The Scale Isn’t The Scoreboard

Yesterday I stepped on the scale and it had gone up again.

I launched The Young Napoleon Project twenty-eight days ago and had only managed to lose one pound.

But instead of getting frustrated, I got honest with myself about what had actually been happening over the last four weeks.

When I think about it, my diet really hasn’t been all that great.

There have been family barbecues, birthday parties, Papa Pandas events, Father’s Day, ice cream date with the family, milkshakes after a rough day, and takeout when making dinner just wasn’t going to happen. If I’m being completely honest, I’m not surprised that I’ve only lost a pound.

What does surprise me is everything else that has happened over those same twenty-eight days.

I’ve written and published twenty-eight blog posts.

I’ve averaged more than 11,000 steps a day, reaching my 10,000-step goal on all but four days.

I’ve completed more than 400 push-ups, sit-ups, and squats simply by adding one repetition every day.

I’ve read nearly 800 pages by committing to just twenty-five pages a day.

I’ve built systems that help hold me accountable instead of relying on motivation alone.

I’ve taken the boys on walks, to the baseball fields, to the zoo, on family hikes, and on coffee shop dates.

I’ve built habits that I’m consistently tracking, and maybe the biggest accomplishment of all is that this project has now lasted longer than any previous attempt because The Reset Never Came.

The scale can only measure one aspect of my life.

That’s why it isn’t the scoreboard for this project—or for the man I’m trying to become.

Imagine if I had lost forty pounds this month…

…but I hadn’t done any writing.

I hadn’t read a single page.

I hadn’t built this project.

I hadn’t played catch with Brooks, gone swimming with Joseph, or spent evenings walking with my family because I was consumed with calories, macronutrients, workouts, and the next number on the scale.

Would that really have been a successful month?

I don’t think so.

Because I’ve lived that version of success before.

Years ago, I lost the weight.

I reached my goal.

But I did it in a way that wasn’t healthy for me physically or mentally. I restricted myself so much that life stopped being enjoyable. I exercised so intensely that I hurt almost every hour of every day.

The number on the scale went down.

But so did the quality of my life.

When I restarted this journey, I promised myself it would be different.

This time I wasn’t just trying to lose weight.

I was trying to build a sustainable life.

A way of eating that allows me to enjoy birthdays and family dinners without giving up on my goals.

An exercise routine that gives me the energy to coach my boys’ baseball teams instead of leaving me too exhausted to play catch in the backyard, something I wrote about recently in Playing Catch.

A lifestyle that lets me write every morning, read every day, be present with Jillian and the boys, and still become healthier over time.

That’s what victory looks like now.

Not just the number on the scale.

I’m not saying losing weight isn’t important.

It is.

I need to lose the weight.

I’m not saying I don’t need to be more accountable with my diet.

I do.

And I’m certainly not saying the scale doesn’t matter.

Because it does.

It just isn’t the only thing that matters.

If you think about sports, baseball has a scoreboard.

But the scoreboard doesn’t tell you everything.

The best hitters in baseball fail seven out of every ten at-bats.

Teams that make the playoffs still lose dozens of games every season.

Yet those players still step into the batter’s box.

They still show up after losses.

They still give maximum effort.

The scoreboard doesn’t measure hustle.

It doesn’t measure the extra work that happens before anyone ever walks onto the field.

It simply records one part of a much bigger story.

The bathroom scale is exactly the same.

It measures my weight.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m becoming the husband I want to be.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m becoming the father I want to be.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m keeping promises to myself.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m building habits that my boys are watching every morning, something I reflected on in Little Eyes Are Always Watching.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m building a life I’m proud of.

So I’m going to keep stepping on the scale every morning.

I’ll celebrate when the number goes down.

I’ll honestly evaluate why it went up.

Then I’ll put it back under the bathroom sink and go live my life.

Because the scale isn’t the scoreboard I’m using anymore.

When this project is over, success won’t be determined by one number.

It will be determined by the life I built along the way.

Continue the Journey

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

The Reset Never Came — Why one bad day no longer defines the entire journey.
Little Eyes Are Always Watching — The habits our children notice even when we don’t realize they’re watching.
Playing Catch — The moments that matter most aren’t reflected in the statistics.

Why Fathers Need Friends

As a kid I had a lot of friends. There were friends from baseball, church, classmates that I got together with for birthdays, pool parties, and play dates. But as I got older some of those friendships disappeared. I became introverted and shy, had trouble talking to people I didn’t know, and that probably only got worse through high school. By the time I entered adulthood, I didn’t have many friendships I could fall back on.

Then in college I reconnected with some people I had known when I was younger, joined an already established group of friends, and created some strong bonds that would eventually be tested once we started getting married and having kids of our own. Suddenly, Friday nights out, random baseball games, and last-minute rounds of golf became much harder to come by. We had to become intentional about making plans. Friendships became more group-text based and less face-to-face.

Since then I’ve missed those friendships—not because they’ve gone away, but because the connections aren’t as frequent. I turn down more invitations than I accept because of family commitments, something already on the calendar, or sometimes because I’d simply rather be home with Jillian and the boys. That’s a choice I’m making, and I don’t regret it. But I do recognize the tradeoff.

Thankfully, I have a few recurring events on my calendar that give me the opportunity to reconnect with friends. They get me out of the house, give me a chance to talk with other dads, catch up on life, vent about work, celebrate our kids, and occasionally enjoy an adult beverage together. I’ve written before about Papa Pandas and about my Monday Night Softball team. Looking back, I realize those weren’t really stories about a volunteer group or a softball team. They were stories about friendship.

Yesterday Brooks and I went to a birthday party for one of his buddies—the son of one of my closest friends. Most of the adults there were people I used to spend countless hours with, and now I only see them on special occasions. Driving home, I found myself wondering:

What happened?

Why do friendships become so much harder to maintain as we get older?

Why is it so difficult to make new friends as adults?

As it turns out, this isn’t just my experience. Over the last several years, researchers have begun talking about what some call the “male friendship recession.” One widely discussed survey found that the percentage of men reporting six or more close friends has dropped dramatically over the past few decades, while the number of men reporting no close friends has steadily increased. (fatherhoodframework.substack.com)

I think the answer is actually pretty simple.

Time.

And opportunity.

As kids, we’re surrounded by potential friends every day. We spend six hours sitting next to classmates, run around together at recess, head to baseball practice after school, go to church on Sundays, attend youth groups, karate classes, Scouts, birthday parties, and play dates. We’re constantly placed in environments where friendships naturally develop, and our biggest concern is usually just having fun.

As adults, we’re the ones taking our kids to school before heading to work. We spend eight hours behind a desk or on a job site, then rush to daycare pickup, make dinner, shuttle kids to practices, help with homework, get everyone to bed, and collapse under the weight of the day. Weekends are filled with games, tournaments, grocery shopping, yard work, paying bills, and trying to carve out a little time with our spouse before Monday rolls around again.

There simply isn’t much room left.

Friendships have to become more intentional as adults. They rarely happen by accident anymore. If we want to maintain the relationships we’ve built—or create new ones—we have to make space for them on the calendar just like we do doctor’s appointments, baseball practice, or date night.

And that intentionality matters.

Research has found that fathers who maintain close friendships tend to feel less isolated and are better equipped to handle the stresses of raising young children. One large survey found that nearly a quarter of fathers reported feeling isolated after becoming dads, while fathers with close friendships experienced lower stress and better overall well-being. (Ipsos)

That’s why I don’t see friendships as a distraction from being a good father.

I see them as part of becoming one.

Spending time with friends gives me the opportunity to vent a little, laugh a little, and realize I’m not the only dad navigating tantrums, sleepless nights, youth sports schedules, and all the uncertainty that comes with raising kids. It reminds me that other dads have the same fears, the same hopes, and many of the same questions that I do.

When I come home after those nights, I’m usually more patient.

A better listener.

A better husband.

A better father.

Papa Pandas isn’t just an excuse to get out of the house for dinner and drinks.

Softball isn’t just a way to get some exercise.

They’re communities.

They’re support systems.

They’re reminders that I don’t have to figure this whole fatherhood thing out by myself.

When I wrote Every Season Comes to an End, I reflected on the friendships I’ve built through Papa Pandas and how one day my season there will eventually end. That only reinforced something I’ve been learning over the last year: friendships don’t survive because we care about them. They survive because we continue showing up.

One day my kids will be older, and hopefully life will slow down a little. Maybe my friendships will begin to look more like my dad’s old Minute Men softball team—a group of guys who still get together for lunch decades after they stopped playing. I hope so.

Until then, I’m going to keep being intentional about maintaining the friendships I already have while remaining open to new ones.

Because in the end…

It isn’t really about the meetings.

Or Monday night’s batting average.

Or the dinners.

It’s about showing up for the people who make my life richer, challenge me to become a better man, and remind me that I don’t have to navigate fatherhood alone.

When I come home after those dinners, meetings, or Monday night games, I’m not just a guy who got out of the house for a little while.

I’m a better husband.

A better father.

And, I hope, a better friend.

Continue the Journey

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

Papa Pandas — How one dinner invitation introduced me to an incredible community of dads.
Softball on Monday Nights — Why friendships survive when we intentionally make time for one another.
Every Season Comes to an End — Appreciating the people who make each season of life meaningful before it passes.

The Reset Never Came

If I’m being honest with you, yesterday was not a great day for this project.

It started off well. I got to sleep in a little while Jillian got up with the boys. I had my regular breakfast and followed my usual morning routine of weighing in, taking progress pictures, and doing my morning stretches. Then, as a family, we headed to Joseph’s swim lesson at the Salvation Army Kroc Center. We cheered him on from the side of the pool before catching up with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law while my nephew had his lesson.

From the outside, it looked like a good day.

After we got home I managed to get a little project work done, but then things slowly unraveled. I overate at lunch, snacked throughout the afternoon, wasted time lying on the couch, and that was all before Jillian and Brooks left for a birthday party. Joseph and I could have gone for a walk or played in the backyard, but instead we watched soccer and barely moved.

Jillian brought home takeout for dinner, and by the end of the night I found myself scrambling just to accomplish the bare minimum on my daily goals. Several of them—including my reading and step goals—went unfinished.

When I went to bed, I couldn’t stop asking myself what had happened. How had I let the day get away from me like that?

Over the last decade I’ve had too many days like that to count, and they almost always ended the same way.

I would erase everything.

The habit tracker.

The completed to-do lists.

The progress.

Sometimes even the blog.

Then I’d convince myself that if I just started over tomorrow, I’d finally do everything perfectly.

Of course, that never happened.

Sooner or later another imperfect day would come along, and I’d find myself standing at the same starting line all over again.

A few days ago, in Some Days You Just Survive, I wrote that not every successful day feels productive. Sometimes the goal isn’t to move forward—it’s simply to make it to tomorrow.

Yesterday, I finally had the chance to prove whether I believed that.

As I lay in bed thinking about all the times I’d started over before and everything I’d built during the last twenty-five days of The Young Napoleon Project, I realized something.

Perfection isn’t reality.

Progress is.

So I didn’t hit the eject button.

I didn’t erase weeks of hard work.

And when I woke up this morning, I didn’t start over.

I simply picked up where I had left off.

That may not sound like much, but to me it means everything.

This isn’t really about one bad day.

There will be more.

This is about changing my relationship with failure.

For years, a mistake meant I wasn’t perfect.

If I wasn’t perfect, I had failed.

And if I had failed, the project was over.

Now I see things differently.

Failure lasts a day.

Tomorrow is another opportunity to keep going.

When I started this project twenty-five days ago in Day One, I made myself one promise: there would be no more resets.

I’d made that promise before, but I had never kept it.

Yesterday was the first real proof that I meant it.

I’ll have to keep proving it to myself again and again, because there will be more disappointing days ahead.

There will be more missed workouts.

More bad meals.

More unfinished to-do lists.

But those days no longer get to decide the outcome of the project.

They’re just pages in the story.

As I wrote recently in Little Eyes Are Always Watching, my boys aren’t just learning from my successes. They’re watching how I respond when things don’t go the way I planned.

Maybe that’s the lesson I needed too.

Success isn’t about keeping a perfect streak.

It isn’t about staying on my diet every day.

It isn’t about working out every single day or putting this project ahead of everything else in my life.

Success is refusing to give up after a disappointing day.

The biggest success of the last twenty-five days isn’t the weight I’ve lost.

It isn’t the blog posts I’ve published, the words I’ve written, the systems I’ve built, or the goals I’ve checked off.

Maybe the biggest success is that I can have a day like yesterday…

and simply continue today.

The reset never came.

And I think that’s the biggest victory of all.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, here are a few more reflections from The Young Napoleon Project:

Day One — The promise that this project would be different from every attempt before it.
Some Days You Just Survive — Why making it to tomorrow is sometimes enough.
Little Eyes Are Always Watching — The example we’re setting, even on the days we fall short.

Every Season Comes To An End

Last night I had a Papa Pandas event. It was a send-off for the dads whose kids are graduating from the elementary school and moving on to middle school. They’ll still likely come to meetings and support the Papa Pandas moving forward, but their time as dads with children at the school has come to an end.

We celebrated with dinner and drinks, and a few of us stayed until almost 11:00 watching the World Cup, talking, and enjoying one another’s company before I finally called an Uber and headed home.

As I sat around with these dads, who have now become friends, I couldn’t help but think back to my first meeting almost two years ago.

When I wrote about Papa Pandas a few weeks ago, I talked about walking up to that restaurant not knowing who I was looking for until I spotted a couple of guys wearing Papa Panda hats. I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t know if I’d fit in.

Now it’s one of the best decisions I’ve made.

Saying goodbye to a couple of the dads who welcomed me into the group—the same dads I’d worked alongside blowing up balloons for Panda Prom, setting up projector screens for movie night, and organizing school events—made me realize something.

Not that long ago…

they were the new dads walking into their first meeting.

Just like I was.

And somehow, without anyone really noticing, enough time had passed that their season at the school had come to an end.

That thought hit me harder than I expected.

One day Brooks will finish elementary school.

A couple of years after that, Joseph will too.

My time will come to move from active member to Papa Panda alumnus.

I’ll still come to meetings because these guys have become much more than a dads group. They’ve become friends. Just like I wrote in Softball on Monday Nights, friendships don’t survive because they’re important. They survive because people continue making time for one another.

I’ll still show up.

I’ll still welcome the new dads walking into their first meeting.

But it won’t be the same.

I’m not ready to think about that because it means my boys are getting older.

And as much as I wish I could keep them little…

I can’t.

We spend so much time taking the kids to school, picking them up, coaching their sports teams, taking them to karate, reading bedtime stories, helping with homework, and simply being there whenever they need us.

Sometimes it feels like we’ll be doing those things forever.

But we won’t.

Every one of those moments has a season.

Eventually they’ll have cars of their own.

They’ll stay up later than we do.

They’ll outgrow youth sports.

The bedtime stories will end.

The walks to the baseball field that I wrote about in Playing Catch will become less frequent until one day we don’t even realize we’ve taken the last one.

It’s hard to imagine that much time passing.

But it’s exactly what we want for our children.

We want them to grow.

We want them to become capable, independent adults.

Even if getting there means leaving behind the seasons we love the most.

The Papa Pandas was created to support dads while their children are in elementary school. It’s become much more than that because of the friendships we’ve built, but its purpose is still tied to a season of life.

One day I’ll attend my last meeting as the dad of an elementary school student, just as the dads we celebrated last night already have.

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the season I’m in.

I’m going to appreciate the people who make it better.

I’m going to keep showing up.

Because the goal isn’t to hold onto the seasons that have passed.

It’s to be fully present and thankful for the one we’re living right now.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:

Papa Pandas — How one dinner invitation turned into a community of dads and lasting friendships.
Softball on Monday Nights — Why friendships survive when we keep making time for one another.
Playing Catch — The ordinary evenings that someday become our favorite memories.

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.

Playing Catch

Depending on the week, and the calendar, I try to take the boys out after dinner one night. Sometimes we walk around the neighborhood or explore one of the local schools. Other nights, like our recent trip to Lowe’s, an ordinary errand somehow turns into an adventure. Last night, though, we ended up somewhere that has become familiar to all three of us—the baseball fields.

Brooks has a private baseball lesson this weekend, and we really haven’t had much time to practice since his last one. So he carried his glove and I carried mine, while Joseph carried a bright green bouncy baseball that he wasn’t letting go of for anything.

We headed over to the tee-ball field where the fences are still up because the All-Star teams are playing. One of the teams was practicing on the field next to us, so we stood and watched for a few minutes before Brooks and Joseph took turns throwing me the ball. Eventually Joseph lost interest and wandered over to the dugout, where he was perfectly content to sit in the dirt and entertain himself.

Brooks and I practiced fly balls, ground balls, and throwing mechanics. Having coached baseball for most of my life, I can’t help but try to correct every throw, and eventually he gets tired of hearing it. So we took a break.

Then Brooks invented a game.

I stood at the plate pretending to swing an imaginary bat before tossing the ball. Sometimes it was a ground ball. Sometimes I threw it high in the air. Brooks would field it, fake the throw to first, and then toss it back to me.

After a while he wanted to hit instead. Except instead of pretending to run to first, he was actually trying to make it all the way around the bases before I could retrieve the ball and tag him out. He quickly realized the secret was throwing the ball somewhere I couldn’t easily reach. After chasing a few intentionally launched balls into the outfield, I decided that particular game wasn’t nearly as much fun for me as it was for him.

Eventually we went back to ground balls while Brooks attempted a few tricks he’d seen watching Banana Ball. Before long it was time to head home. Joseph was done playing in the dirt—though the dirt certainly wasn’t done with him. He walked over, told me to take my glove off, grabbed my hand, and simply said,

“Let’s go… see Mama.”

So we did.

On the walk home we stopped to play hide-and-seek among the trees lining the ball fields, studied the map outside the community garden, and slowly made our way back for baths and bedtime.

Later that night, after the boys were asleep, I pulled out my phone. I had taken a few videos of Brooks throwing, but as I scrolled backward I found older videos too—his helmet hanging over his ears, swinging his first little bat.

I’ve played baseball for almost ten years. I wasn’t very good.

Then I coached for another ten years.

Now I’m coaching Brooks.

I don’t know how long he’ll play baseball. Right now he loves it, and as my dad always told me, “Keep playing until it isn’t fun anymore.”

That advice has stayed with me all these years.

When Brooks eventually looks back on baseball—whether that’s five years from now or fifteen—I hope he doesn’t remember his batting average, the wins and losses, the errors, or the strikeouts.

I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field.

The made-up games.

Trying Banana Ball tricks.

His teammates.

And me being out there with him.

Because when I think back on my own childhood, those are the things I remember most about playing baseball with my dad as my coach. The older I get, the more I realize that the memories that matter rarely come from championships or statistics. They come from ordinary evenings spent together.

Years from now, when baseball is over for both of us, I don’t think I’ll remember every practice or every game.

I’ll remember walking to the ball field with my boys.

When Errands Turn Into An Adventure

Last night we needed to go to Lowe’s to return some flooring we had bought for our bathroom remodel.

We decided to just go as a family and get the kids out of the house. So after dinner we all loaded up in the car and headed out.

We got to Lowe’s, loaded the flooring onto a cart, got Joseph situated, and headed inside.

Almost immediately, Brooks spotted the tiny blue Lowe’s buckets they were selling and nearly lost his mind talking about all the things he could do with them. Joseph, meanwhile, was shouting out everything he saw.

Jillian got in the return line and I took the boys to wander around the store.

They remembered that the last time we were at Lowe’s there had been an AI-powered robot driving around, so we were on a mission to find it.

We checked the docking station. Nothing.

So we started walking up and down the aisles.

“Robot, where are you?” Joseph shouted over and over again.

We searched the entire store.

No robot.

Eventually Jillian called and told us it was time to leave. Brooks was convinced the robot hadn’t come out because Mom hadn’t helped us look for it and suggested we try again as a family next time.

Luckily, when we got outside, Jillian distracted them with the tiny blue Lowe’s buckets.

Crisis averted.

Since we were already out—and had a gift card—we decided to stop for ice cream.

Being gluten-free, my options were limited, so I ordered a milkshake. Jillian got a cone, Brooks got a waffle bowl that was approximately the size of his head, and Joseph got a small baby cone.

While we waited for our ice cream, the boys and I sat outside watching cars go by.

I told them to point out the ones they liked.

Brooks picked Teslas and trucks.

Joseph picked every single car.

After we finished eating, we hung around for a bit while Jillian finished her cone. That’s when the boys decided it was time for exercise.

Suddenly the sidewalk outside the ice cream shop turned into gym class.

Squats.

Jumping jacks.

Lunges.

Walk push-ups.

We just kept calling out exercises and they kept doing them.

By this point I was wondering where all the energy was coming from.

Eventually it was time to head home, get the boys to bed, and get ready for the next day.

Later that night, while working on things for this project, I found myself thinking about the evening.

For Jillian and me, the night started as a necessary errand.

We didn’t want to run errands after a full day of work.

We were frustrated that the flooring we bought wasn’t going to work.

It was another item on a long list of responsibilities.

Just one more thing that needed to get done.

But for the boys, it was something entirely different.

It was hunting for a robot.

It was a new blue bucket and all the possibilities of what could go inside it.

It was ice cream while watching cars drive by.

It was spotting a fire truck and an ambulance in the parking lot.

It was turning the sidewalk into a gym.

As I wrote recently about our hike at Mission Trails, kids have a way of experiencing the world differently than adults do. They aren’t worried about schedules, return policies, or home improvement projects. They’re looking for adventure.

It’s the same lesson I learned during our trip to the zoo. Adults tend to focus on the destination while kids are busy enjoying the experience.

We all did the exact same thing last night.

But we lived two completely different evenings.

For us, it was an errand.

For them, it was an adventure.

I guess the lesson is that there’s fun to be found in almost anything if you’re willing to see it through the eyes of a child.

It wasn’t Disneyland.

It wasn’t a vacation.

It wasn’t even a trip to the park.

It was a trip to Lowe’s.

And somehow these two boys managed to turn it into an adventure.

Related Posts

Softball On Monday Nights

Growing up, my dad played on a softball team called the Minute Men.

I remember going to the games, sitting on the bench with the guys, and running out to collect the bats after they hit. Some of those guys still play softball or over-the-line today, but that team itself has long since come and gone.

What hasn’t gone away are the friendships.

A few of those guys still get together for lunch every month or so. Whenever my dad comes home from one of those lunches, he tells me who showed up, where they went, and what everyone has been up to. Some of the guys have passed away. Others have moved. But the ones who are still around keep showing up.

Now I’m older and I play on my own softball team.

Ironically, we didn’t start as a softball team at all. More than ten years ago we were an indoor soccer team. Back then everything was competitive. There were arguments with referees, heated games, and an obsession with winning.

It’s not like that anymore.

Now we’re a co-ed team-pitch softball team playing in the lowest division on Monday nights.

Sometimes we win.

Usually we don’t.

In all the years we’ve been playing together, we’ve only won one championship.

But that’s not really why we’re there.

The team has changed over the years. People have come and gone. Most of us are married now. Most of us have kids. Sometimes those kids come to the games. Most of the time there isn’t anyone in the stands.

We show up thirty minutes early, take some swings in the batting cages, warm up, play for an hour, and then head back to our normal lives.

Some games are immediately after work when everyone is rushing to get there.

Other games don’t start until after the kids have gone to bed, and we’re all wishing we were already asleep too.

But we keep coming back.

Season after season.

I don’t know exactly why everyone else plays.

Maybe some miss their younger baseball days.

Maybe some enjoy the competition.

Maybe some like the exercise.

For me, it’s about the friendships.

It’s about maintaining relationships that have been part of my life for so long that I don’t want to watch them slowly disappear.

Sure, part of me still enjoys pretending I’m twelve years old and back on a baseball field.

But mostly it’s about the people.

When we first started playing together, none of us had the responsibilities we have now.

No spouses.

No kids.

No mortgages.

No school events, birthday parties, sports practices, work obligations, church meetings, home projects, or endless items on a to-do list.

Back then we were looking for something to do.

Now we have too much to do.

That’s why things like softball matter.

Not because they’re important on their own.

Because if they aren’t on the calendar, they get replaced by something else.

And when the time together disappears, the friendships slowly start to fade with it.

Not because they matter any less.

Simply because relationships require time.

The Minute Men went through the same thing.

Eventually life got busy. Bodies got older. The softball games stopped.

But now they’ve figured something out.

The lunches are on the calendar.

Each month somebody picks the restaurant.

Whoever can make it shows up.

Because that’s what keeps friendships alive.

Showing up.

I don’t know how long we’ll keep playing softball on Monday nights.

Hopefully long enough for my boys to come watch a few games.

But I do know that if softball ends, it will need to become something else.

A lunch.

A poker night.

A monthly dinner.

Something.

Because friendships don’t survive on memories alone.

They survive because people continue making time for each other.

I need those guys in my life.

And I hope I can be someone they need too.

So for now, I’ll keep showing up on Monday nights.

A Son And A Father

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

I slept in a little later than Jillian and the boys before coming out to find a fun gift on the table and a hand-drawn card from Brooks and Joseph. We spent the morning hiking at Mission Trails before stopping for coffee, pastries, and smoothies. It was a great start to the day.

Later, Jillian had to go into work for a bit, so it was Daddy Duty on Father’s Day. I made lunch, broke up a few sibling disputes, and hung out with the boys before Joseph went down for his nap. Then we headed to my parents’ house for a Father’s Day barbecue filled with family, soccer, and the usual chaos that comes with a bunch of cousins running around together.

Before we knew it, the day was over.

Father’s Day was simpler when I was a kid.

You were the one making the card.

You were the one running around with your cousins.

You were the one being reminded to wish your dad, your grandpa, and your uncles a happy Father’s Day.

Now things are different.

I’m still a son on Father’s Day, but I’m a father too.

One thing hasn’t changed, though, and that’s the opportunity to spend time with my dad.

That’s a gift not everyone gets, and it’s not something I take for granted.

My dad worked incredibly hard throughout his life to provide for our family. He helped with homework, coached my baseball teams, took us camping and fishing, and played catch in the front yard. Now I find myself doing many of those same things with my own boys—walking to the ball fields to practice, coaching tee-ball, taking Brooks to karate, and taking Joseph to swim lessons.

As a kid, I never really understood how much else he had going on.

As a dad, I do.

And it gives me a whole new level of appreciation for everything he did for us.

When I sit down and think about my memories of my dad, I realize most of them come with lessons attached.

Sitting on the shore of a lake with our fishing poles in the water taught me patience and how to appreciate silence.

Golf taught me that if you want to get better at something, you have to practice before it matters.

Baseball taught me that the things we do outside of work and responsibility should be fun or they aren’t worth doing.

Pocket knives taught me to be prepared.

The summers I spent working with him taught me work ethic.

And the conversations we had taught me honesty and integrity.

I wonder how many lessons I’m passing on to my own boys without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s how it works.

Maybe the most important lessons aren’t the ones we sit down and intentionally teach.

Maybe they’re the ones our children learn simply by spending time with us.

I’m still learning from my dad today.

But I’m also aware of how fortunate I am to be in this season of life.

I get to have my dad around while being a dad myself.

My boys get to spend time with their grandpa.

I get to look backward and remember being a kid with my dad while also watching my own kids make memories with him now.

That’s not something everyone gets to experience.

Yesterday there were moments when we celebrated me as a father.

There were moments when I was busy being a dad.

And there were moments when I got to be a son celebrating my own father.

I’m grateful for every one of them.

So to all the dads out there: appreciate the time with your kids.

And if you’re fortunate enough to still have your dad around, appreciate that time too.

One day you’ll realize what a gift it was to be both a son and a father at the same time.

Some Days You Just Survive

Yesterday started off great.

We got up with the boys, had breakfast, and then Joseph and I headed off to his swim lesson. We had a blast in the pool together. After swim, we met Jillian and Brooks at the coffee shop where the boys shared a scone and a smoothie while Jillian and I enjoyed our matchas.

The plan was simple: the library, a relaxing afternoon at home, and then a play date at the rec center with Brooks and his friends.

We did all of those things.

But the day was far from easy.

Joseph is going through a phase where being separated from his mom is a challenge, even if it’s only for a few minutes. So when I put him in my car after the coffee shop while Jillian and Brooks got into hers, he wasn’t happy.

At the library, Jillian went to look for a book while I stayed with Joseph. The moment he realized she had walked away, he took off after her.

Getting back in the car afterward didn’t go much better.

He was just having a hard day.

We think maybe he had water in his ears from swim lessons, or maybe he was overtired. Whatever the reason, things just seemed off.

The nap didn’t help much either.

Later, at the play date, he was perfectly happy playing on the playground, going on the swings, and climbing through the fire truck. But the moment he went looking for Jillian and discovered she had stepped away to use the bathroom, the tears started again.

And if I’m being honest, by that point I was frustrated.

Not frustrated with him.

Just frustrated.

The kind of frustration that builds throughout the day until you realize you need a break.

So I excused myself from the play date and walked home.

I had dinner, watched some soccer, and waited for Jillian and the boys to get home.

Then I let that frustration get the better of me.

I asked Jillian to bring home milkshakes and instead of working on the project, I sat in my chair scrolling Instagram.

Not exactly a productive evening.

As I sat there later that night, I realized something.

This was the kind of day that used to derail me.

The kind of day that would convince me to start over.

I would have looked at the milkshake, the missed work, the frustration, and decided the whole thing was ruined.

I would have convinced myself that if I could just start fresh tomorrow, everything would be different.

But that’s the trap.

Because there will always be days like this.

There will always be difficult days.

There will always be setbacks.

There will always be frustration.

The goal isn’t to build a life where those days never happen.

The goal is to learn how to keep going when they do.

So instead of blowing everything up, I did enough.

Not great work.

Not exceptional work.

Enough.

Enough that I wasn’t moving backward.

Enough that I could wake up today and keep going.

And as I sit here writing this, I realize yesterday wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt in the moment.

I got to take Joseph to swim lessons.

We went to the coffee shop as a family.

We visited the library.

I published a blog post.

We spent time at the playground.

There were a lot of good moments mixed in with the hard ones.

I just couldn’t see them at the time.

Some days you don’t thrive.

Some days you don’t make huge amounts of progress.

Some days you don’t feel particularly patient, productive, or successful.

Some days you just survive.

And that’s okay.

Because survival counts too.

Today I went on a family hike.

Today I’m celebrating Father’s Day with my dad.

Today feels a whole lot better.

But I only got to today because I didn’t quit yesterday.

Sometimes that’s enough.