Island Love

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“Beautiful blue water. Make sure you get on a boat - that’s the only way to really see the islands. I’ll send some recommendations.”

I’m not usually talking to other humans at five in the morning, but Birmingham is a small city and of course our friend Bill also happens to be in step with Allison as we walk through Shuttlesworth Airport. By our luck, he’s been to Turks & Caicos plenty of times. He obligingly provides a thoughtful summary on our destination before peeling off to get a chicken biscuit.

We were going to save our hunger for Atlanta-Hartsfield, as my professional traveler wife was already scouting lounge options for our layover. My duty, after a brief husband-wife debrief on Bill’s suggestions, was to find a boat on short notice. After responding a little too-quickly to my early morning email, the island tour operator drowsily took down my payment information before signing off with “and take it easy on the rum punch, my man.” 

Landing in a new country is always sensory overload. The smells, sounds, weather, and notably - what kind of cars are scuttling about. Turks & Caicos is a “British Overseas Territory '' which means the locals drive on the wrong side of the road (with a wide array of right and left-hand drive saltboxes) and everyone speaks English. American Dollars are curiously the currency of choice, they just don’t make it easy to get more of them.

When I hear the term resort, my imagined scale always goes to americanized proportions - endless buffets, mini golf, theme nights and pools with an ABV. The options on Providenciales (our specific island) are much more measured. We stayed at the Wymara, which had two respectable restaurants, a lovely pool and perfect beach setup on Grace Bay.

If you are going to order a frosty beverage in a far away place, I think it best to have what the locals are having. In Turks & Caicos, the easy-drinking ubiquitous beer is called I-Soon-Reach from Turks Head Brewing. Admittedly odd for a beverage name, the explanation is a healthy expectation setter. It’s the regional equivalent of when my buddy Fritz says he’s getting off at your exit but he really just left his house. If he were living on island time, he would simply say “I soon reach” and all sins would be forgiven. Things happen when they happen. No need to rush it.

We learned our lesson soon enough and settled into a pair of well appointed beach chairs. Historically, I don’t know what to do with myself once I am firmly planted in the sand, or anywhere really. A book by a lady who makes a sweater from scratch (step one involved her shearing the sheep) did hold my interest for a bit. Eventually, we waded out into the super clear water and struck up various conversations with our fellow vacation enthusiasts.

When you share a small resort with other people, it is inevitable that you will see them many times throughout your stay, starting every day at the same breakfast buffet. This was my exact thought as I returned from a sweaty, disorienting trip to the local grocery store. Though I still came out good in the long run (resort beers were $9 each), I somehow dropped $60 cash on cab fare for a 4-mile round trip and made some interesting purchases in a rush to beat the meter. My impulsive cheese grab was all for naught, however, as the checkout process was more of a social affair than a business practice. By sheer determination, I carried my haul to the register, but somehow needed a cart to get it to the cab. And this is how I ended up being “that sweaty guy,” lugging his torn bags one by one past all who were lounging their afternoon away in the pool.

At dinner, it became apparent that any fuss made over a week’s worth of reservations was superfluous. The eighty degree temperatures were absolutely tolerable for us, but those not from Alabama must think it unbearably hot this time of year in Turks & Caicos. What we didn’t escape by going south, however, were the bugs. Allison understandably wanted to finish off the night on our first floor patio, but that ended quickly when some devil creature stung her right on the face. Being the gentleman that I am, I sacrificed my cocktail ice to help alleviate the swelling.

Our couples massage the next morning was very relaxing. The lady assigned to me had more real estate to cover, but was still gentle enough not to disturb the breakfast buffet that was working its way through my system. Being our trip planner, I had opted for the more cost-effective 50 minute option. When we saw the final bill, however, our eyes met and there was a faintly audible gasp. It was in this pivotal moment, that Allison, household money manager, took the lead on setting our new strategy for the remainder of our trip. “You know what? Screw it. We enjoyed this. We’re on vacation. This is what it costs, so screw it.” We clinked our paper cups of cucumber water and scheduled a pedicure for later in the week.

With a $16 mimosa in hand, I struck up a conversation with an older couple who were stationed next to us on the beach. Cathy was 76 and reading the first Harry Potter book to get in on the action with her grandchildren. She met her husband, Dwayne, in Barbados while they both served in the Peace Corps. Much had changed since that time, including kids, grandkids and a recent Alzheimer's diagnosis for Dwayne, but you could see that they still felt at home in the Caribbean. At one point, Cathy giggled as she walked past us soaking wet and proclaiming to be the oldest person to ever try extreme tubing at our resort. 

Day three was the highly anticipated boat trip. There were private charters available, but we decided that was a bit ridiculous for two people. We instead opted for an all-day group trip on a catamaran that was loaded down with a little water, a lot of rum punch, and enough I-Soon-Reach’s to drown a small army. We’re not going deep on Chapman family boat history here, but let’s just say our chance of yacking is right on fifty percent when aboard large vessels. To help our chances, we set up camp on the top level chez lounges which (important note) were fully exposed to the sun.

Once all passengers were rounded up from their various resorts, we dropped anchor and were handed snorkeling gear. We Chapmans are not frequent snorkelers, but I think we would be if our regular options were anything like this reef. After exploring for a bit and poking Allison at opportune moments, I was content to float, meditatively taking in the vibrant scenery until it was time to depart.

Our next stop was a beautiful island that was uninhabited save some iguanas. We trekked around, enjoying the scenery immensely - to the point where we almost got left. Alone being fresh in our minds, Allison and I got caught up planning how we would survive if we were left, but our fantasy nearly became real. As an apology to our crew, I hand delivered I-Soon-Reach’s to all who had thirst.

The crew navigated us to their regular beach barbeque spot where we were instructed to occupy ourselves until lunch. This is when things kicked into high gear. I talked philosophy with a lady smoking black & milds while we sat waist deep. Allison befriended a few children and a single twenty something girl who was traveling solo. People took turns reboarding the catamaran to grab refreshment and toss them to those wading below. The larger conversation veered into politics for a smidge but everyone agreed that regardless of party affiliation, Americans should calm down a bit and find more middleground. 

I know we were there for the scenery, but this amalgamation of different people all having a great time was something I frankly haven’t been part of since before COVID. Once the lunch bell rang, we crammed into weathered picnic tables. The standard plate handed to everyone set off a modest frenzy of trades, so the diners with particular tastes and the most hungry all ended up with a lunch to their liking. My highlight of the meal was when all the married folks went around the table giving advice to a brand new couple who met while working at the rodeo. These giddy newlyweds heard sage wisdom from forty-something lesbians, Marylanders in American flag apparel, a late in life second marriage, and us.

Another vessel appeared on the horizon and interrupted our spirited conversation. A shiny white private charter announced itself with club music and enthusiastic dancers spilling champagne all over the place. It was like an episode of The Real Housewives. These older ladies and their fashionable male friends onboard had obviously approached the day a bit differently than we and there was a collective eye roll from our group as the scene was taken in. Eventually, however, everyone came around to the idea that this could easily be them on a different day with the right group of friends.

Our penultimate stop was a collection of sandbars well offshore that were nothing short of breathtaking. I found a live conch, moved it closer to the swimming children, then skipped from mini island to mini island like a fancy man of the world. We made one last stop for a second round of snorkeling, this time using more creative ways to exit the boat with a thrill. Then, finally, everyone was dropped off at their respective resorts - forced to come to terms with their blood alcohol levels and some weird sunburns. Allison (who may or may not have said “Screw it!” when reapplying sunscreen on her still wet self) was the color of a Washington apple. For my sins, I felt like I was sitting under a heat lamp. For the record, I didn’t touch the rum punch.

With our torsos safely covered, Allison and I enjoyed the final days of our trip with a new perspective. We attended a morning yoga session with some twin sister moms and struck up such a friendship that I handed over my recently-finished sweater book. By our final evening, we were content to hang out in the pool and enjoy the sunset instead of rushing off to another $300 dinner. Remaining bottles were smuggled out to the pool to share with a fun group from Mississipii. To wind down the evening, we opened everything we couldn’t take with us and attempted to take down a meat and cheese assortment for the ages.

I really expected to come back from Turks & Caicos with a full review of what to do, eat and experience. The blue water and our boat day were amazing (thanks, Bill!) but I came away thinking more about the wonderful people we met.  

The Life Well Loved

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“The doctor told me I had ten years left. I said that’s perfect!”

We have just sped vigorously up a mountain highway, tailing a sporty Mercedes SUV as its 70-year-old operator led us to her mountain home, where she spends peaceful stretches in a Chautauqua (I had to look up what that meant). Within moments of exiting the interstate, we’ve explained ourselves at a guard station and entered a world that predates our usual modernity. 

Having delivered her terminal diagnosis in the bounciest way possible, Elizabeth concluded our tour of the house with the presentation of their community book. It would need to be referenced several times that weekend because there are a few interesting rules to abide by. My favorite is that children are not allowed to be anywhere other than snug in their leafy early-century bungalows from the hours of 1pm to 3pm daily. You might be thinking that this sounds like something a group of older people would come up with. That would be correct.

All four Chapmans are present for this trip and Elizabeth has a friend coming Saturday morning. We cover very little of the floor space on offer in this completely renovated beauty that I’m pretty sure used to be a modest hotel. The kitchen is beyond gorgeous but our host prefers to use a counter-top air fryer if she’s cooking. After meeting for a Friday afternoon showing of The Barbie Movie in the nearest town with a theater, I am quickly reminded that my duties are to be the chef and sole male representative for the weekend. 

Thinking ahead, I had pre-assembled a baked pasta with pork slowly cooked in Allison’s family red sauce. All we had to do now was figure out how to work this very french oven. It had industrial handles and knobs that meant business. There was also no way to see your food as it was cooking behind cast iron doors. Let’s just say it took longer than expected to brown that cheese topping.

We catch up on family stories over dinner. Explaining our connection to this hilarious woman can feel complicated at times. She was Allison’s stepmom for a handful of years, during a period that encompassed high school and college. Ex-step-mom doesn’t do the relationship justice, as Elizabeth has stayed close with everyone, even Allison’s mom. They used to get together and roast their mutual ex-husband for a good laugh. More recently, she was a noted saint in helping us manage the decline of Geoff’s health, being the last one to visit him before he passed.

What I love about Elizabeth is she has reached the point in life where she does what she wants. It is a remarkable case study. Her golf cart is whisper quiet when it backs up. One imagines a scene where a technician says “yes m’am” when she tells him the factory-installed safety beeps simply won’t do. Life is here to live and there is a definitive timeline. Might as well enjoy it.

A proud forty years sober, Elizabeth gets down with bridge. We gather from the book of visitors that a handful of weeks a year are intensive sessions with various groups and professional instruction. Her enthusiasm made me want to round up all the neighborhood dads and tell them we’re starting a bridge club. 

As daylight fades, we get a walking tour of the Chautauqua. This whole scene is straight out of Dirty Dancing. Long, ancient-looking wooden footbridges connecting a wide array of forest green buildings one would imagine at camp. Any given night, there could be movies playing in the gym, a kid’s dance in the activity hall or a community potluck drawing folks to a freestanding cafeteria. The pace is slower. So slow, in fact, that the community cop (known predictably as Barney Fife by the locals) regularly nabs anyone enthusiastic enough to go 20 miles per hour. 

The houses in our vicinity all seemed to contain great friends that had known Elizabeth for years. And if they didn’t, she still walked right on in to say hey. Most were relaxing on the kind of porches your grandmother had back in the day. Gentle laughter and the swinging of screen doors would occasionally punctuate the hum of cicadas and sagging fans. 

We put the kids down and our adult triumvirate capped off the evening with a terrifying movie (picked by our host) about a fella who kidnaps young women and sells off their body parts while still keeping them alive. Elizabeth had a personal connection to makers of the film and enjoyed saying “y’all watch this!” in her Tennessee soprano right before another character was hacked to pieces.

The next morning, I awoke early for a quick jog around the community. It’s rare that I go off on any trip without google mapping the hell out of a place, but it simply wasn’t possible here. I definitely got lost for a smidge and it was unclear as to whether a few neighborhood rules were violated in the process of finding my way again.

After treating our crew with some of Chappy’s famous homemade biscuits and a fanciful breakfast spread, I was thrown the keys to the Mercedes. There was a minor drain issue, so as the resident fella it was my pleasure to act as chauffeur slash plumber while we knocked it out. She encouraged me to leg out the AMG all the way to Ace Hardware and back, at least until we were approaching officer Fife’s favorite hiding spot. Some excesses aren’t worth the trouble.

We were already on pace for a lively morning and then Cornelia arrived with her big fluffy black dog, Molly. It took me a bit to decipher the correct spelling because Elizabeth went for the more efficient and southern “Ca-neel-yah.” By the end of the day, we would be kindly asked to take custody of Molly if Cornelia passed. Not to ruin the ending, but we all got along like thieves.

I enjoyed the dynamic of these two ladies in their eighth decade. Unburdened by the yoke of men, one had taken to farm life outside the city with an exceptional dog and amazing view. The other presided as matriarch over the close-knit suburban family her boys had expanded. They knew one another’s strengths, and, more amusingly, weaknesses as they constantly teased one another for being like they always had.

After a heartwarming game of fetch with Molly, we loaded up on the golf cart and made our first of four trips that day to the Arts & Crafts fair. The ladies were in their element. I always hit up the tables of pickled things and hot sauce first, but we quickly found out that this is how Elizabeth decorates her houses. Vendors hardly knew what was coming. When we finally caught up, our rendezvous was at a booth offering handmade stained glass artwork. I struck up conversation with the proprietors as they sweated in the summer sun. They were spending brief nights at a nearby hotel between marathon sessions onsite here in peak tourist season.

We were asked about a few pieces that had apparently made the final cut for purchase, but not much thought had been dedicated to exactly where they would hang. Thus began a lengthy series of trips back and forth to the house, the final one including the vendors who surely thought they would be headed back to the hotel after the fair shut down for the day.

I began to prepare our meal of burgers and simple sides, feeling like it was well within my wheelhouse. The grill was state of the art and still looked new. The propane tanks, I was assured, had recently been filled. I got the fire going on the first try and walked away for a casual beverage. 

Guests began to arrive for dinner and most inquired out of earshot who the genteel older African American couple was. It took me a few tries before I could explain what was happening without making it sound like our host had taken hostages who were now decorating her house. Without the proper equipment to hang heavier works, Elizabeth had spirited away the gentlemen in the Mercedes down to the Ace Hardware. His wife, still looking spent from a long day out in the sun, accepted our offer of some chilled white wine. That made us all feel a little better in the event the police showed up.

Eventually, everything was in its place and the spent artisans refused an invitation for dinner. I walked out to throw on our burgers and the flames were extinguished. Our primary tank was empty. So was the backup. My mind reeled for a minute with twenty raw hamburgers still sitting on that platter. For all of the grief I gave Elizabeth about her air fryer, it sure did come in handy as we rallied to feed the starving faithful. After the meal, Cornelia asked us all to stand back as she did an impromptu demo of Dawn Power Wash spray on the mountain of beef-fat covered dishes. This blog currently receives no sponsorship, but I’ll be damned if that stuff didn’t work some impressive magic. 

As the night came to a close, I found myself rocking away on the front porch with wives and ex-wives from the neighborhood. They shared various complaints about men, with some offenders being named specifically. It felt like I had been accepted into the fold as their own. First The Barbie Movie, then extreme craft fairing, and now I was gently sipping from a zesty pinot grigio while happily belittling my own kind.

Before we could get too settled, Elizabeth whisked us away to the various evening happenings in the neighborhood. Our girls danced to a DJ who was smart enough to go heavy on Taylor Swift. Faces that were new and fresh one evening previous were now familiar friends. Just like the last night of camp, we were making plans to do it again next year.

On Sunday morning, we collected our things and gathered around the kitchen island for extended goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. Big hugs for Elizabeth and Cornelia. One last game of fetch with Molly. I gave them my number and affirmation that we would indeed add this precious dog to our fold if the moment unfortunately arose.

If I’m seventy and still living with the vibrancy of these ladies, I would count this time on earth as a resounding success. We’re all going to be faced with suffering and situations beyond our control, but wouldn’t you want to be the person who hears they have ten more years left and decides to make the most of it?

We're headed back this July and I can’t wait to get the band back together. Cheers to one more year of living and whatever comes next.

The Summer of Sandwich

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Our family likes to play a fun game when we’re all together and rehashing old times. They turn to me with a gleam in their eyes and ask “Matt, what did we eat that day?” This rarely provides a challenge, because my memory bank files everything away as an extended meal. We were simply doing other things in the time between filling our bellies. I’d say it’s my one weird thing, but you’ve probably figured out that’s a rather long list.

My wife is an artist at heart. She processes and interprets the world as a vivid color palette, occasionally pausing to accuse me of colorblindness (why isn’t “greenish blue” an acceptable description?). On the other hand, my lens is that of an omnivore. The spectrum illuminating my thoughts is that of deliciousness.  

Meals are one of the most immersive experiences one can have. Not to get too gross, but food makes your acquaintance from first sight, smell, temperature and taste all the way to…the sewer system. I can’t completely review a dinner until I’ve hosted the afterparty. Food is more than just fuel to me, it’s approaching religion.

When something occupies your thoughts to the point of obsession, it can be difficult to manage appropriately. I’ll read through menus like they are holy texts conveying a higher meaning. The thought of a perfectly cooked brisket makes my loins quiver. How then am I expected to behave appropriately at a classy brunch buffet?

That’s really where the rub comes in. I’ve been active since birth, but the aging process has finally caught up with me. My metabolism used to be a thing of pride, but lately has become a real drag. There was a fateful period I refer to longingly as “The Summer of Sandwich” where I really doubled-down calorically speaking on lunch. The bread I homemade with love, but the sheer quantity of meat, double cheese and external coating of mayonnaise (makes it perfect on the griddle) were not great for my waistline. But my word, those were some delicious sandwiches.

At the time, I was hitting my ambitious fitness goals every single day, maintaining an unbroken streak of insanity that lasted for over two years. That is a topic for another article, but needless to say I had absolute proof that you can’t outrun a poor diet. My weight was the highest on record, even as I regularly eclipsed twenty thousand steps a day. As fate would have it, my license, passport and two family christmas cards captured the perfect moment in time where my face achieved maximum squish. People still do a double take when checking my ID.

So what changed? This answer may seem overwhelmingly obvious, but here it goes. How about less mayo-slathered meaty and cheesy sandwiches. Fewer “snack pizzas,” as I like to call my Saturday late night indulgences. Y’all, I’ve never been accused of being a genius.

It took almost forty years to balance a very simple equation. I was just working it from the wrong variable. Turns out you can just eat better and less. Then you don’t have to exercise like your life depends on it. What comes in can simply get burned efficiently because that’s what is appropriate to run this factory. Call it hubris, but many humans (myself included) give themselves way too much credit for a workout when they sit down to that next meal. Our indulgent pat on the back can easily negate the calories we burned. 

When you do the math on processed food and our daily recommendations, it is pretty eye opening what the average American is willfully shoveling into their bodies. Evolved tactics for storing up sustenance in preparation for scarcity never see that lean period our ancestors would inevitably endure. The brain’s preference for sugary input wasn’t tuned to handle an era of thirty ounce soft drinks. 

This might be an odd marker in history, but I can remember when professional golfers were still downing a couple of hot dogs and chips at the turn. These were people doing athletic and mentally challenging tasks with millions of dollars on the line. Yet they were refueling with about the least healthy thing per pound that you can eat. Then Tiger Woods came along and proved the seemingly obvious case that being physically fit and eating strategically gives you a competitive edge, even in the more pedestrian of sports. The next thing you know, even NASCAR drivers are adopting nutrition plans between their swigs of Busch Light. 

I know what you are thinking. These people are rich and their livelihood depends on such a miserable in-season lifestyle. You don’t have the time or money and would be hungry all the time for nothing. I used to be in this camp and thought cheeseburgers would always be worth it, but I found some great advice and it has stuck with me since.

If you contemplate your next potential meal long enough, your vagus nerve and brain will stew on the outcome and reach a logical resolution about how to proceed. It’s the impulsivity that tends to take us down the wrong path. I’ve had stomach issues for years, which have helped refine the “is it going to make me feel terrible” sense, but I was largely ignoring my body. We are at our worst when we act impulsively and outpace that 15 minute delay on our fullness meter. If you start making methodical and informed decisions about what you eat, then that’s step one.

Once I took to eating more salads, nuts and vegetables, my day was less of a rollercoaster. It became easier to find the sweet spot where I still dabble in the less healthy stuff from time to time (you know I had to try that new stuffed-crust Donatos pizza) but the balance is more easily restored.

Growing at least some of my own food has helped a bunch. It’s one thing to toss out some grocery store produce that went bad immediately, and another disappointment entirely to miss the perfect window of freshness from a vegetable you have planted and tended since it was a seed. You tend to work these items into the family menu.

I used to think that culinary happiness was a dish that had to be served with heaps of butter, sugar, fat and salt (with a dash of hot sauce). Once you wean your taste buds off of that boisterous ride, then the subtlety and nuance of natural flavors start to shine through. Raw pecans are flippin delicious. Sweet peppers are my jam. Believe it or not, leafy greens do have taste under that mountain of ranch and bacon.

There’s meaning to be found in everything we do, but I can’t find a more meaningful idea than cultivating a more conscious consumer of our only energy source. Until we can biohack our bodies for photosynthesis, we’re stuck eating and drinking our way to survival. How many of us lose countless hours of sleep worrying through the myriad ways we and our loved ones could meet an early end, meanwhile the prime suspect is sitting in front us three-ish times per day if you are living in the United States of America (Anthony Bourdain would have added “greatest country in the world, by God.”).

I’m quite jazzed about building new food memories that start all the way from a tiny little seed that my daughters and I planted together. We’ll share colorful plates and lively conversations, all while being more rooted to the world around us, even if I grew that salad in my bathroom.

Living in a House Full of Ladies

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I like to plan things. Meals, trips, conversation topics, most efficient driving routes, you name it. Some things, however, are beyond my control. Family planning, for instance, was a bit of a crapshoot. But in an ideal world, I wanted two girls.

So here I am, a father to two lovely ladies of 5 and 3. Every day is a joy. There’s glitter everywhere.

As I tackle year five of being wholly outnumbered, it’s time to offer up my findings. The sample size, at this point, has produced many insights that are rooted in factual observation, and hopefully won’t get me exiled to the basement. The time has come to hand in my report on what it’s like being the only dude in a house full of ladies.

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Exhibit 1: So Much Hair

You know you have reached peak hair when every shirt you throw on has a dangly one in the sleeve. This is an unbelievably consistent occurrence and ever since Maggie grew a head full of curly locks to match her mother, this is my life. Drains, floors, and stray toothbrushes lay fully at their mercy.

To top it off, I have no idea how to style and/or arrange the two small heads that have been presented to me. WTF is a barrette and what are they good for!? I pick up at least 10 per day off the floor, so maybe they are simply fun to play with.

When Allison goes out of town, I consider it a success if my girls return home from school with any implements I stuck on their head still intact. Corralling a fidgety child’s hair into a reliable ponytail still feels like throwing darts, but I’m trying.

Exhibit 2: Music

Taylor Swift isn’t terrible. There, I said it. 

Music is one of those things that I hold reasonably sacred. I was a radio DJ in college at WEGL, played in a band* and have a decent record collection. Once I married Allison (for mostly not her taste in music) it was already assumed that I would have to make some playlist sacrifices. 

We have a family agreement that a song can’t be played twice on the same car trip. Rules exist because they were, at one time, broken to an egregious extent. I’m warming up to that T-Swift, but a man can only take so much. Once you hear your 5 year old belt out the line “In the middle of the night…In MY DREEEAMS…You should see the things we do, BABY!” then you start to reign it in a bit.

The Frozen movies actually have some pretty solid jams, and Trolls is a musical triumph. Over time, my critical mind has opened a bit. I’ve embraced music that would have gotten me fired from the radio station, but rest assured I’m still racing to connect my Spotify library first when we get in the car.

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Exhibit 3: Dairy Products (mostly cheese)

Lord have mercy the cheese. I can’t say that my single days ever involved a cheese board, but here we are. That fondue pot we thoughtlessly registered for is now a staple in the pantry. Needless to say, my dairy product paradigm has shifted on its head.

 Allow me to  recite the inventory of our refrigerator at this exact moment: Cottage cheese, 2 packs of string cheese, cheese dip, cream cheese, muenster slices, 2 lbs of grated parmesan, 2 blocks of mozzarella, havarti slices, shredded cheddar, feta, pimento cheese, ricotta…I’m tired of typing, and I bet you get it by now. I never knew the genre could be so versatile, for the whole of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

When I heard of the dairy industry’s recent decline, I slept well knowing that we are doing our part to supplement the demand curve.

Exhibit 4: Pee Pee Shame

I thank God every day for having a penis. It is a much more convenient and efficient lifestyle. Getting ready in the morning, packing for trips, and purchasing clothes are all very simple undertakings. So, understandably, I was rattled a bit once the shaming began.

Allison and I are constantly reminded that there is no privacy in this house. A locked door or missing parent is simply an excuse to raise more hell and bust down the barriers between. Unless they are deeply unconscious, there’s a very good chance our poops, showers, and mommy/daddy special time will be interrupted.

It was Maggie who hurled the first insult. As detailed above, my visits to the restroom are seldomly uninterrupted, so Maggie took an opportunity to examine my unorthodox standing method and deem it “super gross.” Her feedback included commentary on “peeing out of (my) front butt” which was obviously hilarious. She quickly got Libby onboard with her hate mongering, so now the mere sight of me taking a leak elicits all kinds of chastization from the duo. With a few months of therapy, I’ll get beyond it. 

Exhibit 5: Toilet Paper

When you get married, there are compromises to be made. Two people will never perfectly align on every single thing, so you meet in the middle…except in those areas where you totally don’t. In the early days of my life with Mrs. Chapman, I wondered where all the toilet paper went. Then I helped create two more females. What used to last me a week will barely survive one day. It’s uncanny. Call me frugal, but even a big situation is likely a 10 square commitment. Somebody report back and let me know what the deal is. I tried to ask one time but was growled at.

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Exhibit 5: Feelings

Historically, I would classify myself as “emotionally challenged.” The Chapman method, which has served to give several of us hypertension, is to internalize your feelings. I can recount many instances where my mother incurred serious wounds or was presented with really heavy situations, and just got on with it. The most I ever remember Brenda crying was when she backed into my sweet ‘95 Ford Mustang (a gift for my 16th birthday) and dented the fender. She was so upset that I got an aftermarket spoiler added at the body shop.

Fast forward to February 2015. Allison and I are hosting a Superbowl party at Chapman HQ. Maggie is 3 weeks from debuting on the scene. Toyota’s commercial that year featured a father and his daughter through the years. When the flashback ends, dad is crying in his Camry while dropping his adult daughter off at the airport. She is waving goodbye and departing for her assumedly dangerous military posting. Y’all, I totally lost it.

These days, it doesn’t take much. Old photos of our children, commercials featuring Sara McLachlan and sad puppies, Queer Eye reveals - all guaranteed to make me well up.

Yet, even with this heightened sensitivity, I still manage to hurt little baby feelings on a daily basis. My children’s responses to adversity and what I consider to be proportional reactions are usually way off. Therefore, I am often called  “mean” or generally accused of lacking the appropriate amount of empathy. My snuggles are also apparently second rate.

Last week, our family was at the pool. For Maggie, the time had come to offload her floatation aids and swim like a big girl. It was a goal we had pushed her to take on, and things were going well in the shallow end. Then, she slipped off a raft in an area where it was just deep enough to scare her a bit. Maggie was rescued immediately, but that didn’t keep her from elaborately expressing her dismay to the entire pool-going audience. 

Her immediate intent was to find the nearest exit and retreat in embarrassment, screaming dramatically with a face full of tears. But the gates were child proof and after the first one failed to yield, she furiously tugged on it like someone auditioning for the part of “desperate prisoner.” Over the next minute, she made a full circle of the facility, applying the same over-exaggerated theatrics to each locked gate and the distance covered between. Each failed attempt only brought out more emotion. It was made so much worse that we couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all.

Here’s the thing, though. That same child came back the next day with a vengeance. She established her own training regiment, setting increasingly more challenging goals along the way. By the last day, she was swimming like a fish, having conquered her fears and the deep end. I couldn’t have been prouder. 

And that’s why having a family full of ladies is pretty great.

*Gooch was an influential house party band formed by my roommate and I. We were terribly awesome