The Great Neighborhood Migration

There’s a sacred ritual in suburban parenting.
It’s not bedtime, or bath time, or bribing your kid with fruit snacks so you can finish one email.
It’s the walk.

You announce it casually—“Let’s get some fresh air.”
But what you really mean is “Let’s see how long we can survive outside before someone eats a stick or asks a philosophical question about ants.”

We live on a cul-de-sac in a nice neighborhood, which is perfect for walking because it has all the charm of a Hallmark movie with just enough chaos to keep you humble. We try to get outside as much as possible. Because raising kids in the city means you can’t just open the door and yell, “Go play!” like it’s 1992 and they’ll come back when the streetlights come on. You’ve got to be out there with them. Supervising. Narrating. Apologizing to neighbors in advance.

---

The toddler is the star of the show.

She treats every walk like a cross between a nature documentary and an Olympic sprint.
She’s got her little balance bike, the kind without pedals—just pure Flintstones energy—and she flies.
I haven’t run this much since high school gym class when I was trying to impress a girl by not passing out in the mile run. Didn’t work then, still doesn’t now.

She’s a collector of rocks, bugs, sticks, and “very special leaves.” She asks questions non-stop:
“What’s that?”
“Can I touch it?”
“Why can’t I eat it?”
“Why not, Daddy?”

I spend the entire walk saying the same six things on loop:

• “Don’t touch that.”

• “Please don’t lick the mailbox.”

• “That’s not our yard.”

• “That dog does not want a hug.”

• “No, you can’t keep the worm.”

• “Put the worm back.”

And yet—she’s magic. She’s fully in it. Her whole world is that sidewalk. That bug. That puddle. That wild, boundless energy you’d bottle and sell for a billion dollars if science ever catches up.

---

The baby? He’s cool. He rides.

Strapped into the stroller like a tiny royalty. Head tilted, eyes drooping, pacifier in, completely checked out. He gets about 40 feet in and he’s out. Just done. The movement, the air, the soft chaos of his sister narrating the world—it knocks him out like he’s been rocked in a hammock by a lullaby made of white noise and Cheerios dust.

Meanwhile, the teenager comes out when the planets align and we offer a guilt-based reward. He skates ahead of us, shirt cutoff, headphones in, looking like he’s filming his own music video. He never says much, but he shows up. Sometimes he even loops back and grabs a forgotten water bottle like our personal DoorDash runner in Vans.

He’ll pretend he’s too cool for us, but I see him. He’s watching. He’s listening. He’s soaking it in.
Because that’s the thing about teens—they don’t always say they love you. Sometimes they just skate next to you and don’t complain. That’s basically a hug.

---

Morning walks are my favorite.

The toddler’s a little slower, more reflective. She walks with her hands in her pockets like a tiny retired man checking on neighborhood construction. She jumps on sidewalk cracks. She hums. She pauses to study ants like she’s considering a PhD in sidewalk science.

It’s calm. It’s beautiful. It’s a moment of peace that somehow happens between spilled yogurt and that weird middle-of-the-day crash that requires a “snack picnic” in the living room.

---

Of course, as a dad, I sometimes try to sneak away during the walk. You know, just grab a rake. Or maybe clean the gutters. Trim that one bush. No big deal. Just a little multitasking.

But my wife has perfected a look—a look that says:
“If you touch a tool while this family is trying to bond, I will use that tool to bury you next to the bush you’re trimming.”

So I stay. I walk. I chase.
Because she’s right.
This isn’t about productivity.
This is about presence.

And if there’s one thing I want my kids to remember, it’s not that Dad cleaned the garage—
It’s that he ran full speed in sandals to beat a toddler in a race she made up on the spot and kept score with sticks.

---

And after all that?

“The Shortcut”

• 1½ oz vodka

• ½ oz lemon juice

• Ginger beer, to top

Instructions:
Pour over ice. Stir once, only because your toddler’s yelling from the bathroom. Sip while hiding in the garage and pretending to reorganize the extension cords.