Lunch With Dad

Earlier this week my mom asked if there was a day she could bring Brooks to have lunch with me at work. It’s something we’ve done every once in a while over the last couple of years, and yesterday happened to be that day.

They picked up sandwiches from our favorite deli and headed down to the cafeteria before letting me know they were there. I went down to meet them, and when I walked in Brooks got so excited and motioned me to the empty seat next to him. He was already devouring his sandwich, knowing he had fruit snacks waiting for him at the end.

The three of us finished our sandwiches before heading back upstairs to my office. Brooks admired his and Joseph’s artwork hanging on my wall, spun around in my office chair, put on my headset for a picture, and asked if he could visit the treasure box we keep for our pediatric patients. We walked over there, and he picked out a little toy for himself, one for his brother, and grabbed a couple of stickers before we headed back toward the front of the building. I gave them both a hug, watched them walk back to the car, and then headed inside to get back to work.

Watching Brooks at the office reminded me of when I was his age.

Occasionally my mom would bring me to work with her. She worked in the personnel office, and I would sit at the front desk drawing pictures. Whenever someone came in, I got to buzz them into the back office. When lunchtime rolled around, we would head to the very same cafeteria Brooks ate in yesterday and order hamburgers from the grill.

I felt so important sitting at the front desk. So popular walking around the office with everyone knowing my name. I got to see where my mom worked and be a part of her world.

Going to work with my dad was a very different experience.

He was a flooring installer, and for ten dollars an hour, a package of gas station donuts for breakfast, and McDonald’s for lunch, I got a firsthand lesson in what hard physical work really looked like. With Dad, I came home sore and exhausted with a new appreciation for hard work. With Mom, I came home feeling like I had spent the day on an adventure into the grown-up world.

Looking back, I’m grateful I got to experience both. My dad showed me what hard work looked like. My mom invited me into the world she stepped into every day. Those experiences were different, but they both helped shape the person I became.

It’s funny how life comes full circle.

My mom gave me a glimpse into her world away from home, and now I get to do the same for Brooks. As kids, we’re lucky enough to have experiences like these given to us. As parents, we get the opportunity to create them for our own children.

Yesterday I watched Brooks walk the same halls, sit in the same cafeteria, and light up with the same excitement I felt when I was his age.

Maybe Brooks will remember eating sandwiches in the cafeteria. I remember the hamburgers.

And maybe one day he’ll bring one of his own children to work.

If he does, I think he’ll understand exactly why yesterday mattered.

Continue the Journey:

Donuts With Dad — Sometimes the smallest traditions become the memories our children carry the longest.
The Zoo With Dad — Ordinary afternoons often become the stories we remember years later.
Copying Pokémon Cards — Watching Brooks enjoy something I once loved reminded me how childhood has a way of coming full circle.

A Masterpiece And A Work In Progress

It feels like just yesterday that we brought Brooks home from the hospital. It was the beginning of the pandemic, and for weeks it was just Jillian, me, and this tiny little boy sitting in our living room trying to figure out how to be parents. We had no idea what we were doing.

That was more than six years ago.

Today I took Brooks up to the fields for hitting practice as he prepares for his first season of Rookies in Little League. At the same time, Joseph took his first swimming lesson in the next level class. Somewhere along the way, those tiny babies became little boys.

It’s amazing how quickly children change.

One day you’re celebrating their first steps.

Before long they’re running laps around the house.

One day you’re reading bedtime stories.

Before long they’re reading them back to you.

Somehow, the things that once felt impossible quietly become ordinary.

And now, when I look at my boys, I don’t just see who they once were or who they are today. I also see who they are becoming.

I picture Brooks growing up on the baseball field, becoming more confident, making lifelong friends, and discovering the man he’ll one day become.

I picture Joseph graduating from preschool, walking into elementary school, trying new sports, and slowly finding his own interests and personality.

But we’re not there yet.

Right now, I’m trying to enjoy the season we’re in and let the future wait until we get there.

The other day I came across a quote that hasn’t left my mind:

“You can be a masterpiece and a work in progress simultaneously.”

If I had to guess, I’d say that most people read that quote and immediately think about themselves. They think about who they are today while striving to become someone even better.

That isn’t where my mind went.

I immediately thought about Brooks and Joseph.

They make mistakes.

They get frustrated.

They fall down.

They learn.

They grow.

They test boundaries.

They surprise me.

They’re works in progress.

But when I look at them, I don’t see unfinished people.

I see masterpieces.

There are hard days and wonderful days. There are moments that require correction and moments that deserve celebration. There are times when they test every ounce of my patience and other times when they remind me exactly what matters most.

None of those moments change how I see them.

They are, and always will be, my masterpieces.

But if that’s true about my kids…

Why can’t it also be true about me?

Why am I so much harder on myself than I am on them?

Why do I extend grace so freely to my children but withhold it from myself?

Why can’t I believe that I can be both a masterpiece and a work in progress at the same time?

For me, that’s where The Young Napoleon Project comes in.

This project isn’t about fixing a broken life.

It’s about continuing to shape a life that’s already worth living.

It’s an opportunity to become healthier, pursue my writing, become a better husband, and become a better father—not because I’m incomplete without those things, but because growth is part of living.

I’m still becoming.

That doesn’t mean I’m broken.

It simply means the painting isn’t finished yet.

Brooks and Joseph are growing up right before my eyes.

Before I know it, they’ll be teenagers.

Then adults.

They’ll continue changing long after they’ve left home.

But I have a feeling that whenever I look at them, I’ll see every version of them all at once.

The baby we brought home from the hospital.

The little boys running through the living room.

The young men they’ll someday become.

They’ll always be works in progress.

And they’ll always be masterpieces.

Maybe that’s what love really is.

Looking at someone who still has so much growing left to do…

…and seeing the masterpiece anyway.

And maybe we’ve been masterpieces all along too.

Don’t Let Your Storm Get Your Kids Wet

I was scrolling through social media the other night when I came across a quote that stopped me in my tracks:

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

I found that to be profound because it’s something I struggle with more often than I’d like to admit. After reading it, I sat with it for a while and decided that I needed to be more intentional about who I was showing up as in front of my boys.

Yesterday put that to the test.

I don’t talk about work much here because it’s not really relevant to what I’m trying to build, but yesterday was a frustrating day. Without going into detail, I just felt like I was destined for something more, and that feeling weighed on me heavily as the day went on. I ended up leaving work late and getting to Brooks’s karate class just in time.

He did great.

He has been practicing all week, and it showed. He was more confident, more focused, and had clearly improved.

But with where I was mentally, I found myself focusing on the things he could still be doing better instead of celebrating how far he’d already come.

On the drive home, I started talking about those things before I caught myself.

I was letting my storm get him wet.

I made the conscious decision to stop and instead praise the improvement, because that’s what he needed to hear.

When doing research for this post, I came across an article from Lead You First about praising effort instead of innate ability. It argued that recognizing persistence, improvement, and hard work encourages people to keep growing rather than fearing mistakes. That is what Brooks needed from me in that moment. He didn’t need another list of things to do better just because that what I had chosen to focus on. He needed to know that the work he’d already put in mattered. It reminded me of something I wrote in The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day. Progress isn’t measured by perfection—it’s measured by growth.

After dinner, my mind immediately shifted back to everything that still needed to be done. I was behind on my work for this project. I had skipped my daily reading during my breaks because of how frustrated I’d been at work. I hadn’t taken enough steps. The dishes still needed to be done. The trash cans needed to go out. I still had to get ready for tomorrow.

I could feel the storm clouds gathering.

The boys were in the living room, so I walked out and sat on the couch. Brooks climbed up beside me. I could tell he wasn’t there to cuddle.

He was there to create chaos.

And in that moment I had a decision to make.

Do I brush him off and leave him standing out in the rain, letting him get soaked too?

Or do I open an umbrella and keep us both dry for a little while?

For the next thirty minutes we wrestled across the couch as he tried to escape through fits of breathless laughter. Joseph eventually joined the fray until Jillian whisked him away for his bath.

The work was still waiting for me.

But so were my boys.

That moment reminded me of A Life, Not a Collection of Parts. Spending time with my boys wasn’t taking me away from the project—it was part of the life this project is supposed to help me build.

Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and the chores around the house were finished, I sat down to work on things here and came back to that quote.

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

My kids shouldn’t become collateral damage because I had a rough day.

That’s not fair to them.

I’m not saying that as dads—or moms—we should bottle up our emotions, because that isn’t healthy either. Our children should know that adults have hard days. They should see that it’s okay to be honest about how we’re feeling.

In doing some further reading I found an article from ReachLink about what it calls “dad rage.” One point that stood out to me was that anger is often a secondary emotion, masking things like stress, exhaustion, disappointment, or feeling overwhelmed. That resonated with me because, if I’m honest, the frustration I carry home usually isn’t about my kids at all. It’s about everything that happened before I walked through the front door. Recognizing that doesn’t excuse my reactions, but it does help me understand them—and gives me the opportunity to respond differently.

Our emotional responses to things outside our homes aren’t burdens our children should have to carry.

If I’m being honest, this isn’t something I’m naturally good at.

I wear frustration on my face.

When I’ve had a bad day, people can usually tell.

Whether it’s stress from work, my back hurting, frustration while coaching, or simply running out of patience as a dad, my storms have a way of becoming everyone else’s weather.

And that’s something I want to change.

We all have storms in our lives.

The question is…

Who are we allowing to get soaked by them?

It also made me think back to There Is Always One More Thing. The work is always waiting. The responsibilities never disappear. But that’s exactly why we have to be intentional about the people standing in front of us instead of carrying the weight of everything still left to do.

My boys are going to grow up, and one day they’ll understand just how difficult life can be. They’ll experience disappointment, stress, heartbreak, and frustration for themselves.

I want them to know it’s okay to be emotional.

I want them to know it’s okay to be honest.

I want them to know it’s okay to cry, to struggle, and to have hard days.

But I also want them to know that we can choose how much of those storms we allow to fall on the people we love.

I know I’ll get frustrated again.

I know there will be more difficult days.

That’s life.

But I hope I become better at recognizing the storm clouds over my own head and opening the umbrella before the rain reaches my boys.

Because my bad day doesn’t have to become theirs.

And maybe one day, when they’re fathers themselves, they’ll remember not that I never had difficult days, but that I tried my best not to let those days define our time together. In many ways, that’s the same lesson I hoped to pass along in Little Eyes Are Always Watching—our children are learning from far more than the words we say.

Continue the Journey:

The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day — Why growth deserves more attention than perfection.
A Life, Not a Collection of Parts — Learning that family time isn’t separate from our goals; it’s one of the reasons we pursue them.
There Is Always One More Thing — The responsibilities never end, so we have to choose how we show up despite them.
Little Eyes Are Always Watching — Children learn more from our example than from our advice.

The Belt Isn’t Earned On Test Day

Brooks had karate class last night. Jillian brought him while I met them there after work so she could take Joseph home and get dinner started. My mom also came to watch for the first time.

Class started like it always does—with a discussion about stranger danger, some warm-ups, and then into their regular drills.

Brooks has really been enjoying karate this summer. A couple of his friends have been taking the class with him, and every week he looks forward to going. He was definitely having fun last night, but as class went on it became more and more apparent that he wasn’t remembering the moves or how to perform them correctly.

He kept looking over at me sitting on the benches, and I did my best to help by awkwardly miming the punches, kicks, and blocks from my seat.

It wasn’t working.

He finished class with a smile, we said goodbye to his friends and Grandma, and then headed to the car. On the drive home I knew we needed to have a conversation about practicing at home.

For some reason, karate isn’t like baseball to him.

If I ask Brooks if he wants to play catch or swing the bat, the answer is almost always yes.

Ask him if he wants to practice karate…

Not so much.

I told him his belt test was coming up in a few weeks and was honest with him.

Without practicing, I didn’t think he was going to pass.

I didn’t want to be too harsh. He’s only six years old, and I’m incredibly proud of him for showing up every week, trying something new, and most importantly, having fun. I still believe that enjoying what you’re doing is the most important part of youth sports.

But I also want him to experience the satisfaction that comes from working toward something and earning it.

While writing this article, I came across a thoughtful piece from The Simple Dad about encouraging kids to embrace failure through a growth mindset. One idea really stood out to me: our job isn’t to protect our kids from struggle, but to help them see that improvement comes through effort. That’s exactly what I hope Brooks learns from karate. Whether he passes this belt test or not, the real lesson is discovering that getting better almost always starts with practicing something you’re not very good at yet.

Unfortunately, he was still resistant to the idea.

So, being the dad, I had to make a rule.

Before tablet time each day, he has to go through each of his karate moves once.

Safe to say…

I wasn’t his favorite person in that moment.

While writing this article, I also came across a piece from Invicta Karate about the importance of practicing outside the dojo. Their point was simple: class is where you’re introduced to the techniques, but real improvement happens through the repetition between classes. Reading that made me smile because that’s exactly the conversation Brooks and I were having in the car. The belt test happens in front of an instructor, but the confidence to pass it is built at home.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but think about my own life.

My mom laughed and reminded me that I was the same way when I took karate as a kid.

Apparently, not much has changed.

How many times have I expected to get better at something without really practicing?

How many times have I wanted the result more than I wanted the work?

I’m not going to become a better writer if I don’t keep writing.

I’m not going to become a healthier person if I don’t continue taking care of myself.

I’m not going to become a better husband or father if I don’t intentionally work at those relationships every day.

A few days ago I wrote The Scale Isn’t the Scoreboard, reminding myself that success is bigger than one number. Yesterday I wrote Some Days Ask More of Us Than We Expected, a reminder that life will occasionally interrupt our plans. Both of those lessons point to the same truth:

Progress still requires practice.

We all have a belt we’re chasing.

Maybe it’s a promotion.

A finished novel.

A healthier body.

A stronger marriage.

A closer relationship with our kids.

Whatever it is, we all want the belt.

What we don’t always want is the practice.

We want success without the work.

Instant gratification without the repetition.

Recognition without the discipline.

Life just doesn’t work that way.

That’s one of the reasons I started The Young Napoleon Project in the first place.

Over the last month I’ve written every day.

Read every day.

Walked every day.

Done my push-ups, sit-ups, and squats every day.

None of those things are particularly exciting on their own.

They’re practice.

And slowly, almost without noticing it, the practice is changing me.

Earlier this month I wrote The Reset Never Came, promising myself that I wouldn’t start over every time life got hard. Since then I’ve learned that progress isn’t built by dramatic moments of motivation. It’s built by ordinary days of consistent effort, something I explored in Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments.

Brooks may only take karate for one summer.

If that’s the case, then maybe one day he won’t remember all of his kicks, blocks, or forms.

But that’s okay.

Because karate isn’t the lesson.

The lesson is.

Every sport he plays.

Every hobby he picks up.

Every dream he decides to chase.

Will ask the same thing of him.

Put in the work.

Practice consistently.

Keep showing up.

Improvement comes from repetition long before it comes from recognition.

The belt isn’t earned on test day.

It’s earned on all the ordinary days before it.

One day Brooks is going to earn that belt.

I don’t really have any doubt about that.

And when he does, I’ll be sitting on the bench cheering louder than anyone else.

Not simply because he passed the test.

But because of all the work no one else saw.

Because that’s what I’ll really be celebrating.

And maybe that’s a lesson all of us need to be reminded of from time to time.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

The Reset Never Came — Why lasting progress isn’t built by starting over.
The Scale Isn’t the Scoreboard — Success is measured by more than one number.
Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments — The quiet, everyday moments where real life is lived.
Some Days Ask More of Us Than We Expected — Strength isn’t avoiding hard days; it’s choosing to keep showing up.