Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Category: parenting

  • Senior Year

    Senior Year

    It feels like just yesterday we were all standing outside, putting you on the bus for that very first day of school. So many pictures, so many memories. The hustle and bustle of getting you ready, us ready, with grandparents, aunts, and uncles all coming by to wish you well.

    And now, today, you left at 7 a.m., driving yourself to school. No crowd, no fanfare. Our group was cut last year, and that loss still runs deep. The house was quieter. Just another Monday morning—except it wasn’t. This is senior year. Our little dancer’s last year of high school.

    The speed of it all is staggering. How quickly these years have flown. Memories flash through my mind like a reel, pulsing, unstoppable. I think back to my own senior year, how I got lazy when I should have gotten busy. I don’t remember my first day as clearly as I should, but I remember enough to know it was good, though not great.

    Now I see her stepping into this season, and everything comes at once. It’s like a midlife review—seeing her life, seeing mine, both layered together. I found old clips from my father’s phone, small pieces of the good times he thought were worth recording. They make me realize how little we actually carry with us or keep. These quiet times of reflection cut deep, like a single raindrop that swells into a flood of emotions. I brace myself against its raw power, but it breaks over me and carries me away in the current.

    I’ve made peace with that. We’re not meant to remember everything in crystal detail. If we did, we’d never be able to step into a new day. Life only gives us enough to build from, enough to grow. Every moment is preserved somewhere, even if not consciously. We are part of the endless dance of life—Lila. None of it is wasted.

    That’s why nostalgia is tricky. We try to hold on to things as if they’ll slip away, but nothing is really lost. I believe when our time here ends, we’ll move differently, through time and memory, able to revisit, replay, relive whenever we want. Which means the more important task is simply this: create memories worth reliving. Push when you can, because you always can.

    Watching my kids in these formative years makes me remember how unsteady I was back then. I wish I could hand them the confidence I have now, the freedom from fear. At the time, everything felt so heavy, as if one wrong move mattered forever. But now I see it didn’t. Fear was wasted energy. I wish they could feel that already. Maybe they can’t. Maybe it’s just part of the process, like any hero making their way into the world. It’s a gift that can’t be bestowed, only earned through the walk of life.

    What I do know is this: my little girl is a senior. My baby is grown. My wife feels it deeply; I do too. But I’m steadied by the truth that every moment counts, that nothing disappears, and that all of it is worth carrying forward. This year will go quickly, but it will not be wasted. It will be lived, and it will be remembered.

    Olivia, I hope you feel the weight of this year, but not as a burden. I hope you see it as a gift. Try new things. Take chances. Don’t let fear hold you back. The truth is, it doesn’t matter if everything works out perfectly. What matters is that you live it fully. You must fail in order to succeed, and I hope you fail gloriously, then rise again with the courage I know you have to keep moving forward.

    You are ready for this moment. You are stepping into the next part of your life, and I couldn’t be prouder. Every day ahead of you is another memory in the making, another chapter worth writing. So live it in a way that makes you smile when you look back. We’ll be smiling too, every step of the way. Forever and always your biggest fans.

  • Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    We’re now entering Phase 3 of our young teenage son’s baseball career. The never-ending rhythm of summer tournament play. Long weekends, hotel rooms, musty cleats that stink up the car, dugout dust, and emotional highs and lows packed into 72 hours.

    The truth is, we haven’t been all that competitive in our past two tournaments. We’ve run out of steam, lost our foam, just didn’t have enough Rizz to carry us through the lean moments. But this weekend, something shifted.

    This tournament, War at the Shore, held near the tribal lands of Mohegan Sun and Mystic, CT, felt different from the start. We opened with a strong Friday night showing, and our team rolled through with three wins before falling short in Sunday’s matchup, a rematch with our toughest opponent.

    It was a winnable game. We battled back from a 5-0 deficit, but baseball, as always, has its element of luck. A few balls dropped into the Bermuda Triangle, just out of reach beyond the infield or along the foul lines. Add in some costly errors, and we lost our edge, both in pacing and psychology.

    Still, we made it back. And though the ride home felt especially long, there was something satisfying in the silence and the over-analysis of what-ifs. Every small moment matters in baseball. And somehow, every moment mattered this weekend.

    What really stayed with me wasn’t just the score or the stats. It was the time spent with my family. It felt like we were gone for a week, not just a weekend. Watching your child play is like being pulled into a Broadway show. You lose yourself in the performance and production. Every play, every at-bat takes something out of you. The butterflies, the anxious pangs in your gut, the quiet hopes;  it’s all part of it.

    I sat slightly away from the crowd on a grassy knoll on this warm summer day, a little removed but with the best view. It gave me perspective, a moment to breathe it all in. The game below, the sky above. The majesty of it all. These are the days that move fast and live forever.

    Every kid contributed this weekend. They showed up, brought their energy, and let their favorite juiced bats bring out the best in them. They thought they could, and so they did.

    There’s a synergy now. A chosen family dynamic forming between the boys. The time spent together on and off the field. I love watching them come together, the way they cheer for one another. The way they shout to their teammate who made an error, telling him to shake it off and get the next one. No blame, just TLC for one another. We’ve played on many teams, but this is a special group of young men.

    Then there’s the parental chaos. Multiple hotels, packing and repacking supplies, forgetting essentials, trying to make a reservation for 30 people to eat together, then figuring out how to split the bill. Ending the night with fireside table chats in the bagel buffet lounge. We become friends, make it work, and enjoy our time together.

    These joyful, chaotic weekends are forging memories that will carry them through the long walk of life. Because we’re not meant to just try. Life isn’t something we have to do, it’s something we get to do. We’re meant to reach. And the bigger the challenge, the greater the memory, whether or not we come out on top.

    And maybe that’s what makes it all so special. The dirt on their cleats. The voices in the dugout. The pain of a loss, the joy of a win, and everything in between. Chasing childhood greatness with your friends, giving it everything you’ve got, leaving it all out there.

    That’s the part they’ll remember.
    That’s the part that lasts.