No little kid dreams of being a car salesman when he grows up.

But that’s the career my father landed in after he immigrated to America. And I’ve never heard a little girl say she wants to be a department store clerk one day. But after more than two decades of raising children, that’s the job that found my mother.

Both settled into careers of necessity that paid the bills, like so many people do. That’s not to say they didn’t have dreams of what they wanted to be when they were young.

“I always wanted to be a teacher,” my father said. He had two master’s degrees in political science and history when he came to the United States, and took a few education courses at the University of Houston. Then he learned how much teachers make in this country. It wasn’t going to be enough to raise a large family. He ended up in sales, and later, as a small business owner for many years.

My mother, who grew up in a time where the main expectation was to become a wife and mother, talked about the work she did with poor families when she was studying psychology and social work in college. Her primary role was as a stay-at-home mom while we were growing up, although she helped my father run his business, as well. When we were older, she took a job as a retail clerk at Macy’s.

I was glad when they both eventually retired from years of physically demanding jobs.

Finally, I thought, they can relax. Sleep in, travel, garden, hang out with their grandkids.

That wasn’t exactly what happened.

After several years at home, my father applied to become a substitute teacher at a school district about 45 minutes away. He was 70 years old.

“I just wanted to get busy,” he said. Nearly 80 percent of the students in the district are economically disadvantaged. He’s been subbing there full-time for four years now, and the students know him.

“Patience and listening are the two things you have to have to be a good teacher,” he said. “And a sense of humor really helps you a lot.”

He said he gets as much out of the interaction with students as they do. Some call him “abuelo,” grandfather in Spanish, and bring small gifts for him.

“Having this kind of connection with people at my age is a big thing,” he tells me.

Meanwhile, my mother spent a couple of months in traditional retirement. She started volunteering to help refugee families get resettled in their new lives in Houston. She would drive into poor neighborhoods, find out what they needed and take young mothers and their children under her wing.

They call her Mama.

Within a year, she had started her own nonprofit, Mama’s Charity, which she uses to fund the medical, legal and educational needs of the communities she serves. She is busier than ever. Most of the texts I get from her are about the families she’s helping.

My parents are hardly alone in discovering their encore careers. A recent Pew Research Center analysis of federal employment data shows how retirement has evolved. In May 2000, 12.8 percent of those older than 65 held a job. By May of 2016, the number had climbed to 18.8 percent. In the past 16 years, employment rose among 65- to 69-year-olds: Close to a third now work. Among those 70 to 74, about a fifth work, and in the 75-plus population, the proportion is up to 8.4 percent from 5.4 percent.

Part of this trend is fueled by economic need, but another part is meeting the social and emotional needs of people as they age. After parents have raised their children, they are not needed in the same way at home. And after retiring from their jobs, they can feel even more adrift.

Humans need a purpose and a way to connect with others. Busy people are happy people.

These encore careers may not be the ones you do just for the money. It’s a chance to reclaim dreams.

In their late 60s and mid-70s, my parents are finally what they wanted to be when they grew up.

One of my dearest friends asked a simple favor not too long ago.

She wanted to know if I would speak to her Girl Scout troop about my career or my background -- really anything I wanted to talk about that would inspire or educate a group of grade-school girls. It was not a big ask. It would probably take a couple of hours, including the commute. And, like I mentioned, this is a person I admire and care about. But I was stretched thin with work, family and social obligations, and adding even one more small thing to a crowded calendar felt daunting.

You’ve been in this spot before, haven’t you? Caught in between the desire to say yes and the need to say no. There’s a point in our lives when we spend considerable energy juggling other people’s demands on our time.

Before I had a chance to think too long about this particular request (and talk myself into it), I quickly said no.

I noticed my friend seemed a little surprised.

A few years ago, I found myself saying yes far too often. I was burned out on board meetings, volunteering, organizing and speaking at events. It drained my creative energy, which I needed for work. It took precious hours away from my family. And I barely had time to see my closest friends. I remember telling a girlfriend that I wanted to drop out -- of everything.

“You need to exercise your ‘no’ muscle,” she told me. What in the world did that mean? For women, in particular, who are socialized to be people-pleasers, to avoid conflict and disappointing others, learning to say no without guilt is a skill that takes practice to develop. Ironically, it’s an ability that we all mastered as toddlers. It takes years to erode that confidence and ease of saying no. You have to relearn how to draw a boundary between your needs and those of the rest of the world.

This is the technique that worked for me: My boss would hear me on the phone frequently, trying to politely decline requests to speak to various groups or host their events. I am asked a couple of times a week, and every request feels important and worthy. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to find a way to accommodate each request; I did. But, I felt busy enough trying to keep my work and family life on track. Instead of telling others that I couldn’t commit to their event, my boss suggested that I limit myself to a couple outside commitments a month. Make it a rule, she said. I could blame her and say that I wasn’t allowed to dedicate more time than that.

It seemed so simple when she suggested it. At first, I did rely on using her as a scapegoat: “I would love to, but my editor doesn’t let me commit to more than two events a month.” But when I got into the habit of keeping track of that “bonus time” ledger in an exacting way, it became much easier to simply say that I was booked until “X” month. It felt honest, and the more I practiced it, the stronger my “no” muscle became.

I worked on saying it in low-stakes situation. I often tried to suggest another person who might be a good replacement. I also fought back feelings of guilt by focusing on feeling empowered.

This year, I said no more than I had ever said it before in my life. It gave me time that allowed me to work on a major creative project I could not have done otherwise. It allowed me to focus on areas that often get neglected. It’s important for us to prioritize our spouses or partners -- not only our children, which the vast majority of us already do. We must prioritize our closest friends. Prioritize our sleep.

My dear friend with the Girl Scout troop confessed months later that she had felt a little taken aback (and perhaps put off) when I refused her invitation. But then later on, she admired that I was able to hold firm to a boundary I had created for myself. Maybe it could inspire her to do the same, I thought.

This time of year, when the urge to give in and say yes is strongest, I give you permission to say no.

You can blame it on me.

More than anything, Irtiza Hasan wants to see his team play in the World Series. After years of heartbreak and waiting, he finally has his chance.

But now he can’t risk it.

Hasan, 38, is a senior human resources manager in Houston. His father has been taking him to see the Astros play since he was 9 years old. He and his father didn’t always see eye-to-eye when he was growing up, but they had sports and those baseball games. Now, Hasan’s wife and their kids join him and his father when they can.

It’s that kind of love of a team -- built on family relationships and memories -- that is familiar to fans everywhere.

While baseball is a famously superstitious sport, Hasan never considered himself superstitious. That is, until he did the math this post-season. The Astros were a hot, 101-win team in the regular season, but in the games he had attended at Minute Maid Park, they were 9-7, barely above .500. So when it came down to the do-or-die sixth game of the American League Championship Series, Hasan realized a great sacrifice was needed.

He put on his Astros socks and jersey and disconnected from the world. He told his father he was welcome to take his grandsons to their regular seats behind home plate, but he wouldn’t be joining them. He turned off his phone, refused to read or watch the news or even talk to his friends, who were bound to discuss the game. He wanted to distance his beloved team from any whiff of the jinx he could be carrying.

“This was incredibly hard for me,” he said.

His mother told him that whether the Astros won or lost was up to God.

“Yup,” he agreed. “And God wants me to stay away.”

The night of that decisive game, he prayed fervently, took an Ambien and went to bed. He could tell from the looks on his sons’ faces the next morning that there was going to be a game 7.

Hasan kept his unused game tickets in his pocket, and told his boys to bring home a win. His father was ticked that his son’s ticket was going to waste.

Hasan’s wife jokes that he became an exceptionally devoted husband during this brief baseball hiatus. They were at a restaurant for a dinner party when a friend approached him and said, “Congratulations, bro, your team is going to the World Series.”

Hasan let out an unrestrained scream and hugged his daughter. He says his eyes may have filled with tears. When he turned on his phone, he saw he had 1,100 unread messages in WhatsApp from his friends and more than 100 texts.

Later that night, he watched a replay of the win on YouTube. He has no regrets that his father and sons went to the game without him. Each night, he keeps his unused ticket in his pocket.

“I wanted to feel like I was there,” he said. “It’s weird. Makes no sense,” he admits.

Of course it’s irrational, the way we wish we could affect things that we have no control over.

But maybe there’s also a special thing about fathers and baseball magic. My own dad has always been a huge sports fan. But he worked too many hours when we were growing up to actually go watch a baseball game. Plus, tickets for a family of six kids would have cost a small fortune, even at the Astrodome. I was shocked when I found out recently he had never made it to a game.

I took my 74-year-old dad to his first baseball game this summer in Houston. I bought my first non-Cardinals T-shirt for that game, where my dad was surrounded by his kids and grandkids.

The Astros lost that night, but it still felt like baseball magic in the air.

Just like Hasan believes his playoff game sacrifice paid off, I’m convinced my dad and I helped charm this season for the ‘Stros, too.

Hasan didn’t watch the first game of the series, when Houston lost. He says he’s making the decision one game at a time. Since I’ve experienced the thrill of World Series wins in St. Louis, I felt his self-denial into this final stretch was too extreme.

If it goes to game 7, I feel like you have to watch it, I said to him.

“Sheesh,” he said, a little exasperated that I would say something so jinxy. “Let’s get there.”