By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
Last fall, I was in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, for a conference of the North Carolina Municipal League. My good friend and business colleague, Eddy Forrest, had promised to show me around his hometown and grab dinner at the country club where he’s a member. On the way, Eddy got a call from his wife: one of the kids had forgotten some equipment for that night’s baseball game. Since his home was along the route, we made a quick stop while Eddy loaded a duffel bag stuffed with bats, gloves, and cleats. Sitting in his truck, I noticed a wooden rack by the back door—an untidy parade of boots, shoes, and flipflops in every size and style. When Eddy climbed back in, I laughed and asked how many kids actually lived in his house.
Back at my hotel later, I suddenly remembered that I too once had a rack like that—years ago when my kids were teenagers. A little tear came to my eye as I thought about the hectic life young parents’ lead. Every day feels like an obstacle course: rushing from dance classes to swimming lessons to baseball practice, shoving pizza in your mouth while the car fills with cardboard boxes and McDonald’s bags. Mud becomes a decorating theme, and the dashboard is a filing cabinet of schedules, programs, and stray Happy Meal toys. Life comes at you like a tornado and fitting it all in is a weekly puzzle that never quite snaps together.
At work you sit in meetings as your phone buzzes with texts: the “home” game just moved twenty miles away, and apparently the Johnson boy is spending the weekend at your place. You agreed to coach the traveling soccer team, forgetting your boss wants you to stay late to prep for the planning meeting. You watch the weather like a seasoned meteorologist and reshuffle the family calendar around rainouts and lightning. Those new golf clubs your wife got you for Christmas gather dust while the laundry room looks—and smells—like the Steelers locker room.
And yet you survive. Time is flying by, but you barely have time to breathe, let alone reflect on how precious it all is.
Now, as a grandfather with grown kids, I see my life in their eyes. As they rush from place to place, I get to remember those days and borrow a little of the fun parts of my grandkids’ lives.
There’s a booster seat in my car, and the cup holders are filled with plastic cars and other trinkets. At the car wash I’ll find a stuffed animal under the seat and vacuum up abandoned Cheerios. When they stay overnight, a small backpack arrives and—mostly—goes home again.
So when I pull into my garage and glance at the empty corner where the wooden rack of muddy shoes and mismatched Crocs used to stand, I feel that soft twinge. It’s a little sad. But it also lets me see something those harried parents sometimes can’t while they’re in the thick of it—the simple joy of rushing out the door, chasing after kids who are often screaming but never lacking excitement. It’s three games on a Saturday, folding chairs and coolers, and grass stains that never quite wash out. One of the songs on the radio keeps repeating, “You’re going to miss these days.” I smile every time—because I do. And because, in small ways, I still get to visit them.
