Coffeehouse Chronicles ...the HB Jr. and the Overachievers She Raised

Good Sunday morning, Chroniclers. Got yer cup?

This is no ordinary Sunday morning—this is a birthday edition of the Coffeehouse Chronicles. It is hard for me to believe that my daughter, HB Jr., is forty-seven years old today. Forty-seven! That seems impossible, mostly because in my mind she is still young enough for me to offer advice she did not ask for and old enough to dismiss it with the calm confidence of a woman who has already figured things out for herself. Still, I marvel at her life, at the woman she has become, and at the way she has raised four remarkable children who make the rest of us look as if we may have been improvising our parenting with a coupon and a prayer.

Her oldest daughter, Nia, was showing signs early that she had skipped straight past childhood and gone directly into full-grown conversation. I still laugh remembering the story that her tía RC told me about the day she was babysitting Nia, carpooling toward Maywood and the elementary school she taught at, and glancing into the rearview mirror, only to realize this little four-year-old was carrying on a conversation with her as if she were headed to a board meeting instead of school to play with blocks and other kids two years older than she. She was bright, confident, and perfectly at home talking like someone with taxes, opinions, and a strong view on how things ought to be run. Today she is a beautiful, intelligent, independent woman—very much like her mother—and she graduated from university without a penny of debt, having earned a full academic scholarship. In this family, apparently, excellence is not encouraged so much as it is casually unpacked and left on the kitchen table.

Then there is Ian, who also just graduated from university debt-free also and earned his commission in the U.S. Army—an achievement worthy of pride all by itself. But long before the uniform, he had already shown us who he was. I remember sitting on the patio with his uncle, Cmdr McCroc, listening to this middle-school kid discuss current events with such confidence, logic, and calm conviction that we both ended up looking at each other as if to ask, “Are we really being out-argued by somebody who still needed permission to cross the street?” He was making valid points, counterpoints, and carrying himself like a seasoned commentator. Even then, it was clear that the HB Jr. was raising children who came equipped with old souls, sharp minds, and the unsettling habit of sounding more prepared for life than the adults in the room.

The third of these impressive humans is Brenden, who graduates from high school next week and already has college opportunities ahead of him. Brenden is one of those gifted athletes who reminds you of the stories people tell about the greats—how they were never really off the clock, always practicing, always finding one more way to improve. You hear those stories about stars like Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant, and you think, “Sure, that sounds legendary.” Then you watch Brenden, and you realize greatness often starts in somebody’s backyard, long before it ever reaches a stadium, usually somewhere between dinner and the moment a parent says, “That is enough for today,” and the athlete says, “Just one more.”

Brenden did not wait around for talent to do all the work. He researched workouts, studied how to build strength, and before long Amazon boxes started arriving with strength bands, medicine balls, and enough equipment to make it look as if a small training facility had quietly opened in our backyard. He has his eye on track and football for college, and nobody who has watched him work would bet against him.

And then there is Brennah, the youngest, gifted too, who stepped right into her mother’s athletic footsteps, picking up sports quickly and excelling almost immediately. Yet the thing that makes me laugh most is that she is such a serious student that after getting an 87 on a science exam—a perfectly respectable grade to the rest of humanity—she started talking as if sports might need to be sacrificed in the name of academic excellence. Most children would have celebrated; Brennah practically launched an internal review. That, right there, tells you everything you need to know about this family.

The HB Jr.’s children are smart, driven, and maybe just a little too hard on themselves—but they come by it honestly. They get that from their mother. I still remember nights when she would be at the kitchen table, long after most sensible people had made peace with the day, leaning over some homework problem and working at it with a determination that made sleep seem optional. More than once the HB had to tell her to go to bed, because she was treating midnight like it was merely a polite suggestion. That same grit, that same discipline, and that same refusal to settle for “good enough” now live in each one of her children, and it is one of the clearest signs of the remarkable mother she has been.

So do me a favor today: take a moment to wish our middle child, HB Jr., a very happy birthday. If you have her number, send her a text—even though by now she has probably already received a thousand of them, and adding yours would be a small act of extra torture. If you do, be sure to tell her I asked you to do it. If you see her, give her a hug. Tell her happy birthday from all of us who know how much joy, pride, laughter, and love she has brought into this family. I love and admire the woman she is, the mother she has become, and the extraordinary humans she has raised.

Happy birthday, Nik—from Mom, Dad, and all of us Chroniclers who are grateful to celebrate you today and still a little amazed at how you managed to make excellence look like just another item on the family to-do list.

You know what to do!  Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!

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