Growing up, as I reflect on my childhood, we had so few rules that they were practically invisible. You encouraged us to live freely—to color outside the lines, to ignore the confines of lanes, and to embrace creativity in every aspect of life, no matter what.
When Jackass aired on MTV, you sat beside me and watched it. You didn’t lecture, didn’t pull rank. Instead, with a half-smile, you said something like, “Okay, let’s go ahead and NOT do what they’re doing. That’s the rule.” And somehow, that was enough.
Yet there were those unspoken rules, the ones that didn’t have to be spelled out. Like when I’d sleep over at a friend’s house, and without fail, you’d call by 7 a.m. sharp. “Time to come home and do chores,” you’d say. It wasn’t a rule, but in my head, it might as well have been carved in stone. I’d fume and fantasize about rebelling, lying about the time, or just staying in bed, but I always came home, begrudgingly.
I learned early that kindness mattered. If I wasn’t nice, I wouldn’t be happy—it was that simple. Actions had consequences. Like when the neighbor kid’s baseball rolled into your perfectly manicured front yard. You gave two warnings. On the third offense, the ball stayed in the yard. I swear our bucket of baseballs mysteriously multiplied because of this rule enforced without words.
When boredom hit, I didn’t need a screen or structured play. I’d climb the trees in the backyard—those giants that stretched three stories high. I’d perch on a branch, looking out over the neighborhood, dreaming about anything and everything. And when I was ready, I’d zipline back to the ground, feeling the rush of freedom. No fences. No boundaries. Just adventure waiting to be had.
I’ve broken five wrists over the years. I vividly remember one in third grade. The cast had overstayed its welcome, and I was done. So I grabbed Dad’s hacksaw from the garage and cut it off. You didn’t yell. You didn’t scold. You just laughed—half in disbelief, half in admiration. That was you. Sure, it was dumb of me because when I bench press, there is still slight pain in that wrist when at a certain angle with force.
And when I decided training wheels were beneath me in kindergarten, I didn’t wait for permission. I took one off and tested the waters, riding in endless circles on the side with balance. When you came outside and saw what I’d done, you smiled. And when Dad got home, I proudly showed him how I’d conquered the bike by taking off the other training wheel. Your pride wasn’t loud or overwhelming—it was a quiet, steady nod that said “I see you.”
Lindsey and I laugh because we can’t come up with any rules in our own home. We tell the kids to tisten to their music, watch their shows, believe whatever they want—it doesn’t matter. The only rule we hold onto, the one you passed down, is simple: Be happy. Be nice. WHO CARES.
And that’s all we ever needed.
❤️
Jake