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D. None of the above

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A scene from 'No Time to Die'

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Infinitives appear to be like peanut butter and jelly for me. I don’t want to add bananas, nuts or anything else between the two spreads, because peanut butter and jelly represent a taste combination that agrees with me and my digestive tract.

The combination of the word “to” and a verb belong together, without adverbs, adjectives, nouns or other parts of speech jammed between them. I want to love, to live, to eat, to sleep, to play and to laugh without any additional words attempting to clog up the ideas or to interfere with the narrative flow.

And yet, in modern prose, people increasingly chose to split infinitives, jamming words in between “to” and a verb. For me, that’s like forcing a reader to add a verbal hiccup. Maybe some English — or language arts in modern educational parlance — teacher back in my days at Ward Melville High School shared his or her dislike for split infinitives that makes me want to cringe when reading an otherwise effective sentence.

To make my point, I’d like to consider (yes, this is a column about infinitives so prepare to be amazed) how several important quotes, phrases, book and movie titles might read with a split infinitive. To begin, let’s explore Thomas Jefferson’s words from the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self evident.” Those words would falter if he had chosen to write: “We hold these truths to fundamentally be self evident.” 

Would you like to consider Shakespeare? Hamlet’s soliloquy in which he ponders whether “to be or not to be” would fall flat if he said, “to kind of be or not to comfortably be.” That not only sounds wrong, but it loses the power of a pithy line about the nature of existence and his willingness to continue to live (yup, two in a row) in a world of treachery.

Let’s pause to consider Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Perhaps an infinitive splitter might want to add an adverb, such as “To Treacherously Kill a Mockingbird” or “To Slanderously Kill a Mockingbird.” Both options struggle to add an unnecessary word.

How about James Bond’s “License to Kill?” Would a split infinitive change that to “License to violently kill?” It’s already a Bond film, so you’re prepared to witness violence. Would you prefer to imagine “License to vengefully kill?” Would that have affected its ability to win at the box office? I tend to doubt that.

Another Bond movie with an infinitive is “No time to die.” An adverb addict might want to convert the title to “No time to literally die.” Well, yeah, Bond films force the titular character to confront death. These days, people are inclined to overuse the word “literally” anyway, as in, “I literally ate all the food on my plate.” I suspect few people would interrupt to ask if you’d figuratively or literally eaten everything.

How about Tina Turner’s song “What’s love got to do with it?” If we split the infinitive, she might sing, “what’s love go to accurately do with it?” Turner doesn’t want to encourage love when she’s enjoying the physical connection. Would “accurately” threaten to trample on the song’s meaning?

The book by Ernest Hemingway, who preferred to use simple prose, would lose some of its resonance if we added anything to the title, “To have and have not.” Borrowing from a vastly overused word that could become “To fully have and have not.”

So, to sum up the idea, to get to the point, to address the important issue, and to make myself clear, I still believe, no matter how acceptable it might be, that splitting infinitives jams an unnecessary word where it doesn’t belong, threatening to dilute its meaning, to alter its trajectory and to cause unnecessary misdirection. Let’s agree to keep infinitives together, giving them room to be, to love and to bask in their original meaning. Now, to return to where I began, I’d like to find some peanut butter and jelly. 

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Generally, we don’t need distractions. We’re distracted enough, what with our electronic devices allowing us to check the weather in Albany during a storm, the latest trends on social media, the minute-to-minute value of our investments, and the world of sports news and scores.

And yet, there are those times when we desperately need a distraction. Our boss, for example, might ask about a project for which we’ve done almost no work and that we promised to work on last week, but that we didn’t get to because we were, well, distracted by other things.

Everyone likely has their own bag of go-to distractions that they turn to in moments when they need to deflect or distract someone just long enough for a meeting to end, a temper tantrum to subside, or an anxiety to abate.

I often start with almost factual information. By getting a sensational and exciting story almost correct, I trigger people to check their own phones to see if they can prove me wrong about some detail that isn’t as important as recognizing some bigger problem, like not getting an assignment done.

This phone check also tends to pull people’s minds into their electronic devices, where they might see text messages that need attention, a picture of their dog that reminds them of an upcoming trip to the vet, or some other big news that will divert their attention away from my almost factual statement and whatever other subject I’m trying to avoid.

Then, there’s always passion. I’m a generally level-headed person who stays calm, even when discussing subjects that are near and dear to me. Dialing up the passion, like changing the decibel level in a soft song with a message, can be distracting and effective. “I can’t believe the spectacular sportsmanship that women’s softball team displayed when they carried the player from the other team around the infield so she could touch all the bases after she fell. I’m so inspired.”

That, of course, also encourages people to dive back into their phones. Most of the time, that is effective unless the phone reminds them of whatever I’m trying to avoid, in which case, I turn to other methods.

Reverently appreciating silence is also an effective method. It’s the slow-down-so-we-can-think moment. Staring off into the distance, putting up a finger as if I’m coming up with some great idea, and then thanking that person for giving me that time can often alter the trajectory of a meeting.

Once the silence ends, I slowly offer an awed appreciation for the value of time and space, an admiration for nature, or anything else that suggests a depth that counterbalances my ineffective presentation.

Poignant anecdotes or even effective and dramatic metaphors, if given the opportunity to share them, can also suggest that I’m capable of deep thoughts, even if I haven’t had any related to the incomplete assignment.

Then, of course, there’s the Socratic method. Someone asks me something about an assignment, and I lean into it, asking a wide range of questions about the assignment, its direction, our target audience, and opportunities to build on it.

The answers to those questions sometimes reveal more about the expectations.

I never pretend to have a stomachache. I know people do that, but I get stomachaches often enough that I wouldn’t even pretend to have one, lest my system decided to oblige me and turn my charade into an afternoon of discomfort.

In a pinch, I metaphorically beat up on myself, suggesting how I could have done better on this and that I am disappointed in the pace at which I’m completing this project. It’s hard to beat up on someone who has already accepted responsibility and is eager to make amends.

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METRO image

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m really writing this. Or am I?

Now that I’ve seen artificial intelligence in action, I know that the system, such as it is, can write impressive pieces in much shorter time than it takes me to write a column or even this sentence.

And yet, I don’t want a machine to write for me or to reach out to you. I prefer the letter by letter, word by word approach I take and would like to think I earn the smile, frown or anything in between I put on your face as a result of the thinking and living I’ve done.

However, I do see opportunities for AI to become the equivalent of a personal assistant, taking care of needed conveniences and reducing inconveniences. For conveniences, how about if AI did the following:

Grocery shopping: I’m sure I get similar foods each week. Maybe my AI system could not only buy the necessary and desired food items, but perhaps it could reduce the ones that are unhealthy or offer new recipes that satisfy my food preferences.

Dishes: I’m not looking for a robot akin to “The Jetsons,” but would love to have a system that removed the dirt and food from my dishes, put them in the dishwasher, washed them and then put them away. An enhanced system also might notice when a dish wasn’t clean and would give that dish another wash.

Laundry: Okay, I’ll admit it. I enjoy folding warm laundry, particularly in the winter, when my cold hands are starting to crack from being dry. Still, it would save time and energy to have a laundry system that washed my clothes, folded them and put them away, preferably so that I could see and access my preferred clothing.

Pharmacy: I know this is kind of dangerous when it comes to prescriptions, but it’d be helpful to have a system that replenished basic, over-the-counter supplies, such as band-aids. Perhaps it could also pick out new birthday and greeting cards that expressed particular sentiments in funny yet tasteful ways for friends and family who are celebrating milestone birthdays or are living through other joyful or challenging times.

For the inconveniences, an AI system would help by:

Staying on hold: At some point, we’ve all waited endlessly on hold for some company to pick up the phone to speak to us about changing our flights, scheduling a special dinner reservation or speaking with someone about the unusual noise our car makes. Those “on hold” calls, with their incessant chatter or their nonstop hold music, can be exasperating. An AI system that waited patiently, without complaint or frustration and that handed me the phone the moment a person picked up the call, would be a huge plus.

Optimize necessary updates: Car inspections, annual physicals, oil changes, and trips to the vet can and do go on a calendar. Still, it’d be helpful to have an AI system that recognizes these regular needs and coordinates an optimal time (given my schedule and the time it’ll take to travel to and from these events) to ensure I don’t miss an appointment and to minimize the effort necessary.

Send reminders to our children: Life is full of balances, right? Too much or too little of something is unhealthy. These days, we sometimes have to write or text our kids several times before we get to speak with them live. An AI system might send them a casual, but loving, reminder that their not-so-casual but loving parents would like to speak with them live.

Provide a test audience: In our heads, we have the impulse to share something funny, daring or challenging, like, “hey, did you get dressed in the dark” or “wow, it must be laundry day.” Sure, that might be funny, but an AI system designed to appreciate humor in the moment — and to have an awareness of our audience — might protect us from ourselves. Funny can be good and endearing, but can also annoy.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Long ago, back when my son was shorter than I, and when he listened to more of what I said, I was driving him and his teammate back from a baseball game that was more than an hour away from our house.

Those were the days when such long rides were part of our weekend routine, as we packed athletic gear, food, paper towels and flip-flops into the car to enable our children to compete against other children from distant towns or neighboring states, while also taking off their cleats and running into a deli to use the bathroom.

I don’t recall the details of the game because, even then, my son played in so many of them that the entire montage of memories blurs into a collection of highs, lows and everything in between.

Halfway home, we were the first car to stop at a red light. When another car pulled up next to us, we recognized the father of one of my son’s teammates.

Looking straight ahead, the father was screaming at the top of his lungs. My son and his teammate, who usually filled the car with nonstop commentary about the game, school, weekend plans and anything else that came to mind, were stunned into silence.

The three of us shifted our heads and saw his son sitting in the front seat with his head down, absorbing the ongoing verbal blows from his father, who had started gesticulating and was so frustrated that he spit on the windshield as he shouted.

During the entire red light, the father excoriated his son. As we drove away, my son’s teammate shared his memories of the game, pointing out that the boy in the other car had made a key error and struck out late in a close game.

METRO photo

After our next game, my son and I got in the car, and I had a chance to look at us more closely in the metaphorical mirror.

No, I wasn’t screaming at him. No, I didn’t spit on the window. The pattern I noticed, however, was one in which my son — when he was alone with me — focused only on the things that went wrong. He lamented everything he did wrong or didn’t do right. Sometimes, I recalled, I piled on, telling him how he could or should have done something differently.

As I tried to get a few words in after that game, he cut me off. He continued to criticize his performance until he was too exhausted to speak, at which point he urged me to talk.

I didn’t want to review the game. I wanted to discuss our interactions.

After considerable back and forth, I set new ground rules not for coach/player interactions, but for father/son discussions, particularly as they pertained to sports.

I never wanted to discuss whatever he thought went wrong in a game first. I wanted to begin with everything he did well. That could include positioning, fouling off a tough pitch, supporting his teammates, calling for a ball — even one that he dropped — and having a long at bat.

Then, we discussed what could have gone better. He threw the ball to the right base, but the throw was too low. He was fooled on a high pitch at the end of an at bat.

The first game after our discussion, he started off by criticizing himself. But then, something remarkable happened: he remembered our last discussion, and we started with everything he did well. Those first few moments built a positive foundation around which to start making improvements.

In future games, he started to focus on ways to perform well, even after he had struck out or had made a mistake. Instead of focusing on the ways he might have let himself or the team down, he wanted the opportunity to help.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

What says hello nonverbally more than a wave? I’m surprised nonhuman animals don’t do it more often. It’s efficient, requires minimal energy most of the time and can be as subtle as a lifted finger or as dramatic as a full-body wave signaling to someone at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

People wave to me frequently, particularly when I’m walking my dog. I suspect many of them are really waving to my dog. He is cuter, more charming and more personable than I am. Sure, I’m happy to engage in a conversation about the weather, the latest “Big Game,” my kids, or someone else’s family, but my dog is prepared to throw his head into someone’s knees as long as they pet him and assure him he’s wonderful.

Back to waving — I think the gesture merits categories, along with a short explanation.

— The-wave-or-maybe-not moment: We’ve all been there. Someone we kind of know or with whom we might want to interact appears to wave at us. Is that for me, we wonder? We consider swiveling our heads to check, but we’re not owls. We raise our hand tentatively. When we realize the more popular person behind us is the wave target, we awkwardly run our fingers through our hair. Great recovery, we mutter to ourselves.

— The “here-but-don’t-really-want-to-be” wave. Remember back when you were in high school, and your homeroom teacher took attendance? He or she would go down the list and when your name came up, you pulled your wrist back as casually as possible and pointed your fingers to the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling? It’s a wave and acknowledgment devoid of any enthusiasm.

— The “tickle the piano keys” wave. After lifting their wrists, some people wiggle their fingers next to their heads, as if they are tapping an imaginary musical instrument to send a visual and auditory greeting.

— The eraser wave. This can either be an enthusiastic or an unenthusiastic gesture. With this wave, people keep their fingers together and brush back and forth, as if they have an eraser in their hand and are removing an incorrect answer from the blackboard. This kind of wave can be an Eeyore greeting from the Winnie the Pooh series, in which he sighs and shares a burden with a deflated wave. With a head tilt, an affectionate smile, and faster side-to-side motion, this kind of wave can also signal a responsive and more enthusiastic greeting.

— The stiff-fingered-salute. Often offered by older men, this isn’t a wave so much as it is a signal that the person sees you, but does not intend to encourage any kind of dialog or further gesturing. It’s a nonverbal stop sign, telling you that he’s coming through, he sees you, and he would prefer that you keep whatever eye contact you’re going to make to a minimum. In fact, if you need to look at something, look at his flat and indifferent hand.

— The tree-swaying-in-a-blustery-wind wave. Yes, this is one of those moments when people are so thrilled to see you that they raise their arms over their heads and wave quickly back and forth. They may even catch some air. People waving this way don’t care what others think and, more importantly, want to share how excited they are to see you. This kind of wave transitions into a full-body hug.

— Finally, to end on the opposite end of the spectrum from where we began, there’s the wave from someone you might otherwise want to ignore. That wave says, “I’m over here, I see you, but you’re not responding.” It has the same characteristics as the excited greeting, except that it adds the need for acknowledgment. If you’re embarrassed, that may be a bonus.

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Jelly donuts. METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

You don’t have to pay me. I’m not selling anything, and I don’t have any desire for you to provide testimonials.

Many of you have probably pledged to lose weight. It’s healthy, you’ll look and feel better, and you might increase your endurance, allowing you to walk, jog or engage in your exercise of choice for longer. Some of you may have gone to the gym for a week or even a month and are ready for a break or, maybe, a different way.

Before I proceed, I’d recommend that those with weak stomachs or who are eating one of their favorite meals not read this until you’ve happily digested your food and are now prepared for something that might not be all that pleasing.

No, I’m not going to suggest something harmful or particularly unhealthy. I’d like to suggest a few sensory images to keep in mind that will prevent you from eating too much of the wrong foods.

So, let’s say there’s a jelly donut at your office. Now, I want you to picture or imagine any of the following:

— You’re exercising at the gym (you don’t have to go to the gym. Just imagine yourself there). Maybe you’re on an elliptical machine. There, standing in front of you is a man who has a ring of hair above his ears and a bald spot on top of his head. He’s on the phone, with air pods in his ears, and he brings his index finger slowly to the bald part of his head. He starts digging his fingernail into that spot. Over and over and over again. You try to look away, but then, he’s still there, digging. Even with all the noise of other people grunting, sweating and clearing the phlegm from the backs of their throats, you can hear the scratching as if it were broadcast directly into your ears. You want him to leave, but he’s planted in front of you.

Yes, I know I may have turned you off the gym and food at the same time. Then again, were you really going to the gym or were you just looking for an excuse to cuddle up under the covers? And, yes, this did happen to me.

— Okay, next, you’re walking into a house filled with dogs after a rainstorm. The dogs are friendly enough and, in fact, want you to pet them, which is fairly unpleasant because their fur is covered with water. Soon, the smell of matted, wet, soggy dog fur overwhelms you. You can barely breathe as you search for an open window and fresh air. That donut might taste like wet fur at this moment, right?

— You don’t have to work out to imagine this one, either. Picture yourself in a gym locker room. You’ve changed into your work clothes and are ready to return to your desk. But, wait, the scent of body odor is so strong that you have to breathe shallowly through your mouth. You search for the exit, which seems to have moved, leaving you stuck in a foul-smelling maze. A jelly donut is the last thing on your mind.

— The heating system in your office suddenly goes on full blast, turning your office into a sauna. It’s so hot that sweat drips down your forehead and lands in a growing puddle on the floor. Your body sticks to the material on your seat. Even the saliva in your mouth feels too hot to swallow. Water is much more appealing and refreshing than food at this point.

Okay, so, if all you got out of that is that you now want a jelly donut, my apologies. Chances are, you wanted one anyway and maybe it’s time to find a gym that smells nice and where men aren’t scratching their scalps. If, however, those unappealing images work for you, consider this a free food stop sign.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

One day, you’re playing with your twin sons at home, running around with a ball on the driveway, calling and waving to neighbors who pass by when they walk their dogs or take their daily stroll through the neighborhood.

The next day, your life changes.

You want to know why or how, but you’re too busy trying to apply the brakes to a process that threatens the nature of your existence and your current and future happiness.

Your son had some gastrointestinal issues for a few weeks. You took him to the pediatrician and he said he’s got to get over a virus.

You wait, hope, and maybe say a few extra prayers, because the hardest thing for any parent to endure is the sickness of a child.

You check on him, day after day, hoping he’s better, only to find that there’s no improvement.

Suddenly, three weeks later, you’re in the hospital, trying to keep yourself, your spouse, and your other son calm while doctors remove a malignant brain cancer in a 5-year-old boy who defines “goofy” and “playful.”

One of our close friends in our neighborhood just started this unimaginable battle against a disease many of us know all too well, although the specific form of cancer varies.

Their babysitter shared the horror of the prior weekend with me outside the window of her passing car, where she normally would have driven both the twins to school.

I heard the story because I asked about the empty car seat in the back, where both boys typically showed me whatever stuffed animals or toys they had decided to bring to school, either for show and tell or because they were carrying an object that began with a particular letter.

As I talked with the babysitter, who spoke in the kind of hushed and dramatic tones often associated with discussions about serious health crises, I thought about how hard it was and will be for the other son. I thought he needed the kind of 5-year-old normalcy that might become hard to find when he’s worried about his brother and the anxious adults around him.

I asked him to show me what he was holding. He had a pink llama, who he said wanted to poop on my head or on my dog’s head.

I told him that my dog wouldn’t appreciate the poop unless the stuffed llama somehow pooped pink marshmallows.

He laughed, flashing all his straight baby teeth.

As I walked home, I thought of all the things my wife and I planned to offer our neighbors. Maybe we’d babysit the healthy son, walk their dogs, help with house chores, bring over food, do anything to lighten the unbearably heavy load.

I also thought about all the scientists at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, Brookhaven National Laboratory and Stony Brook University I have known who are working towards cures for cancer.

Many of them know someone in their family, their friend group, their neighborhood, or their schools who, like my daughter’s beloved first-grade teacher, suddenly were in a battle for their lives against a disease that steals time and joy from people’s lives.

Their labs often invite or include family members of people with cancer to staff meetings and discussions about their work, making the connection between what the scientists are studying and the people desperate for solutions.

It seems utterly cliche to write it, but I’m going to do it anyway: we should appreciate and enjoy the days we have when we’re not in that battle. The annoyance of dealing with someone who got our order wrong at a restaurant seems so spectacularly small in comparison. 

We can appreciate that the person who seems like a total jerk for cutting us off on our way home may also be the one racing back to hug his child or spouse after an impossible day that changed his life.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When our children were young, a friend recently told me, she viewed the parents of people she met through a binary process.

A mom of two boys, she figured she had a better chance, at least in the first 10 years or so of her sons’ lives, of interacting with the parents of other boys. When she met girls and their families, she was polite and friendly, without putting too much effort into getting to know them.

Fast forward almost two decades, and her children, like mine, are out of the house. She and her husband have an adorable small dog that they dote on, transferring their abundant parenting attention to a canine companion.

Nowadays, my friend said, she sees people through a similar lens. She takes her small dog to a dog park, where a fence separates pets under 40 pounds from the bigger, heavier versions. When she meets someone outside the park with a dog, she’s more likely to pay attention to their names and their stories if they have a small dog.

As I considered what she said about the parents of boys and girls, as well as the owners of dogs of different sizes, I wondered about the metaphorical fences we create.

Sure, those fences make it easier for us to find people who have similar interests and opinions and who might not challenge us or disagree with us in our decision-making. Those fences also, however, separate us from others with whom we might have even more connections or common interests than we thought, especially if the filter for our “in” and “out” groups is as arbitrary as having sons, daughters or small dogs.

What if a man with a large dog worked in a similar field, had two children about my friend’s offspring’s ages, and went to the same college at the same time? Then again, what if a woman on the other side of the fence had nothing in common with my friend? She had no children, grew up in another country, worked in a completely different field, and didn’t see any of the same movies or read the same books? Would that make her less or more interesting? Perhaps that woman might be fascinating for her life experiences, compelling for her opinions, and amazing in her own way.

Recently, I sat in the window seat of a plane next to a large man who was stuck in the middle. An army veteran, he laughed as we reached our destination, saying he was unaccustomed to landing in planes. I took the bait, asking him why. He said he’d made over 150 jumps out of airplanes. 

He and his unit jumped out of planes at 800 feet, although he didn’t need to do much jumping, as he felt as if a hand pulled him out when he got to the opening. He never had to pull a chord, as the parachute automatically started opening within a second of leaving the plane.

On one type of plane, he stepped out and immediately started falling. Another had a small “bubble” outside the entrance, where he and others stood before leaving the plane. One of his army unit once forgot about the platform, took a small hop on the landing, and then rolled along the entire side of the plane. The others heard as his body scraped the airplane all the way to the back. Fortunately, the impact didn’t cause severe injuries.

One of the many instructions he received was to keep his chin on his chest as he exited. On his first jump, he didn’t, which caused enough discomfort that he never made that mistake again. He reached the ground at 38 miles per hour, at which point he was supposed to tuck and roll, ending on his back. Once, a crosswind turned him upside down and he landed on his head, cracking his helmet and causing a concussion.

Listening to his stories, I learned about something I will likely never do and connected with someone I will likely never see again. He did, however, expand my horizons and share his compelling life experiences, among other stories. I appreciated the opportunity to connect with someone who lives outside whatever fences I intentionally or unintentionally put up around me.

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Pixabay photos

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even as we study evolution, we ourselves evolve over time. No, we don’t learn to fly or to breathe underwater. We change over the decades, in part because of social pressure and in part because, well, our cells, organs and experiences align to make us different decadal versions of ourselves. With that in mind, I’d like to share some snapshots from my life.

First decade:

Likes: I adored my parents (most of the time). I also appreciated the opportunity to make new friends and to play any game that involved chasing a ball.

Dislikes: long distances running, homework, dark nights, losing electricity, sitting in the middle of a station wagon with my legs cramped under me. 

Favorite food: pizza and grilled cheese with ketchup. It’s not for everyone, but I loved it.

Favorite sport to play: basketball.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: finding parents.

Second decade:

Likes: time with friends, the freedom to drive somewhere on my own (later in the decade, of course).

Dislikes: tough teachers eager to teach me too many lessons, rejections from friends, and too many questions from parents. Waiting for parents to pick me up (until I could drive). Developing an intolerance to dairy, which removed pizza, ice cream and mac and cheese from food options.

Favorite food: Good Steer burger supremes with a root beer and ballpark hot dogs.

Favorite sport to play: baseball

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: Losing parents. Getting into college.

Third decade

Likes: getting a job where someone not only paid me to do something I wasn’t sure I was qualified to do, but also sent me on planes to do it. Spending time with friends. Going on vacations with friends and family.

Dislikes: working on weekends and holidays. Going on horrible dates with people who were a little too eager to see fights where teeth got knocked out during hockey games. Then again, some of those unsuccessful dates still bring a smile to my face.

Favorite food: Thai food at a restaurant on the Upper East Side.

Favorite sport to play: volleyball.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: Finding enough time to exercise.

Fourth decade:

Likes: enjoying the miraculous connection that comes from meeting girlfriend/wife. Listening to my wife laugh and seeing her smile. Holding my son and daughter and feeling them relax enough to go to sleep.

Dislikes: trying to figure out how to handle when children got sick, needing something we didn’t have, and packing enough stuff in the diaper bag and the car for needy children.

Favorite food: Who tastes food at this point? We inhaled it in between picking up the food the kids spilled on the floor or in the car.

Favorite sport to play: softball in Central Park.

Favorite sport to watch: my daughter’s active and exciting volleyball matches and my son’s soccer games. I knew nothing about soccer, so I could just be a supportive father and fan without offering unwelcome and unhelpful advice.

Biggest worry: How to keep kids healthy.

Fifth decade:

Likes: holidays, vacations and not needing to stand over the kids when they got too close to the water. Hooray for independent swimming.

Dislikes: driving everywhere with kids and their friends who made the car stink so badly at times that I opened windows in freezing temperatures. Watching kids disappear into their cell phones.

Favorite food: fresh fish on vacations.

Favorite sport to play: I barely played anything. I coached kids and bobbed and weaved between the entitled requests from parents.

Favorite sport to watch: daughter’s volleyball and son’s baseball.

Biggest worry: helping steer kids in the right direction.

Sixth decade:

Likes: time with family and friends, days when pain in my hip stays the same or, rarely, is less than the day before.

Dislikes: not knowing how to handle important technology, an awareness that I’m older than my friend’s parents were when I was growing up, and I thought they were old.

Favorite food: anything that doesn’t keep me up at night.

Favorite sport to play: baseball or anything that doesn’t cause pain the next day.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: the speed at which each day, month and year passes. The prevalence of anger for its own sake and the health of the planet our children are inheriting.

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