Back in November, finishing up Dad’s birthday cake at my sister’s large dining room table, we reminisced about our childhoods.

That turkey you want to roast? Just buy the right bird, season it according to the recipe, check the temperature and the time, and you’ll be fine.

That saying runs through my mind these days, as I take my high school daughter to tour prospective colleges. For one day, she tries each campus on like an outfit, checking to see if it’s the right fit.

To be clear, I found the Empire team all to be good people when they came to rip out the carpets in my house and replace them with laminate flooring. Those weary, well-weathered carpets were long overdue to be replaced, and just watching the Empire team pull them up made me want to call a hazmat team as a backup.

As I continued chopping, he described that during band rehearsal, he wanted his students to “let go” and get a louder, fuller, freer sound.

“I told them, ‘I need you to care while also not caring,’” he said.

I stopped chopping. My knife hovered mid-air, while I tried to make sense of this phrase.

I’m currently managing several health issues, including mobility challenges and the need for careful medication management. While my family does their best to support me, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to manage everything on my own. I’m in need of more consistent and professional help to handle daily activities, monitor my health, and provide personal care.

This got my attention. The only other Surgeon General’s advisory I can think of is the one on cigarette cartons. But parenting? Is it true that parenting is hazardous to our health?

I thought it was a logical question to ask, because if there is such an age, I must surely be creeping up on it — if I hadn’t already slid past it.

I’m seeking advice on how to balance respecting her autonomy with ensuring her safety. Should I consider alternative caregiving options, or are there other strategies to address this concern?

Last year at this time, my husband and I were feeling overwhelmed. We were overscheduled, tired, and worried about money. From our conversations surrounding these problems, a theme emerged: we were getting lax. Undisciplined. We knew what we needed to do, but we weren’t bringing our A game.

I’ll admit that much of my love for fall is tied up in nostalgia, in memories that I will never relive again. Gone are the piles of elm leaves raked into the street and set ablaze, into which we kids would toss apples and potatoes, and then rake them from the ashes to eat, charred husks and all. I think that fragrant, savory memory is why I still like to toast bagels and English muffins almost black, until the smoke alarm threatens to squawk.