A few months ago, my oldest kid asked for permission to stay out late on a school night. And not just a little late, like 10:00 p.m. or 11:00 p.m. He was thinking 4:00 a.m. or 5:00 a.m.!
His argument went like this:
- He’s a senior in high school and there wasn’t anything important going on the following day. There was just an assembly.
- It was his last time to hang out with his buddy, who was about to be shipped for the Marines.
- He joined the U.S. Army (National Guard) and went through basic training last summer. Uncle Sam now trusts him with extra-expensive military equipment, so maybe I oughta trust him to stay out late one lousy night?
- He’s never gotten in trouble with the police, or anything like that. He promised nobody would be drinking. (And swore that absolutely NOBODY would be drinking and driving.)
- Plus, my kid is over the age of 18 and “technically” an adult. As he pointed out, if he wanted to leave the house, there’s not much I could legally do to stop him.
I thought about it… for less than a nanosecond. (Are you crazy?! 5am?!) But I tried my best to play it smooth, telling my kid that, yes, I see his side: He does deserve my trust, and being mature enough to join the Army ought to mean something. But I still disliked him staying out so late on a school night, so it appeared, alas, we were at an impasse. (Curses and drat.)
That’s when I dusted off my King Solomon impression and offered wise counsel: I told him he had three options. The first was to just get up and leave, because he’s right: He is an 18-year-old adult. But I reminded him that we’ve never dealt with a conflict like that before, and I’d hate to ruin our relationship. We get along really well, after all.
The second option was, he could stay out with his friends up until midnight — but at 12:01 a.m. on the frickin’ dot, he needed to call an Uber for himself. (Which I’ll pay for.)
The third option was total freedom: Stay out as long as you want! Go out and party ‘til the break of dawn! You only live once, so have a blast!
My boy narrowed his eyes at the third option: “Okay, Dad. So what’s the catch?”
“Nothing… except I’m coming with you! If you’ve found a designated driver, I wanna get out of this house and have some fun, too! Woohoo!! This is gonna be GREAT! Can we use my playlist in the car?! It feels like a Bon Jovi kinda night!”
Anyhoo, my kid picked the second option.
(Smart boy.)
Yesterday afternoon, he officially graduated from high school. His grandma and grandpa flew down for the big occasion, because it’s such a meaningful rite of passage. At least, it’s supposed to be.
But honestly?
I don’t remember my high school graduation being all that meaningful to me. It was just something we all had to do. (Mostly, I remember focusing on not stepping on my robe and faceplanting on the stage.) The ceremony itself, where we dressed up like Harry Potter and listened to Randy “The Macho Man” Savage’s theme music, seemed like a horribly inefficient way to hand a kid his diploma. Y’know what I mean?
The juice wasn’t worth the squeeze.
Besides, when I think of high school, I never reminisce about the pageantry. I think of the people.
A few of ‘em are still “friends” of mine via various apps, but honestly, I haven’t seen ‘em in decades. (Part and parcel of going to high school in Virginia and then moving to Florida, I suppose.) I probably wouldn’t even recognize ‘em if we bumped into each other at the airport. In my memories, they’re still 18 years old — with heads full of hair, limitless energy, and their entire lives ahead of them. No one is old, sick, or defeated; none of their dreams had been shattered beyond repair.
One of my high school friends is in a mental hospital. Others have lost children to cancer. Some have been in and out of rehab.
Life didn’t go the way they hoped.
But others have done wonderfully. They have beautiful children, great jobs, amazing families, and they’re pillars of their communities. They’re not just rich and successful; they’re also kind, loving, and generous people. They’re the ultimate winners in the Game of Life.
Sometimes, it’s not the person you would’ve guessed.
I was thinking about that, amidst the sea of happy faces and giddy families at Sunday’s graduation. On that day, the girls looked beautiful, poised, and prepared for whatever’s next; the boys looked handsome, enthusiastic, and ready to take on the world.
My boy looked damn good, too. (Just saying.)
And a few decades from now, when these fresh, young faces are in their 50s (like me!) and attending their kids' graduations, some will be successes. Others won’t.
Some will win, some will lose
Some are born to sing the blues
—Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin’”
Fate is a funny thing. For some, it’s comforting; for others, it’s a curse. Either way, it necessarily implies that life itself is beyond our control. Instead of being masters of destiny — bravely blazing a trail of our own volition — we’re held hostage by its terrible tide.
Which is (mostly) true.
Masters of destiny are rare. For most of us, the tide is just too strong.
I hope and pray these 2025 graduates will be even stronger. Congratulations to all of you!
And to one boy in particular: Good job, Danny. Daddy’s proud of you. Always have been. Always will be.
…and lemme know when your Marine buddy gets back in town, ‘cause my Bon Jovi playlist is ACES!
