Poppy is handing over the keys—figuratively, of course, because he insists on driving—to the dad in the house we’ll affectionately call *Poppa.* In honor of Father’s Day, it seemed only right to let a dad have the floor… or at least a recliner, a remote, the big piece of chicken, and a solid 500 words to say what’s on his mind. After all, he is among those giants of grilling, champions of dad jokes, brave souls who could reach the backseat with one hand while steering through construction with the other—and somehow still know exactly where the nearest Buc-ee’s is.
So, as you please, dear reader, crack open a root beer, adjust your shorts, and enjoy this month’s column, brought to you by the guy who believes “Don’t make me come back there!” should be printed on every family vacation t-shirt.
I’m not saying I don’t *like* vacations. I’m just saying they cost a lot, require suitcases I see once a year, and somehow still involve problems I have to resolve. It’s amazing how every Airbnb comes with complimentary towels, coffee filters and, inevitably, something I have to snake out of a drain.
Around here, “vacation planning” means Poppy fires up a dozen browser tabs, toggles between TripAdvisor and weather apps, and starts way too many sentences with “Wouldn’t it be fun if…”—to which I brace myself and silently channel my inner Captain Kirk: “Sulu… go to red alert.” Next thing I know, we’re booking a place that’s “charming” (read: no Wi-Fi and has a questionable smell). On the plus side, rustic is apparently code for “able to pee outside with privacy.”
As is my anthropologically programmed prerogative, I’d rather drive than fly. With air travel I have to *people* from start to finish, I have no fondness for $23 airport sandwiches, and I can never say, “If you don’t stop fighting I’m going to turn this plane around and take us all home!”
I pack one pair of cargo shorts, three t-shirts, a Swiss Army knife, and a roll of duct tape, which is just common sense. The kids want amusement parks and pricey sno-cones. I want a chair in the shade and the legal limit of beef jerky. Bonus points if I can serve every component of our dinner with grill marks—while holding a Coke, a spatula, and a Bluetooth speaker, all without losing my flip-flop.
And don’t get me started on screen time negotiations. Kids have no idea how good they’ve got it. I grew up riding in the back of a station wagon with no seat belts, making faces at the cars behind us, and playing the license plate game until someone got car sick. No tablets, no earbuds, no in-seat charging ports—just window smudges and boys weaponizing the burritos they had for lunch and blaming it on the dog. Entertainment was either I-Spy, dirty word hangman, or someone crying. Sometimes all three.
Here in 2025, we rent a cabin with a hot tub, surround sound, and a view worthy of a travel magazine… and the kids are still glued to their screens watching otter core. I point out a bald eagle soaring over the lake and get a grunt of acknowledgment without eye contact.
But then—somehow—around a fire, no screens in sight, one of them will say something unexpectedly kind or hilarious, and I’ll think: Okay. It’s still getting through. Even with all the gadgets and devices, the moments still find a way in. And maybe that’s the real magic of vacation—less about the scenery, more about the glimpses of who we’re all becoming when the distractions are buffering.
Every year, I survive by one principle: lower your expectations and nobody gets hurt. You won’t see that stitched on a beach house pillow, but you *will* see it etched into the soul of every dad who ever tried to herd sandy children through a souvenir shop without buying more seashells.
Somewhere between “Dad, are we there yet?” and “Honey, can you carry my bag too?” I begin to wonder when “vacation” turned into a mobile version of my daily responsibilities—just with more humidity and fewer bathroom options.
Still, I can’t lie. I wouldn’t trade it. Because somewhere along the way, we laugh, connect, and accidentally make memories that will outlast the sunscreen stains. And even if the trip includes a flat tire, sunburn, and a bird stealing half my sandwich—I’ll take every ridiculous minute of it.
Just don’t ask me to plan it. Or worse… review it online.
Happy Father’s Day, Georgetown!