Drive-Thru Therapy

The sweet relief of a $3 soft-serve cone

Ba da ba ba ba…they’re lovin’ it.

Last week, following a tough neurology appointment for my mom at Stanford Hospital, I convinced my dad that we needed emergency vanilla soft-serve cones, drive-thru style. (These tasty treats have saved my boys and me on countless afternoons over the years.)

It took some convincing, but my father acquiesced. I told him it’s good for our growth to surrender old storylines and try new things. To lean into the awkward and uncomfortable. Maybe he believed me, or maybe he just wanted to put the kibosh on my impromptu backseat TED Talk, but he flipped on his blinker as we approached the Golden Arches on our drive home. And for the first time in over twenty years, my dad pulled up to a drive-thru window and placed an order.

It was as historic (and comical) as one might imagine. No, he would not be using the mobile app. Nor would he be trying the new Spicy McWhatever or adding some pie to his order.

Next came the window to pay, where more comedy ensued. Then a second window to collect our food. We pulled over to eat, me feeling like a kid again in the rare but familiar backseat of my parents’ car.

I insisted they pose for a photo and that we “cheers” the milestone moment with our soft serves. My father grunted but raised his cone to tap mine. There was little talking for the next several minutes, except for my dad’s occasional remark about how surprisingly good his ice cream tasted. And I agreed—it was one of the best cones I’ve ever had.

For years, I enjoyed watching my young sons devour these treats from my rear-view mirror, grinning back at their messy little faces of delight. But nothing compared to the cuteness of watching my parents savor the simple heaven of a three-dollar cone: side by side, seatbelts fastened, looking forward.

Symbolic, I suppose, for the way they’ve lived their lives. And now, more than ever, is the time to pull over every so often and make room for sweetness.

It’s been a tough few years for my dad. He’d be the last to admit this—how hard it is to watch your partner lose their independence and language. To become the sole keeper of a home and the soul-keeper of fifty-plus years of memories.

Dad turned eighty-one years old yesterday. He refused to let us say the word “birthday” at the burger joint. He shies away from any attention, preferring to be the man on the sidelines. And never once in my forty-seven years have I looked over in times of need and not seen him standing there, watching over me.

Our sidelines man on his 81st birthday, right in the center where he belongs.

Yesterday, despite his wishes, a bunch of us gathered anyway. On a Monday afternoon. Peak highway traffic time in the Bay Area. But how could we not for the greatest man we’ve ever known? It was simple and relaxed and exactly what we all needed.

The future feels uncertain right now. Big changes are coming—unavoidable ones that we will need to face, but we will lean into the awkward and uncomfortable together.

One day at a time.

One decision at a time.

And with any luck, an occasional three-dollar cone when it all gets to be a bit too much.