I miss little rascals and the everyday joys of young parenthood. (photo by Chris Erskine)

I find myself smitten with these cute young families in the neighborhood, the kind we used to be: frantic, loud, always late for school.

I watch the fire drill of everyone crawling into the car at once, dragging backpacks sideways across the pavement. I like the familiar rasp of that. And the boom-boom-boom of car doors.

I envy these young parents, because I also miss the sound of little feet racing for pancakes on a Saturday morning. I miss the sound of dogs scurrying for scraps, and the smell of cookies the kids burned with their mom.

Yet, I remember times as a young father when “my spirit could scarcely breathe,” in the words of my favorite writer.

Loved family life, the mayhem, the magic, but I was trapped in a job I didn’t much care for, in a town I couldn’t afford.

I turned to writing, “transforming pain into honey” (yet another Updike rainbow).

Immediately, I made the same mistake most new writers make: I tried too hard. I forced the joke or the observation. I didn’t let it breathe.

I’ve learned so much since then – that it’s tougher to be inventive than funny, that exaggeration works 600% of the time.

Over decades of this, even a slouch like me can pick up a few tricks.

Unlike great writers, I never sat brooding in silence. The house was too small for that. There was always some meltdown in the hallway, always a band of kids banging pots and wooden spoons. Or someone giving the poor cat a pedicure.

Daaaaaaaaaaaaad!!! I’m bleeeeeeeeding!!!

When the oldest rascal was 12, I remember thinking that there was so much mayhem, so much silk between the cracks, that I could write 24/7 about family life and never run out of something sly and knowing to offer.

Cut to 30 years later: Have I run out of something to say? Apparently not. Or do I just say it in different time signatures?

To be sure, I’m still full of Irish bluster – sometimes all I am is punchlines. No set up, just jokes.

I also suffer from what a reader recently called Boomer Wisdom.

That doesn’t come easy, Boomer Wisdom. It takes a bit of bourbon, a bunch of summer barbecues, plus 40 years of grinding out a paycheck in a job you sometimes loathe … of covering the mortgage, the insurance, paying for braces, travel ball, toothpaste, corn flakes, summer camp.

But all of that produces a personal scripture.

Consumer warning:  No one cares one wit for what you think about hip-hop or smash burgers or trends in general.

No one cares that when Boomers were young, as a colleague recently noted, we had to walk through 10 feet of snow just to change the channel. Or that we love the way a full moon rises up over a barn.

That’s the tradeoff for Boomer Wisdom. Nobody cares. So? It’s your scripture, not theirs.

By the way, the hardest part of being a Boomer grandparent? Keeping your lips zipped about how they’re raising the grandkids. You know what I mean.

Meanwhile, I struggle, as many do, with not becoming my job. I’m pretty convinced that adults often define themselves by their work, especially here in Los Angeles.

Soon, our job becomes our soul mate.

Hence, I branch out with other tasks – bad luncheon speeches, marked by a flamboyant insistence that what I think actually matters. Sometimes I emcee a gala or a Cub Scout breakfast.

Careful. Your envy is showing.

To keep life interesting, I also do all sorts of botched home repairs.

Recently, I helped Miss Suzie install a new island in her kitchen. Not a job for everyone. You have to be a real dope to attempt this sort of major project by yourself.

I flubbed the sink, chipping it as I transferred it from the old cabinet to the new. I also shorted some wires that almost blew out the entire electrical grid of the American West.

Other than that, it went quite well. As I told Miss Suzie, these projects rarely go 600% smoothly. And you always get what you pay for.

She compensated me with Dr. Pepper and soothing remarks. Pretty sure she overpaid.

But the island is in, and now I stand by waiting for other assignments. Should I hang her light fixture, in the ceiling 20 feet up? Do I dare install the dishwasher?

Do I dare?

Those are the words I still value at this stage of my life. Do I dare?

By nature, I don’t dare. By necessity, sometimes I should.

Because, even now, I need to breathe.

The kitchen island: Home projects seldom go 600% right. (photo by Chris Erskine)

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