Little Eyes Are Always Watching

As part of my morning routine I do some push ups, sit ups, and squats. Normally I go back to the bedroom and do them after Jillian finishes getting ready, but the last couple of days I’ve been doing them in the living room after getting the boys up and turning on their morning cartoons.

Yesterday Brooks was sitting on the couch when I got down on the floor next to him to start my routine. He said, “Wait, Daddy,” and started climbing off the couch. I immediately thought he was going to jump on my back because usually when I get down on the ground it’s like Bruce Buffer has just announced the start of the next great UFC fight.

I told him, “Please don’t, Brooks. We aren’t wrestling this morning.”

He looked at me and said, “No… I was gonna do push ups with you.”

So he climbed down, got on the floor beside me, and started doing push ups. His form was pretty entertaining, but who am I to judge? Mine probably isn’t all that great either.

With push ups done, it was time for sit ups. Brooks tried with everything he had but just couldn’t quite get one. So he waited until I finished and asked, “What’s next?” Then we stood up and finished with squats side by side.

He didn’t do them with me this morning—maybe he was sore—but it made me think about all the little moments when those little eyes are watching you.

Like when I catch Joseph staring at me out of the corner of my eye at the dinner table. It’s a good reminder to eat my vegetables so he’ll at least try his. Or when I give Jillian a hug and a kiss and the boys come running from the other room to squeeze themselves between us. Or when another driver does something I don’t appreciate and, before I say anything out loud, I look in the rearview mirror and see the kids staring back at me.

They’re always watching.

Yesterday’s push ups reminded me of something I wrote a few days ago in Playing Catch. I hope Brooks doesn’t remember his batting average years from now. I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field and that Dad was always out there with him. Maybe these little moments work the same way. The push ups themselves won’t matter, but maybe the example will.

We spend so much time trying to teach our kids. We correct them when they misbehave. We remind them how things are supposed to be. We tell them to try harder when they’re struggling with sports, learning to read, or putting together a Lego set. We tell them to be kind to their brothers, to say hello when someone says hello to them, and to remember their “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me.”

We hope they learn those lessons.

But what about the lessons we don’t even realize we’re teaching?

The ones they learn simply because they’re watching us.

I wrote on Father’s Day about the lessons my own dad taught me. When I really thought about it, most of those lessons didn’t come from speeches. They came from fishing trips, baseball games, summers working together, and watching the way he treated other people. Looking back, I learned far more from what he did than from what he said.

Maybe that’s what this project is really about.

On the surface, it’s about me getting healthier, becoming more organized, writing more, creating better habits, being more disciplined, and becoming the best husband and father I can be.

But maybe it isn’t about me at all.

Maybe by trying to improve my own life, I’m quietly showing my boys how they can live theirs.

Because they’re always watching.

Not just on the good days either. As I wrote in Some Days You Just Survive, they’re also watching how I respond when I’m frustrated, tired, impatient, or struggling. They don’t just see my successes. They see how I handle my failures too.

Brooks may or may not get down on the floor with me to do push ups again, and he may never remember that one morning when we exercised side by side. But hopefully he’ll remember that Dad tried to stay healthy.

If he sees me reading, writing, doing the dishes, cleaning the bathrooms, showing up for my family, and treating people with kindness, respect, and patience, maybe those things will become normal to him too.

Because little eyes are always watching.

And maybe the greatest gift we can give our children isn’t telling them how to live.

Maybe it’s simply showing them.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:

Playing Catch — Why the memories we make on the walk to the ball field matter more than the game itself.
Father’s Day — Looking back at the quiet lessons my own dad taught me simply by the way he lived.
Some Days You Just Survive — Because our children are watching how we handle the difficult days just as much as the good ones.