Remember This Shit

I'm 55. Somewhere in the last few months, the universe tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hey, you see all this? Don't miss it."

Trust me, I'm not planning to.

A few weeks ago I scrolled past one of those Instagram posts. A mom writing to her kids, the if tomorrow happens without me kind. It was ten slides long, and I got through it with the dignity of a man who's been cutting onions in the garage. The first slide was three words I won't repeat here, but I'll say the message landed: remember this shit.

In November, the whole crew is flying to Washington to meet up with my oldest son and his wife at an Airbnb near Gig Harbor. The occasion: my youngest daughter is turning 21. Twenty-one. I held that kid when she was roughly the size of a loaf of bread, and now she's old enough to legally order a drink I will absolutely pretend not to judge.

All the kids are coming. The significant others are coming. And Duckie is coming, so for the first time there's a tiny human in the group photo who thinks I'm a legend purely because I make faces. Grumpa. Me. Please hold your applause.

The plan is simple and ridiculous. My oldest son and I are running the kitchen, which means nobody goes hungry and somebody argues about garlic. We've got dinner in Tacoma, a day in Seattle, whale watching, and a few days in Olympic National Park. Plus one quiet moment out there that's been a long time coming, the kind you only do with your people around you. I'll leave it at that.

Here's what I've figured out at this stage of the game, and what I'd tell my kids if you cornered me with a beer and made me be sincere:

Nobody gets a guarantee. That's not morbid, it's just math. So call people. Not because something's wrong, but because you heard a song, or something stupid happened, or you're bored in a parking lot. Love people while they can still pick up.

Take the damn picture. Bad hair, bad angle, bad day. Someday the ordinary Tuesday turns out to be the good stuff, and you'll want proof.

Nobody's keeping score. I don't care about your job title, your square footage, or your LinkedIn. I care whether you wake up and mostly like your life, whether you've got people who feel like home, and whether you're still a little excited about what's next.

Start over as many times as it takes. Outgrew the job, the city, the version of yourself that doesn't fit? Go. Starting over isn't failing. It's just editing.

And if I do ever have to sit out a chapter, I want you to miss me, say my name, and tell the embarrassing stories. Then go live like hell. Make it so good that I'd have loved watching.

Meanwhile, back in Texas, Brinkley, Lyla, and Mysti will hold down the fort, supervise the packing, and judge me for leaving. They'll be fine. They have opinions about everything but zero interest in the Pacific Northwest.

So here's to November. To rain, ferries, world-class coffee, loud dinners, and way too many photos. To a 21-year-old who has no idea how much her dad is going to cry at some point. To Duckie, who's about to be spoiled beyond all reason by a man he'll know as Grumpa.

I've had a front-row seat to your lives from day one, and I'm not giving it up. This trip is just me turning the volume up on the stuff that matters.

I love you all. Save me a seat at the table.

A short ferry clip from an earlier trip: watch the crossing.

A few frames from the road