Short reflections on fatherhood, failure, and the quiet grace of staying present
This afternoon, my boys got into a fight. The kind that starts with a toy and ends with one pushing the other a little too hard. Tears, shouting, blame thrown like rocks across a creek. I separated them. Sent the older one to his room. Not as punishment exactly—more
There’s a certain kind of man I didn’t know I was missing until I met him in a book. Samuel Hamilton. A farmer with rough hands and a bright mind, tucked into the corners of East of Eden. He wasn’t the main character—not by the end—
There’s a swing set at the park near our place. Nothing fancy—just two swings, a faded plastic slide, and a patch of mulch that’s slowly losing the battle to time and little shoes. We go there often enough that the kids call it our park, as if
I wake up early on the Fridays before they come over. Always have. It’s not like there’s a lot to prepare—a mental breakfast grocery list, clean sheets, a quick vacuum to make the living room look less like one man lives here. But still, I wake up
Some evenings stretch out like a long exhale. You know the ones. The bath is done, pajamas are on, teeth mostly brushed. No one’s crying, but no one’s exactly cooperating either. The clock says 7:42, which somehow feels like it should be 9:15, and the younger