes, I remembered the day well, and it made me smile.

Michaela

When I opened my eyes after hugging him tightly one final time, I watched as he walked for a few steps until quickly disappearing into the school of nervous minnows, flopping awkwardly all around. It wasn’t until that instant that I realized that this was really goodbye. Similarly, to the way you watch the world below you slowly shrink into a tiny speck when taking off on an airplane, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from this. My brother was entering his new home and beginning his new life. He was taking his first steps into adulthood. Our lives would never be the same.

Rewind a few hours: Move-In Day. My family woke up early and got ready for the big day. On the ride to Providence, my mom was driving and remained fairly quiet: my dad was full of nervous chatter and cheesy jokes. (Really Dad?) At first, I didn’t know what was going on with him, until I realized that he was saying anything he could, to keep from thinking about where we were going.

When we arrived at Providence, there were friendly guards who led us (in our car) through several checkpoints to my brother’s assigned dorm. Eventually, we pulled into a parking lot outside of a four-story brick building. Instantly, some cheery students in yellow shirts buzzed over to welcome us and help to unload. Caelan’s room number was written on a piece of paper and taped to his flat screen television, the biggest item that he had brought. Typical. When we walked into the building, it was as if we were entering another universe. Many words came to mind, some of which were: intimidating, bland, packed, tense. However, one word didn’t appear in my thoughts. Home. Granted when peeking into the open doors of the rooms full of excited new adults and nervous parents, I saw multiple miniature fridges, bean bags, fuzzy blankets, even a multi-colored furry rug (courtesy of Caelan), but there was no character. There was no stain on the floor from when T-Bone was a puppy. There was no missing shingle from the time when a lacrosse ball was thrown too hard in front of the garage. No initials were carved in the headboard of the bed with a pocket-knife from fifth grade. And no matter how many faux fur rugs there were, there were no dogs to cover them with the real deal. I could not picture my brother in his bed, his head on his pillow, feeling comfortable and cozy, and falling asleep in this place.

Later that day, there was an optional mass for all of the incoming students. After my family found our seats, I began to watch the other families shuffle in. With every new face I saw, I wondered which ones would eventually be comforting to Caelan. I wondered which face would replace mine for this chapter of his life. By the end of the night, when we all was said and done and I was back at home, the only face I was thinking about, was his. I went up to my room and sat on my bed with an old Christmas picture of Caelan and me from 2002 and I cried, hard, for a long time. Not necessarily because I was sad, but more because I am selfish. I didn’t want to share my brother with the rest of the world. I liked watching over him and knowing the people he spent time with. I cried because I realized that I no longer had to hide me after school-snacks in fear of him scarfing them down. I realized that if I wanted to hear the piano, I would have to learn a few songs. It also occurred to me that in the evenings now, when I am brushing my teeth and washing my face in the bathroom, there will be no one sitting in the bathtub, with the curtains closed, to talk to. I cried because there will be no more rowdy boys to push me around and annoy my friends when they come over. I would no longer see Rucks (Luke), Potesy (Joey), Shartsy (Nick Schnartz) or even Andy, my brother from another mother. I cried because I realized, that if life goes according to plan, my family will never again live under the same roof.

Recently, I saw a home video that was made on the day I was born. I was in my mom’s arms in the hospital bed when Caelan, my almost three-year-old brother, saw me for the first time. Since that moment, I have had a best friend. We’ve screamed at each other and hit each other; we’ve been unimaginably angry at each other. But in these 15 years, we have created a bond that will never be broken. Caelan has been my role model, my brother, and the best friend a girl could ever ask for, for 15 years. Whether he is downstairs playing piano until I fall asleep, or in his dorm at Providence, he will be there for me. He will protect and help to guide me, from a distance. It is scary saying goodbye, but this is his chance to fly. We have to step out of the way and let him spread his wings. Good luck brother. We love you.

Rocky Mountain High

Michael

When my buddy, Tom, invited me to join him and two other guys on a father-daughter trip to Breckenridge, I was all in.
Twenty or more snowstorms ago, it seemed like a good idea, but by mid-March when we departed, and our yard still resembled the Artic tundra, an unbroken vista of white that had not yielded an inch since the beginning of the year, the prospect of flying most of the way across country to get to a colder and snowier place had lost some of its appeal.
We flew out of Windsor on a Thursday afternoon, four giddy girls and their fathers headed for a long weekend of skiing in Breckenridge where Tom’s brother and sister-in-law live. Their house was perched at the base of the resort, some 9800 feet above feet above sea level, causing us to huff and puff up the stairs with our bags. “Rapid,” Tom’s brother, was all accelerator and no brakes, fully amped at all times, and eternally optimistic, despite having endured a season-ending shoulder injury a week earlier.

His wife, Dee, or “Delicious” as the girls dubbed her, was the perfectly-reserved foil for her hyper husband, and a generous tour guide, taking us up all five peaks, knowing where the groomed trails would be in the early morning, which bowls to bomb once the sun had hit them long enough, and how to avoid lift lines. The girls made fast friends, energizing and emboldening each other to carve some steep bowls and blast some tight tree runs. When they disappeared into the woods, we could keep track of them from the slopes by listening to their squeals of laughter echoing in the forest. The girls ate sandwiches that we dads carried in our backpacks, not wanting to waste any time in the lodge, skiing run after run down the diamond and double diamond trails.
We rode up the highest lift in the United States — which is 12,898 feet. From there you can hike up another 100 vertical feet if you have the lungs to carry your gear up the makeshift snow stairs to the absolute top of the world. The other fathers and daughters climbed that last bit, (including one of the fathers who had recently blown out his knee skiing) but Mickey and I were content to ski down to the Vista Haus, mid-mountain, to take a sun-bath on the patio.

Every night the girls lounged in the in the hot tub for an hour, even snow rolling one evening to get the endorphins flowing. After dinner, they sang along to the music piped into speakers through their I Phones, gave each other mini-makeovers and even washed the dishes on one night. We dads kept waiting for them to crash, night after night, but it never happened. Even though the youngest was 11 and Mickey was the oldest at 14, there was no whining and lots of smiles.

Too quickly Thursday had melted into Monday, and we had to head back to Denver to catch a plane. But first we spent a sun-drenched morning shopping on Main Street in Breck, ducking in and out of chic stores selling tee shirts, jackets hats, and other touristy items that we made room for in our already over-stuffed bags.
The younger girls were all holding their fathers’ hands, so apparently it was cool for Mickey to hold mine. Sure Breckenridge boasts of some of the best skiing in the country, but there was no greater thrill for me than walking down Main Street, the spring sun warm on my face, holding Mickey’s hand.

Michaela

Each time we rode a chairlift, we got to the top and were presented with the same view, yet it never ceased to take our breath away. It was 12,898 feet in the air. It felt like we were standing on top of the world. We looked down, and far below us stood the trees. The wind whispered through the branches, sending beautiful little clouds of crystals skating across the mountain. The crystals were taunting us to join them. To drop down into the bowl and ride this astonishing creation with them.

We pointed our boards downhill, let gravity take over, and began to fly. It was hard not to feel completely vulnerable in this instant, but if you thought too hard about how fast you were going, you might wipe out. I just turned off that part of my brain and soared down the mountain, completely unafraid. . We carved down the mountain as fast as we could, ducking into the trees whenever there was a trail, and sometimes, when there wasn’t. I have never skied faster or further. I loved every second of every run.

At Breckenridge, there are five main peaks. On each peak, there is a base lodge and warming hut or restaurant lodge at the top. One of the peaks, Peak 7, has a lodge at the bottom aptly named the Grand Lodge, where my dad and I met some friends after the last run of our final day there. As I neared the bottom, I could see a five story building with balconies overlooking a large patio, with a view toward the mountains. When I popped out of my skis and leaned them against the fence, I noticed that there were three hot tubs, an outdoor heated pool that flowed indoors if you swam through the freezer flaps hanging down, and grills sizzling with hamburgers and hotdogs. Just on the other side of the fence people were wearing bikinis and shorts as they splashed in the water and walked on the heated patio.

Our friends had told us to bring our bathing suits, but as I opened the gate and clomped onto the patio with my ski boots, I kept thinking how surreal this was: on one side of the gate it was winter, and just a few inches on the other side, it was summer. I felt out of place in my boots and ski parka, but once we changed into our suits I made the transition in my head. We spent a few hours jumping in and out of the water, and getting too much sun, in spite of the sunscreen we slopped on. When it was time to go, it was back to winter again. We had to go back into the changing room, put on our winter gear, including our ski boots, to catch the shuttle back to the house.

When we were walking back to the bus stop, I caught a whiff of something that smelled like a skunk. I mentioned it to my dad, who explained that the smell was marijuana which is legal in Colorado. I added that to the list of unforgettable experiences in Breckenridge. The three days I stayed in Breckenridge Colorado will live with me forever. It was the most incredible experience I have ever had. I’m not sure that skiing in Vermont will ever be the same again.

Snow Day

MICHAEL

Who doesn’t get a little giddy about the prospect of a guilt-free day off, courtesy of Mother Nature? For the kids, it’s like getting a free pass from the principal to skip a day with all of your friends. And for us grown-ups, what better excuse is there to stay home than a governor’s proclamation to keep off highways and byways?

Three weeks ago, millions of us on the East Coast scurried to the grocery stores to buy candles, batteries, gas cans, and food. Some rushed off to buy shovels, roof rakes, and snow blowers, all of us contemplating the arrival of something greater than ourselves. A man in line at the bank spoke in an energized voice, to no one in particular, about how we New Englanders could handle this storm, as if he were leading a pep rally.

A snow day is like finding something more valuable than money. It is the blessing of time, the gift of a day that you can spend as you wish. I thought about all of the ways I could enjoy this bonanza: exercising on my Concept 2 rowing machine, making some beeswax candles, playing a game of Scrabble with the kids, watching a movie, or making some cookies with Michaela.
Then a dark thought wormed its way into my mind. I could go to work without being there. The world of E Pluribus Unum beckoned. I could remotely access all of my files from work to catch up on all of the letters I need to write and tasks I can never seem to accomplish with the incessant interruptions of frantic phone calls, client meetings, and hearings. I even have an internet-connected phone that will ring through at my house or anywhere in the world where I plug it in, never letting the caller suspect I am away from my office. But I resisted the temptation to chase a buck. This snow is a gift from the universe – I must accept it in the same spirit in which it was given.

So I stuffed the wood stove full of wood and hunkered down in the settee to finish reading Boys In the Boat, a book that would have otherwise taken me another couple of weeks, stitching together 15 or 20 minute snippets of time each night between brushing my teeth and turning out my light on the night stand. Every time I felt a tinge of guilt, I looked out our picture window at the sea of white blanketing our backyard, which gave me the comforting illusion that I was in the cabin of a boat. I could no more abandon the confines of this vessel than I could step off a boat underway in the ocean. I read on, ensconced in my berth, flipping through pages hour by hour, getting up only to throw more wood on the fire or to make a cup of tea.
The storm has come and gone, as have some other big ones. The snow keeps coming and coming with irritating regularity, every Sunday night into Monday morning, closing school and making any commute a crap-shoot. I feel like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day”, relegated to living in an immutable time loop every Monday. I have transformed the living room into a virtual office because even though the snow is lovely, white, and deep, I have bills to pay before I sleep. I will be ready next Monday because guess what is forecasted for this Sunday?

MICHAELA

My favorite part of winter is the snow days. The constant prattle from various news channels about the upcoming blizzards an below-zero temperatures leave all of us kids excitedly anticipating the call from the Superintendent canceling school. A snow day! No homework, no tests, no teachers. If you listen closely you can even hear the camels changing their tune from “Hump Day!” to “Snow Day!” The teachers are not as enthusiastic about the prospect of another day tacked onto the academic year. However, the students are living in the moment, thinking about sitting on a sled rather than sitting in our seats taking notes hour after hour.

This taste of freedom isn’t the only great thing about snow days; anything and everything is possible when there is a carpet of untouched snow waiting for you to make your mark on it. You can build a snowman, which may not even last until the next morning, although the memories will last well beyond. Friends who live nearby get together for a game of ice hockey on the Durley’s pond. Last year I got to play goalie during one of those pick-up games and even though I never played before, I somehow managed to keep out more goals than I let in. Friends come over to trudge through the snow, build igloos and snow forts and have snowball fights. And of course, our Golden Retriever, Chai, loves to swoosh through the fresh snow as much as us kids, as oblivious to the ice balls that stick to her paws as we are to our numb toes and frozen fingers. When we want to take a break indoors, we can make Coca-Cola slushies. Or I can curl up inside and see the snow fall while watching Harry Potter movies, or playing Scrabble. The falling snow makes the wood fire feel warmer, the smell of chili cooking even more scrumptious, and the house cozier.

We will pay for this day at the end of the school year, but June is a long way off. And the snow keeps falling …