My wife and I have a lovely ritual of spending 10 minutes together at Starbucks every morning. At one time, that happened at 8:45. Then it became 8:15. Now…6:15. Life changes, jobs change, kids get up earlier…luckily, I have no problem getting up early.

Post‑Starbucks, I usually head to the gym, unless the weather takes a hand. If it’s raining, or, in Wednesday’s case, if it’s like 6 degrees, I’ll go home, give my kids a ride to school, and work out afterward.

(Because I’m nice.)

So, there I was the other day, idling in a cold Jeep, waiting in the gray, low light, ready to do my girls a solid. You can imagine my surprise when, into the polar vortex emerged not one, not two, but three unjacketed teens/tweens, as if they had coordinated the decision in some kind of anti‑coat group text.

I sat in the car as they climbed in, three gloomy silhouettes with their breath visible, and I could already hear their response to my yet‑to‑be‑uttered question.

Q: Where are your jackets?

A: I’m not cold. I’ll be fine.

False; this is not fine. Even I draw the line sometimes.

“Girls,” I said, “where are your jackets?”

They looked at me the way people do when they’re being asked to abandon an existential belief. Three faces, three versions of the same expression…confusion mixed with indignation, like I had suggested they wear full winter gear in August.

Listen, there are mornings when parenting feels like strategy; this was not one of them. This was a showdown between common sense and teenage certainty.

And as I watched them defiantly hugging their sweatshirts closer, a line from the Torah floated into my mind — the moment God tells Moses that the Israelites are a “stiff‑necked people.”

It never struck me as a particularly nuanced description. But here I am now, late to the party as usual, and it is absolutely that.

“Stiff‑necked” is exactly what it looks like when someone is so committed to being right that reality is brushed aside. It’s the vibe of unstoppable certainty mixed with disdain, and all of the nonverbal language that can be mustered that says, I already made up my mind and it will not be changed, married with the utter conviction that one’s personal weather report supersedes the actual weather.

So, I did what Moses probably wanted to do more often than we acknowledge: I insisted.

“Go back inside,” I said. “And get jackets.”

Cue the quiet outrage. It was as if I had personally insulted their preferred F1 drivers (or their WAGs). Or Louis Tomlinson. Or Gracie Abrams. Or Audrey Hobert. Take your pick; I am now old, and there is growing daylight for the first time between the things we like and consume.

But they went. Not because they agreed with me, and certainly not because they felt cold.

They went because sometimes the job of dad‑on‑a‑frigid‑morning is to be the one who tells you that your sweatshirt is not, in fact, an all‑weather garment. It’s also the opportune time to remind everyone that, yes, adults are the ones in charge. My authority in this instance has not been ceded.

They came back out bundled up, each one radiating the super‑specific energy of wearing jackets under protest. And as I watched them trudge down the driveway, I realized that being stiff‑necked isn’t about rebellion; it’s the unshakeable belief that their version of reality is the correct one.

After all, our kids (and the Israelites) aren’t (and weren’t) impossible. They’re people. People who needed a nudge…or a push…or, occasionally, a divine intervention.

Mine just needed a dad saying, “Absolutely not.”

And maybe that’s the actual job description: to be the person who says, kindly but firmly, that the world is colder than you think, and that you don’t have to face it pretending otherwise.

They hopped into the car still muttering, still convinced I’d tyrannically overreacted. But they were warm.

And honestly? That’s good enough.

Especially when you consider that I then left my jacket at home today and spent my outdoor time wearing only a hoodie. Apparently, stiff‑necked traits don’t skip generations.

Good to know.

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