Before I dive forward into describing the family I created, I’d like to take a step back and share a story about the family that created me.

Several years ago, my family held a surprise ninetieth birthday party for my grandmother Vincentia. Always loving an audience, Vinnie held court the entire day, beaming and schmoozing the extremely large crowd. (When you’re ninety and outgoing, you get to know a lot of people.) Toward the end of the event, a few folks stood and paid tribute with short speeches, reminiscences, or just kind and loving words. My mother turned and whispered to her sister, “You just know she’s not going to cry, that tough old broad.” And sure enough, she didn’t. As wouldn’t have my aunt, my mother, or any of my sisters—or I.

I believe the scientific term for my family’s personality type is “cold fish.” Going back as many generations as I have known, on both sides of the family, we are funny and friendly and smart, and are the most loyal friends you will ever have in your lifetime. Some things we really aren’t, though, are warm, fuzzy, or emotional. We are the world’s nicest, friendliest cold fish.

I’m bringing this up because who I am as a person obviously affects who I am as a dad, which affects how the stories you’re about to read played out. Throughout the book, you won’t hear how I cried when my kids hurt themselves (I didn’t), or how I lay awake at night when they were in trouble (I didn’t, at least not until much later). You also won’t read about how I raged against the injustice when I was asked by a stranger, for roughly the one-hundredth time, if I was the kids’ coach—or when the foofy private school administrator belittled me because we were receiving financial aid. (OK, I might have come pretty close on that one—but still, no.)

What you will read is how often I was: amazed, aggravated, mind-blown, jaw-dropped, befuddled, exasperated, and awed—both in good ways and bad, both by my kids and by the many players who have had a part in our family story overall.

Along similar lines: Please take the title of the book seriously. If you’re looking for a gritty tale of one nontraditional family’s struggles, trials, and tribulations against the discriminatory majority culture . . . well, that’s a different story about a different family. When each of my boys graduated high school, I put together a photo album of pictures taken over the years of our time together, for them to take with them to college or wherever their next steps might lead. What struck me among the hundreds and hundreds of photos was how often each kid was smiling or laughing. And not say-cheese-for-the-camera smiles— but the real, bubbling-over-fountain-o-happiness-show-all-your-teeth deal. Yes, there were many bumps in the road (which got bumpier, and the bumps humpier, as we went along). But the only word that really describes what went on here over those first dozen years or so is: magic.

So, like my grandmother, reading this book probably won’t prompt you to pull out any hankies. But, if nothing else, I hope you’ll get at least a good chuckle or two. For us cold fish, when you dive into parenthood, a good chuckle feels like a prize well-earned.

Next Chapter: Magic (section)