Raising children can feel effortless when joyful pockets of time happen—an art activity or singing in the car or campfire for s’mores. Except the “meaningful” conversations often make me wonder how little or how much to say to connect with my 11-year-old son Darien. A few days ago, we go to the movie theater and watch The Bad Guys. While seeing the storyline unfold, my mind plays the reel where I effortlessly distill the most poignant insights and lessons from the film, then artfully share those in free flowing talking with my son. Surprise. Not so.

A few days ago, some sloppy sad arrived at my orbit, the emo-sphere that happens on occasion when we try too hard for this, that, or another. In my instance, an astronautical launch to attempt lesbian dating. Not for the feint of heart. NASA, we do not have lift off. Roger that, Houston.