I flew from St. Louis to Albuquerque on July 28. Deb and Joy had dropped me off at the Southwest terminal at 6:30 a.m.

I was in group B11. Not bad. I got an aisle seat. We landed at 10:55 a.m.

In ABQ, I proceeded to the Hertz counter.

Agent: Next!

Me: Hi, I have a reservation.

Agent: Last name, please.

Me: McConnell.

Agent: I’ve got it right here, Mr. McConnell. You reserved a minivan. A Pacifica. [Pause; agent types at his terminal] Would you be interested in upgrading to a GMC Yukon? It has more room…

Me: I’m good. The minivan gets better gas mileage.

Agent: That’s true. But unfortunately we do not have any minivans on the lot at this time. I’m sure some will be returned later today.

Me: I guess I’ll take the Yukon.

Agent: Excellent. The upgrade will be at no charge, of course.

Me: Have you seen the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and Elaine are in line to rent a car?

Agent: Ha. Yes.

Me: And Jerry says, I made a reservation for a mid-size blah blah… and the agent says, I’m sorry, we have no mid-size available at the moment. And Jerry says, I don’t understand, I made a reservation. And the agents says, Yes, but we ran out of cars.

Agent: Yes, that’s funny.

Me: And Jerry says, But the reservation keeps the car here. That’s why you have the reservation. And the agent says, I know why we have reservations. Then Jerry says, I don’t think you do. If you did, I’d have a car. You know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to HOLD the reservation and that’s really the most important part of the reservation, the holding.

Agent: Do you want insurance on the Yukon, Mr. McConnell?

Me. No. I’m good.

Agent: Okay. Just sign here. [I sign.] Now, walk right out those doors, and then go to the right. The Yukon is in space 355.

—

I drove to Kat’s apartment in a brand-new Yukon, and we spent the weekend cleaning the apartment and selling furniture. Kat and I then filled up the Yukon and her car with the rest of her belongings.

On Monday morning, Kat defended her dissertation (and passed), and then Dr. Kat and I spent three days driving to Chicago. We ran into very little construction or delays. We stayed at a hotel in Oklahoma City, then the next night stayed at home in St. Louis.

In Chicago, we pulled up to a beautifully maintained four-story apartment building in the center of the charming Hermosa neighborhood. The building is at least 100 years old. Original doors, trim, and moldings. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Steam heat. (But no A/C.)

We unpacked the cars. Shopped at Walmart. Assembled some furniture. We went to a Mexican place for dinner, and in the morning went to an upscale diner called Rise and Shine that had the most amazing bread pudding French toast.

And then I headed back to St. Louis.

I pulled into the Hertz parking lot in St. Louis at 6:09 p.m. Thursday. Mileage: 1,767 miles. I typically drive 7,000 miles a year. So 1,700 miles is huge for me.

But the time went by in a flash. Each day, in fact, seems to go by faster than the last. It seems like just yesterday that I would lie down and read Lemony Snicket books to Kat or Horton Hears a Who to Emily. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was twenty years ago. It seems like yesterday that I held a four-year-old in my arms and got huge hugs and three dozen kisses. Well, actually, that was yesterday.

I read recently that 75 percent of the time we spend with our kids is before they turn twelve. Ninety percent of our time together is before age eighteen. Those are scary, depressing numbers. But someone calculated those numbers so that we can change them.

My iPhone stopped working a week ago. The touchscreen, which has been cracked for about year, is no longer operating. I took it to UBreakWeFix, but a replacement screen did not fix the problem. I went to AT&T and purchased a new phone, but the staff said they could not set it up if the old phone was not working. I’ve also forgotten my AppleID password, and resetting it kind of requires that the old phone work.

During my first day phone-less, I was furious. I wanted my phone to work NOW. I tried to set up the new iPhone myself. Fail. I tried to reset my AppleID. Fail.

Later that day, my credit card was declined at Aldi, so I called BofA from Deb’s phone. “Hello, I’m trying to find out why my credit card is being declined…”

“Sir, we can’t help you unless you call from the phone on file.”

My blood pressure instantly went through the roof. “Really? Well, that phone is broken. I’m calling from my wife’s phone. What if I told you my mother’s maiden name, or my birth date, the make and model of my first car, my social security number, the name of my first pet, or the name of my best friend from eighth grade?”

“Sir, I can’t even access your file unless you call from a phone number on file. You need to add this phone to your profile.”

I hung up.

Deb and Joy decided to steer a wide berth of Dad for the rest of the day.

But it’s been a week now with no phone. And I feel good. Yes, I need my phone back. I need the Zelle app, as well as the phone call feature, my contacts, voicemail, clock, alarms, calendar, camera and photos, email, texts, PayPal, PNC, GPS, Google, Facebook Marketplace, iTunes, Instacart, and YouTube for Joy.

Joy wakes up at 7 a.m. most mornings and heads to my phone for her early-morning screen time (YouTube reels). She was irritated last Friday when she woke up and there was no phone on Daddy’s nightstand. So she climbed into our bed and cuddled with me and fell back to sleep. She has repeated this ritual almost every day. I love it.

I’ve started wondering if there is way to live without the iPhone. Ed Sheeran does it. Arnold Schwarzenegger does it. Can a freelance copy editor do it? Probably not. I need to check email at least every two hours. I need to receive phone calls (I don’t call anyone), and I need texting. Or I think I do.

My screentime reports say I spend an average of 4.5 hours a day on the phone (some of that is Joy). What could I accomplish if I had an extra 4.5 hours every day?

I lived without a mobile phone for 41 years. I didn’t do the smartphone thing until 2012. Yes, I had a flip phone until the summer of 2012. When I get my phone working (tomorrow, I think), I need to turn it off more often. And I need to keep it off my nightstand, because: cuddling with Joy.

We all need to learn to live without the iPhone. Because as you may know, in all postapocalyptic scenarios, cell phone service stops everywhere.

The photos below are from PrideFest.

My dad was a saver. He was frugal. He’d pick up a lost penny off the ground and put it in his pocket. He never had his car towed. Not once in 75 years did he call a towing service. That was a waste of money, he said. If his car stopped running while on the road, he’d work on it till he had it running. Or he’d push it home. Every time we went to dinner, he had a coupon.

But he did spend money on things that he loved. He once told me about buying a pair of custom-made roller skates in the mid-1950s when he was obsessed with the sport. His skates were made in Chicago. Cost $150. At the time, 1956, he earned less than $20 a week working part-time at IGA. So he saved his money for months to get those skates.

Dad had dreams of being a semiprofessional roller skater. He did precision figure skating—jumps and spins. He did dancing on roller skates. Skating was apparently a big  deal in the 1950s. And Dad was very good.

In the 1960s he was suddenly married with children. But he still loved skating, and he took me and Doug to a skating rink in Ellisville on the weekends. (The building is still there, on Manchester near Clarkson.) He never taught us to skate. Just gave us the rented skates and expected us to figure it out. And we did.

In some ways, I’m like my dad. I found a dime at the car wash last week. And I still love skating. I was skating about a week ago. I put on my speed skates ($51 on Amazon in 2015), and Joy chased me around the house. I skated the hallway and the kitchen. The foyer. Suddenly, BAM! I was on the floor. At first, I thought I had broken my wrist. But it was fine. However, my shoulder was on fire. I couldn’t lift my arm. A week later, it’s a bit better. But I’m putting the skates up for a while.

I cannot afford to be seriously injured. Or worse. I have a four-year-old daughter who kinda relies on me. In fact, I think I have to figure out how to live until age 90.

I need to get more exercise. But it will not be on roller skates. A stationary bike is a better option for me. And, of course, chasing Joy when she hops out of the tub.

At 9:15 a.m. Tuesday morning, my iPhone was placed on my chest as I slept. A minute later a pair of jeans was tossed on my face.

I didn’t yet know it was 9:15. It felt like seven or seven thirty.

“Morning, Joy,” I mumbled. “Please, let Daddy sleep for five more minutes.” I put the phone on the nightstand and pushed the jeans off my face and onto the floor.

Joy picked up the jeans and dropped them on my face again. She put the phone on my neck. (Translation: Dad, put on your clothes, check email, and let’s get going on breakfast.)

“Okay, Joy. I’m up.” I sat up. I looked at my phone: 9:17.

Joy handed me a diaper and then she lay on the floor. I made the change.

“Let’s get some Cheerios,” I said. “I think we have chocolate milk today.”

Joy led me to the kitchen, where I put Cheerios in a bowl, chocolate milk in her cup, and water in the tea kettle.

Joy pointed to the fruit bowl on the counter.

“Hey, baby,” I said. “You want a banana?”

Joy smiled.

“Aw, Joy. The nanas are still green. We can probably eat them tomorrow.”

Joy started to cry.

Some things I can solve fairly quickly. I can make microwave popcorn in two minutes, eleven seconds. I can replace the batteries in a toy in about a minute. Diaper change: just over a minute. Warm bath: five minutes. And normally I can slice a banana in around thirty seconds. But today I was telling my little girl that Daddy couldn’t make sliced bananas until tomorrow (even though they’re right there on the counter).

So, I get the tears. Bananas are yummy. But they have to be just right. If I gave Joy a green banana, she would never eat them again.

I almost decided to make a trip to Schnucks to get bananas. (Our green ones were from Aldi.) But Joy had stopped crying and was playing with her Fisher-Price toys.

After breakfast, I gave Joy hugs and kisses. “Happy World Down Syndrome Day!” I said.

Joy said “love you” in the way that she does.

I could say that, at our house, every day is Down Syndrome Day. But it’s really not. In our house, every day is Joy Day. Joy lets us know what’s on the agenda. Today was: wake up Dad, diaper change, breakfast with Cheerios and milk, snacks (grapes and graham crackers), jumping, screen time (with dancing), playing with dolls, playing with Mary and Amanda, trip to Goodwill with Mom, visiting with aunts, stroller ride with Mom, drawing, nap with Mom, stacking blocks, and lots of love and hugs and kisses.

And tomorrow: BANANAS!

Once again, Joy is in her footed pajamas at the front door, looking out the glass storm door, clapping and jumping. She has the biggest, most beautiful smile, and she’s laughing, so excited that Daddy is home. And of course, I am happy to be home.

I love this ritual. I love that Joy is so tickled at this event: Dad is home. All she wants at that moment is for me to step inside and pick her up, telling her that I missed her all day. That I love her to the moon and back.

“How was your day, baby?” I say as I lift her up and swing her around.

“Oooo-Ooooo!” says Joy.

“I love you too!” I say.

Mommy watches us and smiles.

Deb orchestrates this daily reunion. She tells Joy, “Daddy will be home soon.” Then, “Let’s go to the front door. I think Daddy is home. Oh my goodness. I hear Daddy’s truck.”

And Deb opens the door so that Joy and I can have this moment.

I hope Deb does this for years to come.

When I was about eleven years old my mom gave me a pair of stilts for Xmas or birthday. It was fun at first.  I got the hang of it within minutes and soon could amaze my friends from the neighborhood, who always said, “Hey, let me try.”

The novelty wore off after a while. Stilts increased my stature by maybe ten or twelve inches. But by age twelve or thirteen I had moved on to other interests—a ten-speed bike, skateboards, bowling, baseball, and roller skating.

But for a while stilts made me feel on top of the world. I was as tall as an adult. Falling off my stilts happened from time to time. I skinned my knees and suffered bruises. But I survived.

Joy turned four today. No, I did not buy her stilts for birthday. But her stature has increased by at least three inches this year. And she seems to be on top of the world. She feels so grown up now that she’s going to “school” (Psst! It’s daycare). She likes using the tallest chairs at home. She stands on (and jumps off of) the couch and does acrobatics on our king size bed. She is proud of her ability to run and jump and throw. And dance.

Joy has a friend named Dylan. They like each other a lot. They play on the slide and jump on the mats and stack blocks. Dylan teaches Joy how to play with his dinosaurs. Joy follows Dylan around the house and is learning from him.

Dylan is six. A few days ago, when Joy was still three, Dylan said, “Some people don’t talk when they are three. But Joy will be four soon. And she will talk to me.”

That may be. But right now Joy is communicating with hoots and laughs, smiles, hugs and kisses, and long, confident pronouncements composed of syllables and words that only she understands completely. But I know she is telling us about her day and how grown up she feels and how much she loves us, her family.

Happy birthday, daughter. We love you to the moon and back.

Joy is on the move.

Joy has watched (and helped) Mom and Dad pack up and move from the house in Crestwood to a house in St. Charles and to another house in St. Charles. In just eight months.  

Joy looked on as Peggy painted the walls of the new house while Mom and Booshie unpacked and set up the new kitchen and Dad shampooed rugs. Joy unpacked her favorite toys as well as the bathroom essentials. Joy put three tubes of toothpaste in the tub, as well as socks, shoes, toys, toilet paper, and dry shampoo.  Joy found a red pencil in Dad’s new office and decorated the white walls in the finished basement.

Dad and Peggy built beds that arrived from Amazon and secured bookshelves to the walls. Joy climbed up into her kitchen stool and pointed at the refrigerator, demanding smoothies and juice and Cheerios and ice cream. Joy likes the smoothies to be made in the Ninja blender, which must be operated inside the kitchen cabinet (fewer decibels on her delicate ears).

Mom organized the closet in the master bedroom while Joy “organized” her room. Booshie organized the bathrooms. Dad moved boxes from the garage to the basement while Joy escaped from the new house to play in the street.

So I met some very nice neighbors (a man and a woman) on the day after move-in.

The doorbell chimed. Immediately, I thought, Where’s Joy? I ran to the door.

I opened the door. A lady was standing on my new porch. “Hi. I’m your neighbor Cheryl. Is that your daughter sitting on the curb across the street?” Joy was indeed sitting on the curb. She was wearing a diaper. But nothing else. “She wouldn’t let me pick her up.”

I could have said something like, “Yeah. I thought she wandered out front. I was just heading out to get her.” But I had no idea she was missing.

“Hi,” I said. “Nice to meet you. Yes. That is Joy. I appreciate you saving her life and ringing my doorbell. We moved in yesterday. Excuse me while I run over there and get her before she takes off. I need to get door knob safety covers. Clearly.”

The other neighbor was standing in the street. He said, “I knew she belonged here. I recognized the truck. Y’all lived on Brookneal a few days ago. Right?”

“Yes,” I said.

I have ordered an ID bracelet for Joy. It will read: “I’m Joy. If lost, please call Dad 314-555-9645.”

Duuude, Mary is the big 15 today. She is looking forward to getting a driver’s license in the very near future.

Mary recently competed in the high jump at St. Charles West High School. Peggy took the pics because I was busy chasing Joy, who very quickly found open gates to the track and the parking lot.

Day 3

Joy has accepted Maya and Lucy. She lies on the floor next to them, scrolling through YouTube videos. She knows that the dogs will not take the phone away. In fact, she knows that Dad won’t take the phone away because she’s 18 inches away from the dogs.

Joy is a very accepting person. She accepts the new house, the new yard, the new dogs, the new neighbors (who are having really bad luck with flat tires). They LOVE that I know how to change a tire. I’ve changed more flat tires over the past two weeks than I’ve changed over the past ten years. But the neighbors are super nice. They sent us yummy banana bread after the first flat tire. They have young children too.

So Joy is very accepting. I think she would accept us adopting a new dog, or even a llama. Maybe a polar bear.

Joy likes the dogs. But her high chair is no longer high enough for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Now she likes to eat while sitting on the bar stools.

Day 4

Our landlord stopped by to pick up some tax-related mail that somehow did not get forwarded to his new address. He did not alert us that he was stopping by. He rang the doorbell.

“AAARF! WOOOOF! BARRRK!”

I tried to open the front door. Bad idea. I took the mail outside through the garage.

“Hi!” I said. “Nice to meet you!”

“Very scary.”

“The dogs? Actually very nice dogs. We’re dog sitting. You get used to them after two days. Three max.”

I hand him the mail.

“Very nice to meet you,” he said.

“Bye!”