It’s been nearly fifteen years since I watched a children’s show.

And honestly, I don’t miss most of them. Some even killed a few brain cells. Ahem, Teletubbies.

But when your children ask you to sit and join them, you do it. Back then, these series dominated our TV:

• Arthur

• Caillou

• Clifford the Big Red Dog

• The Berenstain Bears

• The Wiggles

• The Doodlebops

• Dragon Tales

• The Magic School Bus

And then, LazyTown, my favorite. Also, a special shout-out to Phineas and Ferb. Two of the rare programs that didn’t make me want to stick something sharp in my eye.

But the kids have grown up and suddenly I'm left behind. The old has gone, the new has come. And lately, I’ve noticed folks raving about Bluey.

First, I listened to a podcast that mentioned it, then I read that the Bluey empire is valued at $2 billion. Wait—what?! Apparently, even parents and grandparents are hooked, willingly viewing episodes and attending live performances.

When I learned the show’s creator draws stories directly from his own family, curiosity finally got the better of me. So, this week, I took the plunge. Yep… a grown adult, alone, watching Bluey.

And I really enjoyed it. I laughed several times. Credit to the writer for perfectly capturing the joy and quirks of life with little ones.

Plus, it sure beats having “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” stuck in my head. Hey, future grandkids, I’m ready for ya.

Tonight something happened at our house that only takes place 1-2 times a year.

Jake hauled a bedroom TV outside and placed it on top of the deck table. Beside a crackling fire pit and under a starry sky, the backyard became an outdoor theater for sports and movies.

A simple pleasure.

Which reminded me of another free and fun experience back in college: blackout night.

About once a semester, late at night, three or four of us would pile into a large dorm room. The ritual began with someone switching on a loud fan to drown out any noise. Then the air conditioner temp would get cranked to an arctic setting.

After pulling the curtains shut, the edges were taped to the wall for no gaps. Next, a towel was stuffed beneath the door to keep out hallway light.

Then everyone found their own bed, burrowed under thick blankets, and vowed not to get up until we couldn’t sleep another wink.

Finally, we'd kill the lights. It was so pitch black we couldn’t see our hands inches from our faces. Laughter and conversation filled the darkness until we drifted off.

These events often turned into marathon 12-hour hibernations, stretching into the mid-afternoon. A marching band could have stormed through campus unknown to us. Our group usually emerged just in time for an early cafeteria dinner, like patients waking from a coma.

Some of the best sleeps I’ve ever had.

Ah, life's simple pleasures. Here’s to decks and dorm rooms.

Growing up, neighborhood tackle football was my sport of choice.

Mostly 2-on-2. And my buddy and I often beat the older kids on my block.

Our “stadium” was my front yard, complete with cement driveways serving as end zones. Clearly, safety wasn't our priority, proven by the concrete rash marks on our knees and elbows.

But who cared? We were young and invincible and played with reckless abandon. My crowning achievement came when a well-known youth coach “scouted” me and invited me onto his team.

In high school, during an impromptu game, I guarded a friend as he sprinted for a deep route. Our mid-air collision ended on the ground with my knee knocking out two of his teeth. To this day, they’re lost in a field somewhere.

In grad school, my roommates and I walked to a local high school at night, kicking field goals and running pass patterns. A great way to spend a summer evening.

I still enjoy heaving a football, though my tackling days are long behind me.

With Jake and Sam home this week for spring break, I've heard repeatedly, "Hey Dad, wanna throw football?” I always say yes.

Today, Jake and I threw for about half an hour. I love tossing the pigskin, but there's something special about a game of catch with my kids. There’s an ease to it, a connection, creating random yet memorable conversations as we pass the ball. Simple but magical.

And thankfully, no teeth are ever lost.

Jessica is the luckiest person I know.

This past Christmas, my company threw a holiday party. There were about 250 people there, eating a fancy dinner at a fancy lodge.

As we walked in, Jess leaned over and said, “Let’s sit near the front, so when I win the door prize, I won’t have to walk far.” Excuse me? She was only halfway kidding.

And sure enough, she won. Unreal.

That's not a fluke, either. I’ve seen it happen again and again. She’ll probably sweep our family March Madness bracket.

Tonight, we ended up at a restaurant where about 100 people gathered for bingo night. We weren’t even planning to play. But who triumphs in the first round and walks away with a nice trophy? Yep, that would be Jess.

I’m telling you, she’s lucky. All I’m good for is carrying out her loot.

My childhood vacations meant Myrtle Beach, SC.

I remember the sunburns, saltwater taffy, seafood dinners, amusement park rides, and buying a new t-shirt each year.

But there was something else I’ve never forgotten: the brochures.

Most restaurants and beach shops had racks of tourist pamphlets by their entrance. And one always caught my eye: the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum. It showcased the world’s tallest man, a shrunken head, mind-bending optical illusions, and a two-headed calf. If only I could get inside.

Each summer, I’d grab that promotion and beg my parents to take me. In fifteen years of trying, I succeeded exactly once. And it was glorious.

Today in my marketing position, I created a brochure for a Williamsburg history museum. And I thought about those Ripley’s flyers that captivated me as a kid, promising wonders beyond my imagination.

Funny how a childhood obsession turned into an actual job.

Minus any shrunken heads.