Shouts of “Happy New Year!” reverberated across the airport terminal as we sifted through the luggage carousel. Typically, we celebrate New Year’s in more intimate settings with friends and family, but this year, we celebrated with hundreds of other droopy-eyed travelers. I’ve never celebrated New Year’s on the road, but my 45th year contained many “firsts.”

I dropped a child off at college for the first time. Move-in day was bittersweet because it was also my daughter’s birthday. Nineteen years earlier, I remember thinking, “I can’t believe they gave me a baby.” That day, I couldn’t believe I was entrusting her to someone else. As we left, my wife started crying, then my daughter started crying, her younger sister started crying, and the roommate started crying, and then the roommate’s mom started crying. The roommate’s Dad and I didn’t know what to do, so we punched each other in the arm and talked about sports. Neither approach worked. It was a long, sad ride home.

It was the first time in several years I dropped a child off at school each day. With her sister off to college, my youngest daughter tagged along on my daily commute. She did not turn 16 until May, so we had much quality time together. I don’t mind silence in the morning, nor does she, so we mainly listened to music, which meant a lot of Taylor Swift. Sometimes we talked. We always ate Chick-fil-A on Fridays.

During Christmas break, we traveled to Seattle and the Pacific Northwest (a first for all but Chris.) The weather was beautiful for that time of year, and so was the scenery. We took a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island and dined outside a local restaurant, surrounded by fire pits and the harbor. It was cozy, relaxing, and quiet. We contacted the Mizzou Alumni Chapter in Seattle, who welcomed us to their Cotton Bowl watch party that evening. The party was loud, raucous, and exciting. Bill, the chapter president, and native St. Louisan, was the straw that stirred the drink. He played the Mizzou fight song on a kazoo and marched around the restaurant when the Tigers scored. Mizzou would win their 11th game of the season, the first time in several years they would accomplish such a feat.

When I returned from the trip, I had my yearly physical. As a reward for living another year, my doctor scheduled me for another first: a colonoscopy. I’ll spare you the details, but if this procedure is in your future, I advise you to buy a good book. Inspired by my trip to the Northwest, I was reading about Lewis and Clark. When I started the “prep” for the procedure, Lewis & Clark were in Fort Clatsop, Oregon. After I finished the prep (in the wee hours of the morning), Lewis & Clark were walking the streets of St. Louis again. When I woke up from the procedure (I’m not sure if they gave me anesthesia or I passed out from dehydration), the Dr. told me everything looked great and gave me a picture of my colon. I’m thinking of making it my profile picture. What do you do after a colonoscopy? You go to Chick-fil-A! While this was a slight faux pax, as it was not Friday, 24 hours of beef consomme and jello consumption deserve a reward.

Winter turned to spring, back to winter, then to summer, and back to winter before settling into spring for approximately 4.5 days. Such is life in the Midwest. During this transition, my youngest daughter turned 16 and enjoyed the nauseating rite of passage known as the Missouri State License Exam. An examiner was in training, so TWO examiners rode with her and watched her every movement. It’s the type of pressure that could crush a submarine, but she rose to the challenge and got her license. This was a first for her.

Tragedy struck on a rainy Sunday morning in early June. After his morning run, my father-in-law sat in his car and closed his eyes for the last time. The rest of the week is a blur as we put on a brave face and did the things that must be done. We returned home from a private viewing at the funeral home, and I went downstairs to feed the dog. There was a giant hole in our basement wall where our patio door once was; the result of some repair work in progress. Thin plastic covered the void and flapped lazily in the breeze. Our contractor would fill the space with a new door the following day. Unfortunately, the hole in our lives would not close as easily.

To heal, my mother-in-law rented a beach house in Florida, and we had our first “all-family vacation.” That meant more than 20 people crowded into a home in the Florida panhandle. We spent our days on the beach and our nights trying to feed a group the size of an army platoon. We ate great seafood, found an outstanding ice cream shop, and enjoyed a last-night pool party that featured BBQ hamburgers, a belly flop contest, and a whirlpool that is probably still spinning today. It was good medicine.

My youngest daughter worked hard all summer to earn a spot on the varsity golf team and achieved her goal in August. It was her first varsity golf season, and I loved watching her play. She could barely hit the ball when I took her golfing for the first time. Now she is cranking it off the tee box, and I can barely hit the ball. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Watching your kids grow is amazing. You worry for them and about them. You pray for them, and you butt heads with them. Then one day you look up and they don’t need you as much, and they are doing things you knew they could do, but you’re still amazed at what they are doing. Amazed at how their confidence has grown and the courage they are displaying along the way. We dropped her sister off at school earlier that month. There were no tears shed this time. We knew she had this, and so did she.

The week after my 46th birthday, I ran a half-marathon. It was not my first half, it was my tenth. It’s a privilege to train and compete in a race and to enjoy the culmination of a lot of hard work. It’s exhilarating to cross the finish line, get that medal, and drink an ice-cold beer. You earn that medal, and it’s great to celebrate with a group of people who tacitly understand and share the same feelings of sacrifice and delayed gratification. However, this race took a lot out of me, and after the initial rush of excitement, I crashed hard. Training for the race was more difficult than in the past. Most training runs were followed by ice, stretching, a foam roller, and the TENS machine. It was my 10th race, but the first time I took Ibuprofen by the handful and adopted Biofreeze as my signature scent. And that’s okay. I’m not done with running, but I am taking a break.

I love to run, but I also love to golf. That’s a problem because I don’t have time for both. So, in George Constanza fashion, I’ve decided my 46th year is “the year of golf.” I’m taking a monthly lesson and doing drills at the range and the putting green weekly. Golf is the hardest sport I’ve ever played, and I’m tired of being inconsistent and sometimes downright bad. I only have one more full school year with my youngest daughter, and I’d like our weekend trips to the course to be enjoyable. And frankly, I have to up my game if I’m going to keep up with her.

I’ve decided a year of firsts will be followed by the predictable pattern of golf balls being stuck off a practice mat and hopefully, of golf balls finding fairways and greens. Of course, this would be another first for me.