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• My parents sold their home of 40 years and retired to Barranquilla, Colombia.
• They enjoyed 15 years there, but a diagnosis of Alzheimer's disease changed everything.
• Now they're back in in Houston, and I'm navigating their care and finances.

When my parents retired at 70, they both knew immediately where they wanted to go.

With its year-round temperatures of 80 to 90 degrees, peaceful blue waters and a welcoming and lively culture the seaside city of Barranquilla, Colombia, called to them. After all, my Colombian father would be going back to his homeland, and my Cuban mother relished in the Latin culture that seemed so fragmented in the U.S.

They sold their home of more than 40 years in Houston and purchased a two-story condo with a partial ocean view for $135,000 USD. Their social security and retirement money went a long way in Barranquilla, where the average cost of living is much lower than it is in the US.

The move was great, until it wasn't

In the beginning, their retirement life was idyllic. They enjoyed afternoon coffee with friends at sidewalk cafes, they walked along the beach every morning and they would attend parties in their condo development with fellow retirees.

But one day, while they were visiting my family in Texas, my mother stopped and stared at my younger son splashing away in the pool. "Who's that little boy?" she asked. I stared at her face, as she scrutinized my son, with his dark curls and almond brown eyes that looked like mine. "Ma, that's your grandson," I said.

That's when I knew something was terribly wrong. On another visit, my father would wander in the kitchen aimlessly, looking for the cabinet where we kept our water glasses, despite the fact that he had no problem finding them a year ago.

A trip to the neurologist confirmed what I had already suspected. They both had Alzheimer's disease.

We needed to make a plan

While the diagnosis for both of them was still early-stage, I knew what the future held. My grandmother (my mother's mother) and my mother's brother both had Alzheimer's. Worst yet, my father seemed to be progressing at an alarmingly rapid rate. Unfortunately, retiring on the Colombian coast would be a dream unfulfilled.

They decided to move back to Houston to be closer to family and their doctors. They agreed to sell their condo and move in with us temporarily until we could find a suitable assisted living apartment. But it's been tricky. Some days, they would say they were moving back to Barranquilla permanently. It was a constant flip-flop, but my husband and I made an executive decision to keep them in Houston.

They've been living with us since February. In that time, I've had to reset all their passwords because they couldn't remember them. I spend every morning scrambling to the kitchen to make sure I'm there to give them their medication, a routine they consistently forget.

The biggest challenge, though, has been navigating foreign laws. One thing I did early on was get a power of attorney and medical power of attorney. While those two documents have been incredibly helpful in the states, I'm not entirely sure the legal weight these documents may carry in Colombia. I'm currently looking for a lawyer and a real estate agent abroad who can help me with the sale of their condo. Once that's taken care of, I then have to sell all the stuff they've amassed in the 15 years they've lived there.

I'm planning for my own future, too

Perhaps the biggest lesson I've learned in all of this is to be prepared. I plan to sign up for long-term care insurance so my children won't have to stress over how they plan to pay for my care in the same way I have had to with my parents. I've been taking steps to improve my health and I'm also financially prepared for the inevitable — when my parents pass away. Right now, though, I'm going to relish the time I still have with them, here, close to my family.

• My 4-year-old daughter will start primary school in September. She's excited, but I'm dreading it.
• It seems like moments ago that I brought home a baby from hospital, now she's growing up so fast.
• I feel like this is the beginning of the rest of her life and I'm not ready for the change.

'I will need a laptop when I start school,' my 4-year-old daughter confidently informed me.

She is due to start school in September and will be going to the lovely, tiny village school that is minutes away from our house in the UK.

I knew she'd need a pencil case and school shoes, but I really wasn't expecting her to need a laptop.

When I tried to reason with her, and point out it was unlikely the school would ask 4-year-olds to have their own computer, she answered, 'It's for my homework.'

That was that. She'd heard so much about 'big' school from older relatives, that she was convinced she knew what she was getting herself in to, despite me trying to tell her I thought it was unlikely the youngest classes were given homework.

Looking at her face, full of excitement, with messy hair and remnants of nursery school detritus on it, my heart broke slightly as I imagined what the next few weeks, months, and years would look like.

Things are changing

While my daughter sees school as her biggest adventure so far, I see it as the start of the rest of her life. And with it comes the inevitable highs and lows of growing up.

Along the way she's going to experience the joy of close friendships, the pain of friendship break-ups, the excitement of a school trip and, yes, the slog of homework.

After primary school, there'll be secondary school, maybe university, and a career to follow.

There'll be Sunday evening battles over getting bags ready for the school week, carefully planned camps to tide over the long summer break, and playdates with people who, I hope, will become some of our closest friends but who we haven't even met yet.

She is ready, I'm not

She still feels so small, but is also so determined to grow up in a hurry. She can't wait to be at school and keeps gleefully reminding her younger brother that she won't be at nursery school with him this year.

She says, "I am going to school and you are not, because you are only a baby."

Her indignant younger brother, replies, "Not a baby."

She is ready to leave him behind and move on, to a place where she's going to be the smallest fish in a large pond.

My heart is aching

I don't know when the novelty and excitement will wear off, but when it does I can't think of a way to sugarcoat the pill that this is her life for years to come.

But I also know that along the way I will have the privilege to witness her grow into a wonderful human being- shaped by everything life throws at her, beginning in the next few weeks and continuing for years.

Imagining my tiny girl in a uniform slightly too big for her, holding my hand nervously in the playground on her first day, my heart contracts.

I know that she is more than ready for this step, and as a parent, I have to let her fly and just be there to catch her when or if she falls. However, I will not be, under any circumstances, buying her a laptop.

• My 2-year-old grandson, King, died in an accident as I was achieving major career milestones.
• The loss forced me to confront how I had been using external achievements.
• Through my grief, I learned what true success in life really means.

The call came while I was in the middle of producing a groundbreaking documentary sanctioned by the Napoleon Hill Foundation. I had also just been featured in Forbes. Everything in my career was accelerating exactly as I had planned.

Then came the news that shattered everything.

King, my 2-year-old grandson, had drowned in a tragic accident. The little boy who would stop whatever he was doing to run into my arms, whose face lit up every time he saw me, was gone.

I felt like an anvil had fallen on my chest. Every step I took felt heavy, and the more it sank in, the more I wanted to leap out of my body from the pain. My chest was heavy and I couldn't breathe. It was instant trauma and a shock to my nervous system that left me gasping for air.

But that grief taught me something valuable.

My grandson meant the world to me

My first thought was denial. He's so young. I was just with him. How could this have happened?

Just one month earlier, I had sent King and my daughter back to California. When their flight was delayed, King held onto my neck like he didn't want to let go before boarding. I never expected that would be the last time I would hold him.

King wasn't just any child to me. Our relationship was magical. When I would play meditation music by the group Beautiful Chorus, he would hear just the first tone and stop whatever he was doing to come sit on my lap and sing with me. He was even on key. When he stayed at my house, we would sing together, play the African drum, and he would dance while I cooked. We would laugh until our bellies hurt.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, producing a documentary about mothers who had overcome adversity to find success, and I was suddenly facing one of my greatest adversities.

I forced myself to sit with the pain of loss

I didn't use work as anesthesia. Instead, I allowed myself to feel everything without grabbing any vices as coping mechanisms. It was painful. My nervous system wouldn't allow me to rest, and when I did sleep, I woke up thinking about King.

The grief forced me to confront a fundamental truth: I had been building my identity on things completely outside my control. I realized that only the ego would allow me to believe that tomorrow is promised to me or anyone I love.

I couldn't run from the pain. I had to use the tools I had been building through plant medicine, meditation, breathwork, and stillness to sit with it and find peace with knowing there was nothing I could have done to prevent this.

My grief helped me better understand success

Before King's death, my definition of success was entirely external. Success looked like closing deals, taking meetings, and speaking at events. It was anything that fed my ego. I was chasing vanity metrics, using achievements to mask deeper insecurities I hadn't yet faced.

But when I lost King, none of that mattered — the Forbes feature, the Napoleon Hill Foundation project, and the speaking engagements. All of it felt meaningless in the face of this devastating loss.

I started understanding that true success wasn't about external validation. It was about healing trauma, facing my shadows, and addressing my addictions.

I know for a fact that if I hadn't been doing deep inner work before this happened, I would have been completely broken. The preventive inner work I had done gave me the tools I needed to process this unimaginable loss.

I now realize that inner work before something happens is the only way to have the tools needed to process the curveballs life throws at you with full impact.

King's death revealed the most resilient part of me. The part that won't quit, even in the face of unbearable loss. He taught me that true success isn't measured in Forbes features or foundation partnerships. It's measured in our capacity to love deeply, heal authentically, and find meaning even in our darkest moments.

Every time I hear that first tone from Beautiful Chorus, I remember my grandson's voice singing with mine, perfectly on key, and I'm reminded that the most important successes in life can't be quantified on any business metric.

• Katherine Schwarzenegger says she hired a coach to prepare for her role as a stepmom to Chris Pratt's son.
• "It's a confusing thing to navigate where you fit in," Schwarzenegger said of the stepparent dynamic.
• Pratt added that stepparents often "don't end up getting the credit" they deserve.

Before Katherine Schwarzenegger married Chris Pratt, she hired a pro to help her prepare to become his son's stepmom.

During a joint appearance with Pratt on Tuesday's episode of the "Parenting & You with Dr. Shefali" podcast, Schwarzenegger spoke about family life and what it was like navigating a blended household.

Schwarzenegger married the "Jurassic World" actor in 2019 and has two daughters and a son with him. Pratt also shares a son, Jack, 12, with his ex-wife, Anna Faris.

"Number one thing I say is get a stepparenting therapist or stepparenting coach, because I got that right when we got engaged, and it's been incredibly helpful for me and also just understanding my role as a stepparent," Schwarzenegger told podcast host and clinical psychologist Shefali Tsabary.

The eldest daughter of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver added that her coach was "essential" in helping her learn how to communicate with her stepchild and think of herself as a stepparent.

"Because stepparenting, like parenting, has no handbook. Because I have the benefit of being in both roles, stepparenting is extra confusing because you aren't a parent, you're not a nanny, you're not an assistant. You have responsibilities in all of those areas, but you're not either of them. It's a confusing thing to navigate where you fit in," Schwarzenegger said.

She also said that every family has a different dynamic, since different people might have different levels of involvement in their stepchild's life.

"And when it comes to ego, that definitely pops up for me, for sure, and I always go back to understanding that this isn't about me, it's about the child," she said.

But thankfully, they — Schwarzenegger, Pratt, Faris, and Faris' husband Michael Barrett — "co-parent all very well, which is a huge blessing," she said.

Pratt, who was also a podcast guest, added that stepparenting reminds him of motion-capture acting, where actors wear specialized suits with sensors to animate digital characters, because stepparents "don't end up getting the credit" they deserve.

"If a parent is in there doing the hard work of creating structure for a child and holding children accountable — and it's not a biological child — it can feel thankless. But it's a really, really important job," Pratt said.

Schwarzenegger isn't the only Hollywood celebrity who has spoken up about being a stepparent or blending their families.

In March, Kate Hudson — who has three kids with three dads — said there are upsides to having big, blended families.

"It's like they have so much family. They've got multiple grandmas, multiple grandpas, multiple dads, and moms," Hudson said.

On a "Goop" podcast episode in April, Gwyneth Paltrow said that it was tough navigating the stepparent dynamic as it often felt "full of minefields."

"If I look back at my mistakes as a stepmother, I should have just treated them both like my kids way faster," Paltrow said.

Paltrow has two kids with her ex-husband Chris Martin, whom she divorced in 2016. In 2018, she married Brad Falchuk, who has two kids from his previous marriage.

Parenting experts previously told Business Insider about the common mistakes that stepparents make when trying to connect with their stepkids.

One mistake is trying to replace the stepchildren's biological parents.

"The stepparent isn't the biological parent, and it is OK to acknowledge that," Sarah Epstein, a licensed marriage and family therapist, told BI. "In fact, don't try to compete. Instead, speak directly to the child about their parent and encourage the relationship between the child and parent."

Representatives for Schwarzenegger and Pratt did not immediately respond to requests for comment sent by BI outside regular hours.

• I thought I would be raising my kids in a suburban house with a backyard.
• Instead, our family of four lives in a one-bedroom apartment with a study in an urban area.
• Living in an apartment was hard when our kids were babies, but now it's working for us.

I never imagined I would be raising my kids in a 900-square-foot apartment.

My husband and I had planned to move to a house in the suburbs just before our first baby was born. But then the pandemic struck, and real estate prices went up. Five years later, we still live in the same apartment, and now there are four of us.

For a while, I felt inadequate about our living situation because we didn't live in a house with a backyard for our kids to run around and play in. Now I've realized that there are benefits to living in an urban apartment for our family, especially once the baby phase was behind us.

Living in an apartment was hard when our kids were babies

There were things I really didn't like about living in an apartment when my kids were babies.

For starters, it was hard to find room for all of the baby stuff. Some baby items just wouldn't fit neatly anywhere, such as the double stroller and the travel crib.

It also seemed like the noises were amplified in our apartment, so our babies' cries felt louder than they really were. I was constantly worried that we were disturbing our neighbors' sleep.

With only one bedroom and a study, I felt frustrated because I couldn't take a proper break from the demands of motherhood unless I left the apartment.

We socialize with other families who live in apartments

That push to get out of the apartment for more space hasn't been all bad, though. It has led to more socializing with other families who live in our neighborhood.

Our family spends a lot of time at the local parks, playgrounds, and playgroups. In doing so, we've connected with many other families, who have become our broader support network.

Meeting other families who live in apartments has also helped to normalize our own living situation. It shows me that there's nothing wrong with raising kids in an apartment.

An urban apartment suits our young family

With nearly everything we need at our doorstep, walking everywhere keeps us active and allows us to live an almost car-free lifestyle. We hardly ever have to wrestle our kids into car seats, worry about parking a car, or fill up the gas tank.

When we don't even want to leave our apartment building, we use the shared communal space, which is equipped with a landscaped garden and grassy lawn—kind of like having a backyard.

We work together to keep our apartment organized and functional, and try to limit how much stuff we own. We gift each other experiences and prefer to borrow toys and books instead of buying them.

The smaller space strengthens our family's bond and fosters many shared experiences with each other. We intentionally gather together to do things as a family, yet we also feel comfortable doing independent activities side-by-side.

While things didn't turn out quite as I had expected, I think we're making the most of our living situation.

• We bought our Subaru Outback in 2018 when we had our first child.
• It's been a super reliable car, but with three growing kids, we've outgrown it.
• We tested the new electric 2025 Volkswagen ID Buzz, and we loved it.

We've had our Subaru Outback since 2018, when my first child was just a newborn.

Now that our kids are 7, 5, and 5, while the car is still as reliable as day one, it's become a source of stress because our kids fight so much in it from the lack of space.

My husband had been suggesting a minivan for our family, with three rows to space the kids out and sliding doors for easy loading. I, however, refuse to be a minivan mom. I find them ugly and impractical.

That all changed when I saw the new electric Volkswagen ID Buzz, so we decided to test it with our family — and now we are torn.

We need more space for our family so decided to test out the electric Volkswagen ID Buzz.

There's no denying we need more space in the car. With three car seats, growing limbs, and all the stuff from school and sports, the back row is tight.

That's the major cause of fights in our car, which makes any trip (short or long) incredibly stressful for whoever is driving.

As for the rest of the car, it's got what we need: a big trunk, the ability to place a turtle top, and an overall reliable engine.

My first car was a Volkswagen Golf, which I loved, so I've always been a bit partial to the brand. We also tested the Volkswagen Atlas Crossport, which has two rows instead of three, and even having just a bit more space in the second row made our kids more comfortable and manageable.

When we saw previews on social media of the ID Buzz, VW's new version of their 1950s Bus, I was intrigued. It looked cuter than a van, but still offered what we thought we needed.

The third row is a true row.

When the kids saw the VW ID Buzz, they all squealed in excitement. I won't lie, it looks so cool in person. Even while driving it to summer camp drop off, we saw people turn around to do a double take and kids pointing as we drove past. If you don't like the attention, be warned that this car attracts all the looks.

The ID Buzz we tested didn't have captain seats, so we had to lower one seat for one of our kids to sit in the third row. As I was setting up the car seats, I noticed that the third row is a full row. I'm 5'6" tall and was able to sit comfortably with extra space for my legs.

Loading the kids was pretty easy.

You can open the sliding doors with the key, and even with the seat lowered, it was easy for all three of them to navigate their bodies inside.

One detail I loved was the ability to open the doors three different ways: from the remote, as mentioned, from the actual door, and also from a button near the driver's seat.

This last option made it so I could get in the car, type in our destination on the screen, and not have to wait around to close the doors.

It doesn't have a ton of bells and whistles.

One of the biggest complaints online has been the interior design, which some feel is lacking compared to how innovative the exterior design is. For my family's needs, this wasn't a problem at all.

Coming from a 2017 car to a 2025 model, we could tell the difference in things like heated seats in the middle row and a more dynamic screen (our Subaru's screen doesn't even show a map). That said, the VW ID Buzz doesn't have that many bells and whistles, and I actually like that.

We recently drove a BMW 7 Series after getting a free upgrade from a rental car company, and I really disliked all the extra buttons in the back row.

My kids kept changing the temperature and radio station, annoying everyone.

The trunk space was limited but enough for day-to-day use.

The trunk space in the ID Buzz is nonexistent compared to the space in our Subaru Outback if the third row is in use. I do like that the ID Buzz has two baskets that can be covered by a platform, allowing us to store groceries or sports equipment without taking up precious trunk space.

While the amount of space wouldn't be an issue on a day-to-day basis, if we were going on a road trip, the space in the trunk does feel a bit limited.

But there was one major drawback for us.

Overall, I've found the Volkswagen ID Buzz easy to drive, fun, and reliable. While there's criticism for the range — which is advertised at 230 miles — as a city car to move kids from one location to the other, the range felt fine. We were able to run almost a full week without charging, and then stopped to charge while during groceries for about 30 minutes.

The one criticism I have for the ID Buzz is its price point. The 4-wheel-drive, which is what we would need in Maine, is retailing at over $72,000. This puts it over our other car, an Audi Q7, the 2025 model of which is now retailing at $70,000 and is considered a luxury SUV.

• Before having kids, my husband and I would travel carry-on only.
• With kids, we felt like we needed more space and often checked luggage.
• We took a trip through Sicily with carry-ons, and we are never going back to checking bags.

"Your bag didn't make it to this airport," the woman behind the counter told me in 2023. We had just arrived in Madrid, jetlagged, delayed, and exhausted.

Before having kids, my husband and I were experts at traveling with carry-on only, but since we had three kids in two years, our packing situation has become a little more, well, complicated.

That is, until this year, when I decided that we were going to try to travel without any checked baggage to Italy for over two weeks. It was a success, and I'm never going back to check luggage.

We got our kids cute roller suitcases

With my kids, everything new we do depends on the delivery. Knowing that they would moan if I simply said, "Everyone needs to roll their own carry-on," I decided to invest in cute, fun bags for them.

I got three Away kids' carry-ons in different colors. I figured they'd be into them because they are fun and smaller than a regular carry-on. I was correct.

They all practiced rolling their bags around the house and watched me pack their things into the separate compartments. We then talked about how they were responsible for their own bag at the airport and that we couldn't leave them behind.

I packed very light

We were in Italy for 16 days, and I decided to pack extremely light. Not just so the carry-ons wouldn't be super heavy, but also to have room for treasures I knew we would find in some of our magical destinations, and for new outfits.

I checked the listings for our Airbnbs and planned where and when we would be doing laundry. I ended up packing five outfits for each of us and bringing two pairs of shoes each.

In the end, because we spent so much time at the beach, I felt like I could've packed even lighter on clothes for the kids since they mostly wore bathing suits and flip-flops.

Having small bags made moving around Italy easier

Most of the places we stayed had stairs, which we didn't know in advance. The first house in Taormina had about three flights of stairs right as you walked in, on a flimsy staircase not for the faint of heart.

Bringing small bags made it easier to check in and out of places like these. We also took a trip to a remote island by ferry, and navigating the cobblestone streets and port was much easier with our carry-ons.

We each had a backpack to access things like passports, snacks, and stuffed animals. That way, once the carry-ons were zipped, I didn't need to get into them until the next location.

I'm not going back to checked bags

Now that my kids are older and we don't need to bring things like diapers, formula, car seats, and all the stuff that comes with babies, I'm ready to never check a suitcase again.

While it requires more planning pre-trip, I felt like it paid off significantly during our travels. My husband and I did, at certain points, take over our kids' carry-ons, especially when rushing to catch a connection or getting on and off escalators. Since our bags had four wheels, it wasn't super hard to do so.

And the idea of never losing a bag and having to track it with an AirTag from a different country sounds quite appealing to me.

• I missed being a part of my sons' daily lives, so when they were 23 and 24, I moved to be nearby.
• Starting over at 51 in a big city was difficult, and I became more needy than I was back home.
• I wasn't myself, and it wasn't working out for anyone. I moved back after one year.

It hit me on the seven-hour drive. The punch to the gut, the weight of the wrongness of it all.

I was on my way to a new apartment in a new city to be closer to two of my four sons, where I'd be just a 10-minute drive away from both.

The new place had everything I thought I wanted: a dishwasher, garbage chute, high ceilings, fast wifi, a little balcony and dining nook, and an app where I could press a button and summon a person if the washer or dryer broke.

I wasn't moving for the apartment, though. The lease in my hometown was coming to an end, so the time felt right for a move. However, the only reason I chose to leave my small town of 20,000 for Ottawa, Ontario, with 1 million people, was to be closer to my sons, who were 23 and 24 at the time.

My kids have always been my choice over dating, a career, and a marriage that left our little family hobbled but closer in the end. Why would they not be my choice now? My friends back home were fine, I told myself, but they weren't my sons, whom I raised to be my best friends.

I also thought they might need me since they were still at a young enough age where having a mom close by could help.

Really, though, I just wanted to be the kind of mom who could have a pot roast dinner with them on a Sunday and be part of their daily lives. I missed being part of their daily lives.

The move was scary but I told myself it was right, even though it felt off

I told myself this move was the smart thing to do, the right thing. Scary? Sure.

Trying to make a new life at 51 — when you're too old to make the young parent friends, but too young to make retirement-age friends — is intimidating. I knew in my bones that it wouldn't work, but I tried anyway.

I went to swing dancing classes in a church basement on Friday nights. I joined a gym, a women's dinner club, a regular yoga class. I played pickleball in the park. I taught writing classes at the local university. I shopped, and shopped, and shopped, an old thumb-sucker habit of mine when I'm feeling stuck.

I spoke to people all the time, and I listened to their stories, but I felt like none of us were ever having a conversation. We just volleyed questions back and forth.

It was the same with my two sons, who were grown men now. They made time for me and helped around the house, like hanging pictures and putting my bed together. However, then they'd go back to their own homes to their own lives, and I would be alone again.

Sometimes, I'd drop by unexpectedly for a visit, for a chat, for company, because I wasn't finding my own life here. I knew, though, that I was just adding myself onto their lives, not integrating seamlessly.

I wasn't myself here — I knew that, and so did they. Back home, I was the mom who had friends, went for hikes, and knew everyone at the farmer's market. I felt like this new mom was too needy for us all, especially me.

I moved back to my little town after 1 year in the big city

We all agreed that I had tried my best, but it just wasn't the right fit.

This time, driving back in my Nissan Versa, everything felt exactly right.

Later, we planned a trip for that summer. We got the entire family together for a week at the beach, where everything felt natural and balanced.

We could all just be adults together, swimming and eating, and playing cards. I felt glad for our time together, grateful for who we've become.

• My teens have been going to Disney theme parks since they were small.
• However, they have little patience for long lines or crowds, and I often skip my favorite things.
• I spent a day alone at Disneyland and did everything they won't do, and it was perfect.

I've spent more than a decade visiting Disney World and Disneyland with my family, and when they were small, my kids were game for the hustle and bustle. Now that they're teenagers, visits to theme parks with them are rare, and when they do tag along, there's not much they're interested in doing.

Recently, I spent a day at Disneyland alone and, in the words of Rapunzel, had the "best day ever." I visited the park from early morning until late at night and did the things my kids would have complained about having to do if they'd been with me. It was a great reminder that grown-ups need to do "kid things" by themselves sometimes, and I can't wait to do it again.

I did everything my kids complain about doing when we visit

At Disneyland, I prioritized rides I love but that often have long lines, especially old dark-ride-style attractions like Pinocchio's Daring Journey and Snow White's Enchanted Wish. You can't use Lightning Lane, Disneyland's skip-the-line pass that costs extra, on these rides, so my kids are usually out.

I did use the Lightning Lane pass I purchased to ride other attractions my kids claim to be sick of, like It's A Small World and Pirates of the Caribbean. Experiencing these longtime favorites whine-free was magical.

My kids also complain about parade-viewing at Disney parks, since you usually need to find a spot along the route at least 30 minutes before the parade starts and sit still to keep your place. On the day I visited, Disneyland had two parades, The Celebrate Happy Cavalcade during the day and Paint the Night — an incredible lighted parade — at night. For both, I grabbed myself a treat, found a seat, and thoroughly enjoyed waving to characters like Duffy Bear and the Disney Princesses from my front-row vantage point.

The day reminded me that grown-ups need to let loose sometimes, too

There were other little things I found delightful during my day, from being able to try snacks my kids may have turned their noses up at, like a chicken pot pie-topped baked potato that's part of Disneyland's 70th anniversary celebration menu, to standing in long lines to meet characters like Minnie Mouse. I rode more than 10 rides, met several characters, saw two parades and the evening fireworks show, and enjoyed yummy treats, like a mint julep and a green sugar-covered Gator Tail Churro.

I also faced a Disney fear — riding the new Tiana's Bayou Adventure attraction (formerly Splash Mountain). I never liked the 50-foot drop at Splash Mountain, so I'd put off riding the new version. Because I was alone, I decided to be brave. The ride was incredibly beautiful and I would absolutely face the drop (and getting soaked) again to spend more time with Princess Tiana and her friends.

Doing things I love to do helped me recharge and unwind

My day acting like a kid at Disneyland was a much-needed break from the responsibilities of mom life. What's more, the following day, as I flew home, my husband had an emergency appendectomy, and I landed amid a bit of chaos. It just goes to show that it's important to take little moments for yourself when you can, so you're ready to jump when the inevitable stresses of life show up.

Recharged and armed with a bit of pixie dust, I arrived home from Disneyland ready to support my husband and kids during a stressful time. My husband joked that I already deserve another Disneyland trip since mine ended with his medical emergency. While he's on the mend and doing great now, I just may take him up on that one day.

• My 22-year-old daughter moved home after graduating college to save money for a year.
• She's used to having a roommate, but I haven't had anyone else in my house for four years.
• We maintain harmony through shared expenses, chores, and open communication.

My daughter's college graduation hit me profoundly.

I was proud of her, of course, but this graduation, unlike the previous ones (kindergarten, middle school and high school), signaled a change: she's all grown up.

Even though she's moving back home, she's now a 22 year old adult who's been living on her own for the past four years. She's used to roommates — I'm not. This is how we're navigating our new living arrangements.

There's a line between independence and courtesy

My daughter is industrious, working several part-time jobs. She's also building a life, making and maintaining friendships, attending concerts, and indulging in pub crawls. While I don't tell her what to do, I expect the courtesy of communication about her plans so I don't wake up at 2 a.m. wondering where she is.

We follow each other's location on our phones for safety, but I don't abuse this privilege. Knowing she's safely in her bed or at a friend's house helps me rest easy.

We share expenses

Her plan is to work for a year to save money for her master's degree, an endeavor I support. Therefore, I'm keeping her on my phone and insurance accounts so she can save the money she earns. But when she runs to the grocery store for a snack, has a night out, or wants a haircut, that's on her dime.

I'm fortunate to have a job that pays our bills. While I can, I'm happy to give her a leg up.

She has chores

One reason I haven't downsized our family home is I knew she'd be returning. She helps maintain our house by doing chores, and not just unloading the dishwasher, her specialty since middle school. She's become a skilled power washer, deck hole-filler, and painter, and this summer she's rehabbing other wooden features in our yard. I'd have to pay someone else for the light repairs, mulching and staining jobs she's capable of doing, so she earns credit doing them herself.

She's housesitting this summer while I'm traveling, and I left her a hefty list. It had better be done when I get home.

We keep a shared calendar

Our schedules are busy and, since handing over some of the household maintenance, it's important that we both know who's doing what and when.

We have a shared calendar for our work schedules and choreography of daily chores such as cat litter, dishes, laundry and dinner. This allows us to keep track of the schedule and prevents me from nagging, which preserves our relationship.

Communication is key

My daughter and I have always been close and we're good at expressing ourselves, but it's more important now than ever. We each have pet peeves: I hate an unloaded dryer and a stolen hairbrush, she (understandably) hates it when I go to bed and leave a candle burning. It's important to talk about these things as they arise so they don't fester. We've learned to mention them kindly and without frustration, as we share mutual respect for one another.

We treat each other with thoughtfulness

Like any roommates, we consider each others' co-living needs. I rise early for work and want quiet after 9 p.m. so, if she has a friend visiting, they stay downstairs. She loves it when I bring her coffee in bed, and I wait for her to text me the coffee emoji each morning.

I haven't had a roommate in years, but following these guidelines works well and allows us to enjoy each other in a new way — as equals.

• When I was young, I enjoyed lazy, golden summer breaks.
• I want my kids to have restful, easy summers, too.
• I know this time can't last forever, but that just makes me want to enjoy it even more.

Growing up in South Florida, summer breaks were a blur of pool days, sleepovers, mall trips, and a lot of sleeping in. My days fell into an easy rhythm: I'd roll out of bed around noon, toss on a swimsuit, grab a Diet Pepsi and a granola bar, then flop into a lounge chair by the pool. Afternoons were spent reading and swimming laps, and in the evening, I could be found on the phone or hanging out with friends until curfew.

I got my first part-time job the year I turned 16, and my schedule shifted around work hours. But I still slept in whenever I could and spent a ridiculous amount of time on the phone when I wasn't working or practicing my driving.

I remember those summers as relaxed, carefree, and fun — three months of doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My parents rolled their eyes when I was still in bed at lunchtime, but it was the 1980s — helicopter parenting wasn't a thing. As long as I did my chores, I was golden. And so were my summers.

My kids are having a 1980s summer

We're four weeks into summer break, and I'm happy to report my kids have settled into their own version of a 1980s summer. Some people call it "kid rot" — lounging around on screens, staying up until midnight, and generally doing a whole lot of nothing. But as an older mom, it feels just about perfect to me.

My kids aren't attending camps or academic programs, and I have (almost) no guilt about letting them sleep in as late as they want. In fact, I want them to enjoy these long, lazy days with no agenda.

Soon enough, they'll be headed back to school, to SATs and geometry class, to clubs, part-time jobs, and volunteer hours. After that, they'll be off to college, jobs, and a busy life that leaves no room for weeks and weeks of downtime.

I know this time can't last forever

Knowing these lazy days of summer can't last is one reason they're so special. As we get closer to the start of school, I'll start nudging my sons to go to bed earlier and crack open the summer reading they've ignored since May. I'll begin tugging gently on the loose boundaries that this season has allowed. They'll push back — of course they will — and there will be late nights come September when they think they can stay up past midnight and still function at 7 a.m.

My kids will learn, like I did, that summer's easy, breezy flow doesn't carry over into the structure of a jam-packed school year. They'll wistfully say, "I miss summer," and I will silently agree as I send them off to school — backpacks full of books, folders, goals, dreams, and the first hints of their future just coming into view.

I'm trying to enjoy summer, too

My kids' summers have always looked like this — relaxed days and mostly empty schedules, aside from the occasional beach or lake trip. I've spent years feeling vaguely guilty that I haven't packed their break with classes and camps and educational field trips.

But then I remind myself that we live in a culture that glorifies being busy, where self-worth is often tied to paychecks and accomplishments. Even being truly at rest takes effort — rearranging personal and professional schedules and front-loading or back-loading work just to steal a few days of true downtime.

I think back to my younger self — happily sleeping in, reading for hours, or lounging by the pool with no goal beyond a Coppertone tan — and I wonder what changed. When did a four-day weekend start to feel decadent and undeserved? When did I start calling it a "vacation week" if I only put in 20 hours of freelance work and checked off a couple of big chores?

I'm trying to relearn how to relax while letting my kids do what still comes naturally to them. I'm less focused on preparing them for the "real world" than I am on giving them memories of a carefree summer spent resetting and refueling. This isn't "rot" to me — it's the kind of downtime that gives them space to think, dream, and even get bored. They need it — and I'm reminding myself, so do I.

• When my son was 12, he altered how the school website looked on his computer to mask a failing grade.
• I was both disappointed and impressed. I cracked down, micromanaging him to get his grades up.
• It was a roller coaster ride up until he decided to graduate early.

School had always come easily to my eldest. He could coast and still get good grades. But in middle school, when the workload grew, he didn't adjust.

Initially, I wasn't worried. I'd done the same: procrastinated, then aced my tests, so I assumed he would, too. The difference was that I cared about getting the A. He didn't.

He'd let grades drop, then pull an all-nighter — not for the grade, but to avoid consequences. He didn't value homework, so he skipped it.

One day, while he was showing me his grades online, something felt off. Nothing looked wrong, but I suddenly had the urge to refresh the page. The moment I did, he tensed up, and the grade changed from passing to failing.

My 12-year-old had altered the site's source code to hide the real grade. I was both disappointed and impressed.

If he could use that ingenuity to hide a grade, he could use it to accomplish anything — he just had to care about the goal.

I punished him with micromanagement

I've always parented intentionally. I set expectations and decided when to step in or let my kids figure it out. Sometimes that meant watching them struggle.

After the report card incident, I knew my son needed more support.

I took a hands-on approach, including weekly check-ins, reviewing progress, and using Google Calendar to teach time-blocking.

Until he consistently followed through, he stayed in "micromanagement mode." He hated it, but it was the only way. Traditional punishment, like grounding, only caused conflict and didn't solve the issue.

I just wanted my son to love learning

As the years passed, his school performance never permanently improved. His grades were always a roller coaster ride: up when he did his homework and down when he didn't.

It was really challenging as a parent. I saw what needed to happen, but I couldn't do anything except keep showing up and supporting him.

My goal was never to have him be an A student, specifically. It was to get him to love learning and learn how to learn.

My husband and I fundamentally understand that school is only a short period in a person's life. As long as kids develop the skills to learn, they will have the skills they need to succeed in life beyond school, in a traditional workplace, or as a business owner.

While my son hadn't shown a love for learning in school, he had demonstrated it in his business ventures, which he started at age 9.

My son struggled in school but excelled in business, which was hard to deal with as a parent

He flipped sneakers at first, and then in high school he moved on to flipping dirt bikes. He'd do the research, find deals, track margins, and run everything from start to finish.

When it came to business, he was focused, disciplined, and all in.

This demonstrated to me that he could apply himself, research a business, understand market pricing, learn how to offer a product or service, and recognize how to make a profit, as well as understand what results in losing money.

On the other hand, when he didn't do his homework and his grades tanked, I wouldn't take him to meet someone to possibly buy or sell an item until he had zero missed school assignments.

I explained that those requirements also occur in life. If you, as a business owner, don't file your taxes, it reaches the point where you aren't allowed to operate until you bring your outstanding taxes up to date.

It was a constant struggle — school and his business — but I stayed the course. Then, one day, he told me he had decided to graduate from high school early.

Finishing school meant more freedom to focus on what he loved, but it also meant he'd have to buckle down and really apply himself academically.

Once school aligned with his goals, he engaged for good. He completed his coursework and graduated six months ahead of schedule. I was thrilled.

I stayed consistent so he could make a different choice

Now, at 18, my son lives at home and has decided not to go to college because he knows he doesn't enjoy traditional learning and the traditional academic path.

My husband and I consider his graduating early a huge win — not only because we saw how easily he completed his coursework, but also because we now see him choose to learn and grow based on his interests without traditional schoolwork in the way.

He's established his own LLC for his business ventures, invested his own money in an independent learning course focused on real estate development, and is researching wealth management strategies and various financial and insurance investment options.

He's taking action and following through, and most importantly, he's driving all of it.

All we ever wanted was for him to be self-sufficient and set up for success. Even though the roller coaster was hard for us to endure as parents, we held on, and we're so impressed with the person our son has become.

• Joan Nguyen co-founded Bumo to help parents book last-minute childcare.
• The app features vetted childcare providers and works similarly to Airbnb.
• The pitch deck has raised $10 million so far, with another $10 million seed round coming up.

Modern life makes it easy to order late-night cars home, book spontaneous vacation rentals, and get lightning-fast takeout. But getting childcare on short notice? For many that's still a pipe dream.

Joan Nguyen founded Bumo, an app that allows parents to book empty slots at local childcare centers, after starting two childcare ventures during the pandemic.

From working with parents, Nguyen said she realized that they often needed what she calls "fractional childcare," such as when their nanny called in sick or something pressing came up at work.

"As a parent, I also felt the pain of not being able to get childcare when you absolutely needed it," Nguyen told Business Insider. "Why is it easier for me to find a dog walker than it is to find a sitter or a nanny?"

Launched in 2024 after raising $10 million, the Bumo app was co-founded by Nguyen and Chriselle Lim. It's a continuation of a joint co-working and childcare center they launched in late 2019, followed by BumoBrain, an online learning platform they created at the height of the pandemic to help working parents.

This week, Bumo is preparing to announce a $10 million seed funding round, led by venture capital firms Offline Ventures and True Ventures, Bumo shared exclusively with Business Insider.

The app, which has about 10,000 users and offers services in 200 locations within 13 states, works similarly to Airbnb. Parents can filter and sift through childcare options from drop-in daycares to summer camps, some of them offering same-day availability.

Nguyen said Bumo also fits in with the consumer demand "to want things instantly," now accustomed to quick bookings and deliveries. Meanwhile, "you see childcare as this kind of monolithic thing that hasn't really changed a lot," she said.

Filling a gap in childcare demands

Bumo aims to offer more convenience and fill a gap in the US childcare system.

Parents are more isolated than they have been in generations, not always being able to rely on family members to help them. Many also can't afford full-time daycare, but still need some part-time childcare options.

To ensure safety, Nguyen said every service listed on Bumo is licensed by their respective state and has a "digital footprint" including past reviews. Bumo staff also interviews with each facility at least once a year (sometimes virtually depending on the provider's location) to make sure that they're up-to-date on background checks and that all staff have proper certifications.

Nguyen said that Bumo only uses original photography and videos for each facility instead of stock photos. Parents can also upload photos in their reviews.

Bumo's next step is to keep expanding in other cities; right now, Los Angeles has the highest number of childcare offerings on the app. The goal is to increase Bumo's density in San Francisco and to introduce its service in New York City.

Read the 16-page pitch deck Bumo used to secure $10 million.

Bumo opens with a positive press quote.

It sums up the key benefit of Bumo: expediency.

Introducing the founding team and each member's accomplishments.

The slide features the team members' experience levels, follower counts, and press mentions.

It defines the app and what makes it stand out.

The slide includes a graphic of the app in action.

It addresses the core childcare problems working parents face.

A simple graphic illustrates the obstacles parents face in securing childcare.

It then shows how childcare providers benefit from the app.

It highlights the practicality of the app: childcare providers have empty slots they want to fill, incentivizing them to use Bumo.

The next slide demonstrates how simple the app is to use.

It uses a similar calendar booking system to Airbnb or Rover.

The deck emphasizes lower costs.

Parents don't have to commit to full programs they can't afford.

Another slide sums up the key benefits for everyone.

It emphasizes the mutual relationship between parents and childcare providers.

The deck then transitions into Bumo's accomplishments.

It addresses how many families currently use Bumo, the number of providers, and the social media reach. It also shows investors the opportunities for growth.

Another slide highlights Bumo's commitment to digital outreach.

It shows a concerted strategy to promote the app in smaller parenting communities on Facebook and Instagram.

The presentation winds down by zooming out on the market.

It illustrates how big the childcare market is.

It draws comparisons to other successful apps.

It also asserts that, unlike the other apps, Bumo has no competition so far.

The second-to-last slide shows Bumo's projected growth.

It includes other methods of revenue and its target numbers for childcare service expansion.

The deck ends with a strong tagline.

It brands Bumo as a company that also cares about parents' well-being and understands their struggles.

• We've lived in our house for 30 years and have no plans of moving out any time soon.
• Our friends are downsizing, but emotions play a big part in our not leaving our 3,500 square foot house.
• There are memories in every corner of this place.

After 30 years, we're not ready to leave our 1970s home, even though it has stairs and no walk-in shower.

Among my friends my age — I'm 67 — downsizing is a major topic at social gatherings. The focus is always on finances and logistics, not the deep feelings that the decision reveals.

Emotions play a big part in why, for now, we're staying in this too-big, too-out-of-date, difficult-to-manage two-level 3,500-square-foot home despite many reasons to go and fewer to stay.

We've put so much work into it

My husband of 40 years and I have upgraded and replaced many things. Our upper level has oak plank floors, and we ripped the kitchen to the studs, put in a long peninsula, and increased cabinet space. We upgraded all the interior doors, replaced the concrete driveway, and improved the drainage. We've added a new roof and refurbished a concrete patio. We've added tiles to the bathroom floors and repainted multiple times. And except for the ubiquitous ancient refrigerator in the basement, we've upgraded with good appliances as needed.

But we don't necessarily love everything we've done throughout the years. The oak planks throughout the upper level are narrow, having been put in years ago, and the trend is wider planks. The remodeled kitchen, chic in 2011, has dark cabinets that are not in vogue.

It's an expensive house

At our price point and on our retirement income, it doesn't make sense to replace wooden floors or upgrade a kitchen that costs more than we'll ever get back.

A costly team cares for our lawn. A landscaper cares for the garden beds, and early every Monday, a team of mowers wakes us up. Another person hauls away branches after our frequent Midwestern storms. A man with a lift and a crew takes down the big trees, about 15 in 30 years. A company fertilizes the acre-sized lot and treats it for moles.

One Mother's Day, my husband looked out the kitchen window and said, "You are not the only mother on the property today," spotting Mr. and Mrs. Ground Hog and their four babies. We hired "The Critter Roper," who gently removed them from our property.

We hired the varmint guy to build a structure to protect our foundation, one of those expenses that cost a pretty penny and are not as exciting as a new car or TV. Our foundation has been safe from varmints ever since.

But we have reasons to stay

All that said, we are comfortable in our home. While the decorative style might be called Eclectic Grammy, each room has relics of past travel, copies of famous paintings, and originals by artist friends. We are surrounded by books everywhere (my husband is a retired librarian), and I can't bear to part with one book yet.

We each have an office, and my husband, who runs an online antiques business, keeps inventory in our basement and yard barn.

I love my yellow-and-white striped wallpapered office and large L-shaped desk. Diverse items hang on the walls — a huge picture of Eleanore Roosevelt, an "I Love Lucy" Vitameatavegamin clock, posters of Baryshnikov, my mother's 1955 Indiana University diploma, a picture my son drew in first grade of "The Cat in the Hat," and a poster of El Greco's "Toledo," the exact spot where my husband and I stood.

My most precious books are on a rough-hewn bookshelf my Dad built when I moved into my first apartment, arm's length away from my comfortable office chair.

From my office, I see West Lake, the canopy of trees in our yard, and lilac bushes that recently bloomed. Three bird feeders hang off the deck rail, awaiting the imminent arrival of the Rose-breasted grosbeaks on their way back to Canada.

I'm not ready to give these things up. My husband, who couldn't run his business from a smaller space, isn't ready to stop his business.

I hear kids in my mind, despite it being empty now

The house is quiet now, but I still love being here despite its too-small rooms and the lack of a linen closet.

In my mind, I hear the noise of children's pool parties and the clatter of my son's quick, child footsteps on the stairs, although he left for college in 2008 and lives on the East Coast.

My maternal grandfather was a real estate agent and always told me, that owning a home is an emotional investment. That statement sticks with me now as my husband and I contemplate when to downsize.

For now, I'm happy to stay in our home on its lovely tree-filled lot, which offers comfort and familiarity, rich memories, and seasonal beauty.

• My train broke down returning home, and I started a conversation with another passenger.
• I told him my husband was Mexican and that I was due in September.
• He suggested we move to Mexico for my maternity leave and skip the London winter.

In February 2009, I was on the Eurostar returning to London from a day of meetings in Paris. Somewhere in rural northern France, the train broke down. We were asked to disembark and wait on the platform indefinitely for a replacement.

A stranger asked me a question that changed my life.

We shared our live stories while we waited

I had been sitting at one of those four-seat tables where you face strangers across a shared surface. We hadn't spoken until that point, but as we stood on a freezing platform together, we each began to tell our story. One woman in our group had been to Paris to deliver an engagement ring to a hotel for her son, who was flying in later that day and planned to propose to his girlfriend. The other two were businessmen also heading home. I mentioned I was pregnant with my second child and had just finished a long day of meetings with advertising clients.

Eventually, I shared that my husband was Mexican and working on a bar opening in London that would wrap in September, right around my due date. One of the men looked at me and said something that changed everything: "I guess you will be spending your maternity leave in Mexico then?"

I didn't understand his comment, so I asked him to expand. He said that if I was going to be off for a year, why weren't we going somewhere warm for the winter?

We decided to move to Playa de Carmen

It stopped me in my tracks. I hadn't even considered that option. But he was right. Why should we stay in cold, gray London when we could be bonding with our newborn in the Caribbean sunshine?

By the time I got back to London — many hours later — I called my husband from the taxi and asked, "Is there any reason we shouldn't spend six months in Mexico after the baby's born?" He paused, thought about it, and said, "No. Let's do it."

And so we did.

We rented out our London house to friends of friends. On December 6, 2009, with a 2.5-month-old baby and our 3-year-old in tow, we flew to Mexico. After a stop in Mexico City to spend Christmas with family, we settled in Playa del Carmen, a beach town on the Yucatán Peninsula, for four months.

The house we stayed in was very basic — plastic garden furniture, mismatched dishes, and borrowed essentials from generous relatives. No washing machine, no microwave — which, with a newborn, felt pretty daunting. But we were in heaven. We swam every day, ate fresh fish, took turns to go to the gym, and spent true quality time as a family. Our toddler became fluent in Spanish. My husband and I got fit, tanned, and rested — something I never expected to feel just a few months after giving birth.

We made money by renting our home in London

We actually made money while we were away. The rent we earned on our London home covered all of our expenses in Mexico. Our cost of living there was dramatically lower — no tube passes, no childcare, no expensive dinners or work wardrobes. We came back refreshed and financially ahead. The basic but very happy life we lead completely reset my understanding of what I need versus what I want in life, a benefit that lasted for many years after our trip.

When I returned, a friend's husband swore I'd had "work done" because I looked so rejuvenated. I hadn't. It was just sunshine, sleep, and a simple life.

That spontaneous decision, sparked by a stranger's comment, became one of the best of my life. It taught me that the obvious path isn't always the smartest one. Sometimes, the most logical next step is the one you hadn't even imagined.

• After years of juggling parenting and working from home, I decided to leave my full-time job.
• I loved my career, but I needed more flexibility to take care of our two young kids.
• After seven months, it has already been one of the best decisions we've ever made.

Last year, I quit my dream job to be a stay-at-home dad while my wife worked full time. It was the best decision for our family, and I've loved every minute of it.

My wife has always been the primary breadwinner of the family, so we decided I could step back from my career to work part time as a freelance writer and — most importantly — take care of our two little ones, a 3-year-old girl and a 5-year-old boy.

It has been challenging in ways I couldn't have predicted, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

We spent years trying to build two careers and a family

I have been a healthcare journalist for nearly a decade, mostly working as a full-time editor or staff writer for various media companies. I have always loved this kind of work, and every new opportunity felt like a dream job. But everything started to change after my wife and I had our first kid at the end of 2019.

The COVID-19 pandemic turned me into a work-from-home dad with a 4-month-old boy. I was suddenly a full-time editor and a full-time caretaker.

In those days, my wife worked on the front lines of the pandemic as a physician assistant, while my son and I were trapped in a small two-bedroom apartment in New Rochelle, NY. It was the first time I had to suffer through the split focus of working and parenting full time.

Even after the pandemic began to subside, my wife continued to work more than 50 hours a week at the hospital. So, I eventually settled into my role as a stay-at-home, work-from-home dad, with the help of grandparents and a local day care.

But this was only the beginning of my work-life struggles.

Working and caring for my kids only got more stressful

By the end of 2022, a lot had changed for my family. We relocated to the Atlanta area. My wife took a new job at a local hospital that demanded slightly fewer hours. I landed an exciting new position as a medical reporter for a national publication, while our little girl was turning 1 year old.

It was a happy time for our family, but the pressure to be a successful reporter and an always-available father started to become too much for me. Even though my wife's new role offered better hours, she still didn't have the flexibility to leave work at a moment's notice. We always knew it would be my responsibility to take care of any sudden, unexpected issues for the family.

On sick days, I would balance trips to the pediatrician's office with phone interviews with sources. When holiday calendars between day care and work didn't match, I would serve snacks in between typing up paragraphs for my next article.

It was a difficult balancing act. My new job required much of my mental energy, and the kids always needed more attention than I could give during workdays. It became clear that our family needed to make a change.

It was time to put my family and my wife's career first

After two years of balancing work and family needs with mixed success, my wife and I decided it was time for me to quit my job to focus on our family. The change had an immediate impact on all our lives.

Now, I no longer have to split my attention between my kids and my work. When they get sick, I can drop everything to take them to the doctor, then bring them home to take care of them.

I also have plenty of time to focus on chores to keep the house clean, cook healthy meals, and spend time with my kids and my wife without worrying about falling behind at work. I never have to worry about misaligned holiday schedules or hiding in my office to finish work assignments.

It was nerve-racking to leave full-time employment after nine years, but after seven months of being a stay-at-home dad, I can't imagine doing it any other way.

• Some parents still have kids write thank-you notes and others would be glad to never see one again.
• Parenting and etiquette experts agree it's important to teach kids gratitude.
• However, that can be done through a text or video message, they said.

Picture throwing a birthday party for your kids. They're excitedly opening presents, and you're keeping track of who gifted what. After the party ends, while your child is napping (or bouncing off the walls from too much sugar — no judgment), you're slowly cleaning the house.

Your eye catches that list, and you start to think about the arduous task of thanking everyone for the Lego sets and stuffies. There's a question that's been looming over your head like a cloud, now threatening to rain — do you force your child to write thank-you notes, or not?

The practice of expressing written thanks in some way has been around for centuries and, perhaps surprisingly, in an age of ecards, texts, and FaceTime, the greeting card industry is one of growth. And thank-you notes are the third most popular cards after birthday and sympathy, and women buy the bulk of them at around 85%. However, whether they're bought by child-free folks, parents who still believe in handwritten thanks, or parents begrudgingly making the purchase, that's a harder question to answer.

Whether you're the type who always has monogrammed notes on hand and covets quality cardstock, or you're a parent who would be most grateful never to have to write a note of thanks again, there's some common ground: thank-you notes have become strangely controversial. The more rebellious gift recipients say the expectation to write notes is outdated and pedantic, while proponents say a handwritten token of gratitude is simply manners 101.

Thank-you notes take time and energy, but some still think they're important

Emily Genser, 48, says sending a thank you in the mail is an essential practice. Her 13-year-old son has been diligently working his way through about 75 thank-you notes for gifts he received at his bar mitzvah. Gesner, who lives in Connecticut, is OK with him taking his time — her son has been filling out five notes every day — but feels it's essential that he handwrite a formal card.

"I think there's something to be said for the time it takes for my kids to do it," said Genser.

That time reflects the effort that went into sending a gift and attending the event, said Gesner, who is also a mom to a 15-year-old. She wants her kids to "understand that things don't come to you out of nowhere," she said. "That there's a person behind every gift."

As a fellow mom of two — my daughters are 7 and 11 — I agree with Gesner's sentiment (I do, in fact, keep quality cards on hand for just this purpose). Yet, I lack her follow-through. My oldest's birthday was last month. When she received a card with $20 in the mail from a family member, I told her she could only spend the money after sending a thank-you note. The money is still untouched, and I haven't had the energy to push her to send the notes.

How to have kids express their thanks has been a hot topic

When I contacted experts about thank-you notes, I was relieved to see that those I spoke with also have a nuanced approach to thank-you notes. They said it's important that kids express gratitude, but less important that they do that by writing a note.

"Forcing kids to write a formal note when it feels like a chore kind of misses the point," Monika Roots, a child psychiatrist, mom of two, and cofounder at Bend Health, said. "What matters more is helping them say thank you in a way that feels genuine, whether that's a quick video, a simple message, or even a drawing. It's less about the format and more about building a habit of gratitude that they'll carry with them as they grow."

Even a quick thanks can build a connection

Roots' advice was music to my ears. In addition to the card and cash, my daughter received a birthday package from her uncle. I took a video of her opening the gift (an instant-print camera) and snapping a photo with it, then quickly sent it to my brother. He loved seeing his niece's genuine joy, and neither my daughter nor I had to put the effort into writing a card that he would just toss.

Although it was easier than sending a card, this type of thank you can be just as impactful, said etiquette expert Genevieve Dreizen, author of "Simple Scripts to Support Your People: What to Say When You Don't Know What to Say."

"Gratitude builds connection," Dreizen said. "It makes people feel seen, and it strengthens relationships over time. The act of saying thank you — whether it's a scribbled note or a phone call — teaches empathy, mindfulness, and reflection, especially for children."

Dreizen said etiquette should be rooted in values, not performance. If your kids prefer making a fun video or a colorful drawing to express their thanks, that's OK. In fact, if they're working on something they're excited about, it may be even more appreciated.

"What matters is teaching them to acknowledge kindness in ways that feel authentic to them," she said.

Prompts and snacks can help get thank-you notes done

If you're a parent who feels strongly about traditional thank-you notes, that's also fine. There are ways that you can make the whole process feel less like a chore for both you and your kids, like doing just a few cards at a time, having fun stationery and pens, or working on them while sharing a snack.

Offering a prompt or script can also help, according to parenting coach and mom Jenn Brown. She suggests a fill-in-the-blank type note, like this:

Dear [Name], Thank you for [the gift or gesture]. It really meant a lot because [personal reason]. I felt [emotion] when I opened/received it. Thanks again!

"It's not about getting every word perfect," Brown said. "It's about helping them build the habit of expressing appreciation in a way that feels doable."

• It was my turn to bring snacks for the preschool class and I was panicked at the grocery store.
• I sent in bananas and chips for each child. It seems the teachers thought I chose poorly.
• Since then, I've learned to stop chasing gold stars.

I used to think snack duty was no big deal, just another harmless checkbox on the endless preschool to-do list. But that illusion evaporated the week I found myself standing in a grocery store aisle, gripped by analysis paralysis in front of the granola bars.

Was peanut butter too risky? Were raisins still a choking hazard for this age group? Did natural flavors count as artificial? What even was a healthy snack in 2025?

My panic in the grocery store aisle over preschool snacks may seem extreme, but wrong choices can be made. I know, because mine apparently was.

Snack duty can bring on the pressure

Like every other family, all I had to do was bring something for my daughter's preschool class, something for them to munch on with their lunch. That was it. But somehow, this ordinary task spiraled into what felt like a near panic attack fueled by the Instagram-perfect lunchboxes we've all seen and the unspoken judgment of other moms that many of us worry about.

I considered homemade oat bites (gluten-free, of course), organic fruit skewers arranged in rainbow order, maybe even hummus in tiny compostable cups. But my energy gave out long before my insecurity did. So I grabbed what felt like a compromise: a bunch of bananas and a small bag of Cheetos for them to share.

I got a passive-aggressive message at pickup

When I picked my daughter up that afternoon, I spotted the whiteboard by the door. In friendly purple marker, it read: "Please remember to prioritize healthy snacks (we are a kale chip-friendly classroom)."

It wasn't addressed to me. But I knew. I knew.

I felt my face flush. Suddenly I could see all the invisible lines I had crossed: processed, salty, non-organic. The shame settled in fast, a sticky mix of guilt and embarrassment I couldn't quite shake. I started imagining the other parents exchanging side-eyes at pickup, whispering about the mom who brought Cheetos.

This was about more than snacks

It seems absurd now, but in the moment, what I was feeling wasn't just about snacks. It was about fitting into a parenting culture that feels like a never-ending audition for "Best Mom." Where even a plastic bag of cheese puffs can turn into a referendum on your values, your choices, your identity.

I soon realized I'd internalized this weird, unspoken competition. The snacks weren't just food; they were social currency. A well-curated bento box signaled care, time, thoughtfulness. Convenience snacks whispered neglect. Never mind that we're all just trying to survive the week with some combination of work, childcare, dishes, and sleep deprivation.

That's when it hit me: I was contorting myself to meet standards no one fully agreed on. No one had sent out a definitive snack rubric. But somehow, I was acting like there was a parenting test I had to ace or risk failing my daughter in front of an audience.

I'd had enough

This isn't an anti-health food rant. I like a good chia pudding as much as the next parent. But I've come to reject the pressure to perform through nutrition as a signal of virtue. Parenting already demands so much of us emotionally, physically, and mentally. Adding a layer of performative wellness culture doesn't help anyone, it just breeds burnout.

The next time snack duty rolled around for our family, I sent in pretzels and applesauce pouches. Nothing fancy, nothing homemade. I didn't spiral, I didn't apologize. I remembered what mattered: my daughter was fed, she was happy, and no one was keeling over from the lack of kale.

Snack duty taught me something bigger: that letting go of other people's expectations can be a radical act of parenting. It's okay to not care about kale chips. It's okay to show up with Cheetos and a banana and still believe you're doing a great job. Because you are.

I've stopped chasing gold stars. My daughter doesn't need a perfect mom. She needs a present one. And sometimes, that means choosing joy and simplicity over guilt and optics.

• We started our family young and quickly realized the importance of planning for our child's future.
• Despite more immediate financial pressures, we prioritize our child's 529 savings plan.
• We are now committed to long-term financial planning and legacy building.

In 2021, my husband and I were only one year into postgraduate life and very new to marriage. At the time, our financial literacy left a lot to be desired, and being new parents only complicated all of this.

As our son grew month after month, we started thinking more seriously about his future and that of our family.

The phrase heard so often, "The days are long, but the years are short," started to feel very real as we navigated the first year with our son. We knew that while the day-to-day may feel overwhelming, many years from now, we'll look back and wonder if we had made the most of the years that flashed before us in a blink.

That's when I knew it was time to start saving for my son's future.

We chose a 529 plan

Our knowledge of financial planning for the future was limited. Being a researcher by nature, I scoured the internet, listened to podcasts, and spent more time than I'd like to admit playing with projection calculators. This carried on for months, and when our son was nearly a year old, I opened a 529 account in his name.

I chose this route for a few reasons: tax-free growth and withdrawals, the freedom to apply the funds to trade schools and more alternative paths of education, and the ability to use the funds for his K-12 schooling.

We've contributed to our now four-year-old son's 529 college savings plan every month since, even when it's not been easy. It's not a flashy or exciting decision, and it's not one that we made because we simply have piles of extra money lying around.

Like most parents of young kids, we're juggling the usual financial pressures: a mortgage and costs of homeownership, a car payment and vehicle maintenance, high grocery costs, and the real, ongoing expense of raising a child in today's economy.

But this particular choice to invest regularly in our child's future, even when other needs compete for our dollars, has become a cornerstone of our family's financial mindset.

Our small contributions still add up

At first, the contributions were small — $25 here, $50 there —whatever we could manage in those early months.

But gradually, I stopped seeing it as a "nice-to-have" and started treating it like a non-negotiable. Today, it's baked into our monthly budget, right alongside the mortgage and the utility bills.

We know we won't be able to cover every dollar of our son's future training and education, and that's OK. The point isn't perfection. It's preparation.

Now and as he grows, we will be intentional about modeling the value of hard work and financial stewardship. He'll know that while we've saved and planned ahead for him, he will also have a role to play in his education —through effort, responsibility, and ownership of his own goals.

Preparing for his future is part of our legacy

It's hard to think long-term when short-term costs are constantly staring you in the face. And yet, I believe that choosing to save for our child's future, even when it requires trade-offs today, is a powerful act.

More than a financial decision, it's one rooted in legacy. What does it really mean to raise kids while also building a life shaped by purpose, stewardship, and vision? For me, it looks like this: planning for the future while still being present, setting systems in place that reflect our values, and staying the course — even when things aren't perfect.

Of course, there are seasons when saving takes a backseat to survival. I know what it's like to weigh the cost of diapers against car repairs or a new HVAC system. But I've also learned that progress requires consistency and a willingness to begin, even if it's small.

So every month, we keep showing up for our future and that of our son. Quietly, steadily, and with a lot of heart.

One day, when he's old enough to ask why we made the choices we did, I hope he'll see that we believed in his potential, that we thought ahead, and that we made room for his future in the middle of our very full present.

Because to us, that's what legacy really is: not grand gestures, but intentional ones.

• When I was born, my parents were in their late 30s.
• Once I realized they were older than most of my friends' parents, I started to worry.
• However, my anxiety has subsided over the years; I've learned to be grateful for the time we have.

When I was born in the winter of 1991, my mother was 39 years old. She turned 40 before my first birthday, while my dad hit the big 4-0 when I was only 2. Their reasoning for having children later than many of their peers was multifaceted: they didn't meet until their late 20s, then school took center stage for a decade or so, pushing kids out of the picture for another decade.

For much of my early childhood, I didn't know the difference between my parents and my friends' (often younger) parents. In fact, I don't think I can point to a single instance when my parents' age even crossed my mind before I entered elementary school. They were just my parents — my playmates and role models — and that was it.

Then, while chatting on the first-grade playground, a new friend and I started talking about our family members' birthdays and ages. My mom was 46, I told her. With wide eyes, she shared that her mom was just 26. Her grandmother, who'd also had children very young, was only in her early 40s.

Suddenly, I came to the staggering realization that my parents were older than some of my friends' grandparents. A quick blip in a casual conversation set off an anxiety that would be hard to shake.

My parents' age became a source of worry

My anxiety around my parents' age grew as I got older, as did my generalized anxiety, though I wasn't officially diagnosed with an anxiety disorder until late high school. The most common theme of my worry was losing my parents prematurely because of their age. I remember sitting awake at night, mentally calculating how old each of my parents would be when I reached particular milestones.

When I was 10, they'd be nearing 50. When I graduated from high school, their 60s would loom. If I got married at 30, they'd be 70. The math made me feel scared and isolated as I wondered if they'd be there to mark special occasions, like I expected most of my friends' parents to be.

Over the years, I noticed subtle and not-so-subtle differences between my parents and others. While many of my friends' parents were fans of modern pop music or enamored with tunes from the '80s, mine introduced me to '60s and '70s classic rock. We had a record player in the living room that spun everything from Pink Floyd to Carole King, remnants of my parents' youth.

I know "oldies" were likely a fixture for some younger parents, too, but I grew to love the fact that I could identify songs on the classic rock station — and it became a fun way to connect with my mom and dad, who had seen some of these artists perform live.

By the time I reached high school, a trend in my friendships emerged: I was (mostly unconsciously) drawn to friends who were also in the "old parents club." Many of my pals with younger parents were still around, of course, but I made quick bonds with those who could relate to the unique anxieties and delights of having parents with similar (read: more… mature) life experiences. Once I learned I wasn't alone in my plight, I slowly began to see my situation as more of a blessing than a curse.

Despite the pitfalls, I'm grateful to have older-than-average parents

As each life experience was checked off my list — high school graduation, college, first "real" job, engagement, marriage, and eventually having my own daughter at age 32 — I was overwhelmed with gratitude that my parents are still around. I'd made the painful realization that age wasn't the only metric in my worries; I watched friends and classmates lose parents of all ages far too early, which drove home the point that even if my parents had been 25 when I was born, it wouldn't have guaranteed a darn thing.

Today, I watch my parents enjoy new grandparenthood in their 70s, and I still grapple with a mixture of appreciation and nagging anxiety. My childhood worries (and mental math-ing) haven't entirely subsided, though I manage them more effectively with a combination of therapy, medication, and mindfulness. While I struggle to assuage the very human experience of anticipatory grief, I'm determined not to waste the present moment lamenting uncertainties about the future.

And while I might snarkily poke fun at my parents for falling into baby boomer stereotypes (like accidentally texting me 10-minute-long voice memos of nothing but grocery store background noise) on occasion, gratitude prevails. Gratitude for the childhood they gave me and my brother, for spending their 40s and 50s chasing me around on all my shenanigans, for the things they continue to teach me, and for their dedication to showing up for me and my daughter — even when their knees are a bit creaky. All of it has happened right on time.