Update from March 21, 2020:
Things are not the same as they were just a few days ago when I wrote the following essay. The past week was terrifying and surreal and emotional.

In the days just after 9/11, it felt like the barometric pressure in the air had suddenly gone haywire. The weight of living seemed unbearable. The possibility of going on seemed impossible. Humanity was universally swept up by unimaginable horror. We wept and worried. Slowly, we came together. Sometimes we laughed. There were moments when things felt normal. And then hours. Then days.

Life, somehow, went on. We were all changed.

For most of us, the past weeks have been traumatic. The barometric pressure plummeted and we have been drowning in information. In fear. It feels surreal and awful beyond imagination. We ache for things to be normal, again. Stupidly, blissfully, Groundhogs Day normal.

That reality is a long way off.

We wish for more time with our kids and families, but not like this. We want to be alone sometimes, but not like this. We hope the world will find a way to come together, but well, certainly not like this.

Life, we know, will go on. We will be changed. We don't know when that will happen, or how. That uncertainty is sickening, and living, even for the short amount of time we've lived with that feeling, is uncomfortable. Terrible.

Then tonight, for a little while, things felt normal. We watched a movie. The boys begged for Just One More Book. We ordered Chinese. I drank a bourbon. For a little while, it was just us. I almost forgot the world. Almost.

It's a slippery slope to log in and get pulled under. The news is terrible, and it's everywhere. All we can do is cling to the small moments and to each other. Deal with what you can, turn off the rest.

But back to the essay: When I wrote it, I advocated for hugs. I still do. Someday, we will hug again. Not now, maybe not soon, but someday.

And it will be normal, and it will be glorious.

I started writing this essay with the intention of providing advice for my sons as they grew into men. Some tips were specific (Change your socks every day); some general (Learn to be OK with failure), and some were based on my own life experience (Don't get married until you're 30). But as I observed my sons with a journalistic eye, I realized how much they can teach us all.

Here are a few unofficial rules for a happy life, for boys and maybe the rest of us, too.

1) Play hard and let it go

If play is the work of the child, then my kids are over-achievers. They play rough. Piles of kids climb on each other, get thrown off and jump right back into the fray. Occasionally someone gets hurt, and the offender is informed. Most often, the perpetrator apologizes, and they all get back to the game. When I get a recap later, the incident hardly ever surfaces as a highlight. They have moved on.

My mom friends and I talk about how easy it is to make up fictional anecdotes about minor things until they take over your brain at unwanted times (such as 4:12 am). Taking a page from the boys, I am trying to use that playground mindset in my own interactions. It’s liberating not to get weighed down in imaginary narratives, and I haven’t wasted my recess pouting on the sideline.

2) Break the rules sometimes (it feels good)

The kids asked to make cookies after school one week, so we did. We ate some raw dough, and a few even made it into the oven, and we didn't wait for them to cool. The chocolate chips were molten and gooey and perfect. I put aside my worries about salmonella, carbs, and sugar and embraced the moment: The sticky goodness of the cookies, the milk mustaches, and gap-toothed smiles of the boys. We giggled and spoiled our dinner. Sometimes rules were meant to be broken. Or at least bent.

3) Embrace your friends

The other day, my younger son and his friend spotted each other across the playground. It was the morning after rosters for T-ball had been posted, and they had been placed on the same team. They took off at full speed. When these bodies at maximum velocity met, they crashed into each other, hugged and jumped up and down, whooping with joy. “We’re on the same team!” they chanted. When they finally released their embrace, they held hands and walked to the door of the school together, still chatting about the upcoming season.

In the age of COVID-19, this may be risky advice, but there’s nothing like reaching out to a friend, literally or figuratively.

This year I vowed to reach out regularly in some way to stay in touch with my closest friends, near and far. Sometimes I write a text or email, more often I call or write an actual note saying, well, not much of anything except that I love you and I’m thinking of you. Finding moments to share with these extraordinary people has been the highlight of so many busy weeks. And yes, I’m still good for a hug.

4) See magic everywhere

My bird-loving son and I went on a class field trip together. On the way, he mentioned that he hoped to see a black-capped chickadee, his favorite bird. We were walking along the prairie grasses looking for wildlife when we heard it (chick-a-DEE-DEE-DEE!). He tugged my arm and pointed into a nearby tree, his eyes wide with excitement. There was the bird, almost hidden but not quite, black and white head flicking back and forth silhouetted against the gray spring sky. We watched it hop along a branch until it flew away, and then we stood there, warm in the glow of the moment despite the chilly day. Just a bird? Maybe. Magic? Absolutely.

These moments of joy are few and far between in the daily grind of work and school. They are still little boys, quarreling with each other as brothers do, laughing at fart jokes, eager to negotiate more screen time when they can. But they seem to have some things figured out, and I'm willing to learn, to share some magic, and enjoy a warm cookie or two.

This essay originally appeared in the March 2020 issue of Fete Lifestyle Magazine.