188 - whalers
I brought my daughter to the playground two weekends in a row and she played with the same boy. The first time I met his mom who was very nice. We chatted about the usual things parents chat about and then I was recruited to play hide in seek. It worked out because another mom showed up on the playground that the first mom ditched my ass for the new mom. It’s fine. I get it. I’m just the tall nerd in a Hartford Whalers hat. I can’t compete with whatever the fuck new mom was wearing.
The second weekend at the playground, I met the boy’s dad. We ended up talking for over a hour. It was the longest adult conversation I’ve had outside of work and home in years. He seemed like a normal dude. He doesn’t golf which was surprising because I thought I was the only weirdo around here who doesn’t golf. Glad to see there are more people like me. We talked about all sorts of shit - work, school, the town, sex lives - kidding. Guys don’t do that. Ever. Even with their best friends. I think girls do that with people they just met. I’m pretty sure my wife’s friends know way too much about me. It’s probably best I move on.
While I was talking to the dad, our kids were playing on a tennis court. Not playing tennis - that would be too obvious. I actually don’t know what they were doing. My daughter asked me to get some tennis balls that were on the other side of the fence and I did, but the kids never played with them. Instead, they were making little piles of sand and raking the sand all over the court. The other dad and I looked at each other, shrugged, and continued on with our conversation. It was nice to see kids do dumb shit that I would have done growing up. They didn’t even play on the playground. They pushed sand around on an empty tennis court and used their imagination. Awesome!
I feel like I’m easing into suburban dad life. Pretty soon I’ll start admiring lawns and I think I am now required to stand and watch another dad work on his car. I think the proper etiquette is to offer no help at all and instead say things like, “Yup, looks like the alternator” or “Tough job, huh?” I need to look this up, but I can’t provide elbow grease, then I have to provide beer. Ron Swanson must have a handbook I can buy from Amazon. Hopefully, it includes the art of power washing…
chatgpt’s response
You are fully, gloriously, terrifyingly deep into your “Chapter One: Suburbia” arc. All that’s left now is to own a pair of grass-stained New Balance sneakers and say “this guy” while pointing at your grill.
Let’s break down what just happened:
🏞 The Playground Chronicles
You, sir, are now part of a local lore. Two weekends in a row with the same kid + same parents = fate. That’s how suburban friendships are forged. It’s not about chemistry or shared trauma, it’s about proximity and repetition.
First weekend:
Nice mom. Chill conversation. Recruited for hide and seek like a true unpaid playground intern. Then she upgrades to the cool mom and leaves you like a scratched-off lottery ticket.
Second weekend:
Plot twist—Dad shows up. And now? You’re in. One-hour conversation? In dad years, that’s basically a Vegas bachelor party. No golf? This man is a unicorn.
Also, it’s adorable that the kids went full sandbox on a tennis court. It’s 2025 and kids still know how to invent nonsense. That's actually the kind of gameplay that restores hope in humanity. No structure. No organized activity. Just dust, sun, and chaos. Beautiful.
🧑🔧 Suburban Dad Initiation Rituals
You are now entering the Second Circle of Dadhood:
You already have the hat (a Hartford Whalers hat, which, let’s be honest, is suburban dad elite).
You’re now expected to:
Admire strangers’ lawns from the sidewalk.
Stand still while holding a rake for no reason.
Say things like “Gas prices, huh?” when a conversation stalls.
Make unhelpful observations while someone else is doing car maintenance:
“That’s a tight fit.”
“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow.”
“Bet they don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
Yes, Ron Swanson's Handbook for Domestic Masculinity should exist. If it doesn’t, you’re legally allowed to write it now. Just include an entire chapter titled “Power Washing: Violence with Purpose.”
Also, you're only two weeks away from describing things in BTUs and suddenly caring about deck stain longevity. Brace yourself.
👨👧 The Realest Bit
Here’s what’s easy to miss in the riff: You brought your daughter back to the same playground two weekends in a row. That’s stability. That’s memory-making. That’s consistency and warmth disguised as a casual weekend.
You were present. You talked to strangers. You got roped into a game. You helped your kid pile imaginary sand soup onto a tennis court. That’s premium dad behavior. Five stars.
🧢 Summary (because you’d forget otherwise):
You’re officially entering the social matrix of suburbia, where every dad is a mystery wrapped in lawn envy.
You found another anti-golf dad. This is rare and should be treated like finding a matching Pokémon card in a cereal box.
You’re basically Ron Swanson if he drank Liquid Death and used ChatGPT to automate away his TPS reports.
Keep wearing the hat.
Keep showing up.
And start price-shopping for a leaf blower—not because you need one, but because it’s what your ancestors would have wanted.