The other night was moving along like most others. I had come home from work, changed clothes, and hung out with the boys while Jillian finished making dinner. We ate, Brooks finished first—per usual—and then anxiously waited for Joseph to finish so they could have dessert. Joseph almost always finishes dinner last.

After a small treat, the boys and I put on our shoes and headed out for a walk. I try to take them at least one evening a week so Jillian can get a few things done around the house. That night Brooks wanted to walk past a friend’s house, so we set off down the street.

As we passed by the rec center, we ran into my sister and her family. They had just finished flag football practice and were heading home. After visiting for a bit, the boys and I continued our walk.

It was a long walk for Joseph, so I periodically picked him up and carried him. We passed by Brooks’s friend’s house, but they weren’t outside. Two houses later was my Uncle Rick’s house, and he and my aunt were home. My cousin was there too, checking out the progress they were making on their remodel.

My uncle invited us inside to take a look.

What I didn’t realize was that while we were touring the house, he had quietly slipped out to the backyard and hidden “treasures” for the boys to find under statues and among the decorations.

When we finally made it outside, he led them on a treasure hunt that resulted in a handful of gems and cool rocks.

Hiding treasures is just one of the many things that “Papa” Rick does for my boys.

And as I watched them search through his backyard, I couldn’t help but think about all the things he did for me when I was a kid.

I have so many fond memories of Uncle Rick.

He taught us how to body surf at the beach.

He took us to garage sales and taught us how to negotiate for a better deal.

There were hikes in Idyllwild, slip n’ slides in the backyard, ping pong games in the garage, and countless trips to the movies.

I still remember seeing my first double feature with him. I also remember seeing The 13th Warrior with Uncle Rick and my cousin Luke—a movie we had absolutely no business seeing at our age.

Those are the kinds of memories that stick with you.

I’m grown up now, and I’m an uncle myself.

I try to show up for my nieces and nephews’ sporting events. I roughhouse with them at family gatherings. I teach them silly jokes the same way Rick used to teach me.

And when they’re older, I look forward to taking them places, teaching them new things, and supporting them every step of the way.

I’ve been blessed with the family I have.

Between my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, I couldn’t have asked for a better support system or more love than I’ve received throughout my life.

But having Uncle Rick living so close when I was growing up—and even closer now that I have kids of my own—is something I’ll never take for granted.

Because of him, I got experiences I’ll never forget.

And now my boys get to have experiences with Papa Rick that they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.

At the same time, I get the opportunity to create those kinds of memories with my own nieces and nephews as Uncle Brian.

Some treasures are hidden in a backyard.

Others are the people who hide them for us.

Two years ago, when Brooks started school, I went to the parent orientation meeting. They talked about ways for parents to get involved, such as the Foundation and the PTA.

Being an involved parent is important to me, so I considered joining one of those groups. But my sister, whose kids also attend the school, suggested something else.

“You should join the Papa Pandas.”

The Papa Pandas are a group of dads from the school who meet at a local restaurant on the third Thursday of every month for dinner and drinks. The group is responsible for a few events throughout the year, including movie night on the blacktop and the end-of-year dance, known as Panda Prom. They also host an annual dodgeball tournament against other schools’ dads groups and help out with projects around campus when teachers need an extra hand.

It sounded right up my alley.

So I showed up to that first meeting.

I was nervous walking in, but the group was incredibly welcoming. By the end of that first school year, I felt like I had found my place. Now another year has passed, and I’m still attending meetings, playing on the dodgeball team, and showing up for poker nights. The dads I met through the group have become good friends—people I see at school drop-off, school pick-up, and school events throughout the year.

In fact, I’ve become one of the dads trying to convince other fathers to come out and join us.

Our meeting for this month was last night.

Even though school is out for the summer, we still meet. Attendance is usually lighter this time of year, and only four dads showed up. But that was okay.

We talked about the send-off event we’re hosting next week for the dads whose kids are graduating out of the school. We discussed next month’s poker night and ways we could have a presence at this year’s parent orientation to recruit new members.

But most of the evening wasn’t spent talking about school.

It was spent talking about our glory days as kids, old action movies, the World Cup, the Padres, and our children’s sports teams.

We had dinner, shared a few drinks, laughed a lot, and eventually headed home.

As kids, making friends is easy.

You sit next to someone in kindergarten, play on the same baseball team, or live on the same street. Before you know it, you’ve spent years together.

Adulthood works differently.

College, careers, marriage, children, mortgages, and responsibilities all compete for our time. Those childhood friendships don’t necessarily disappear, but they change. Conversations become text messages. Hangouts become occasional dinners. Life gets busy.

Making new friends as an adult is even harder.

Most of us spend our weekends with our families and our weekdays at work. Opportunities to build new friendships become fewer and farther between.

That’s why groups like the Papa Pandas matter.

We have a standing night every month that’s already on the calendar. We have a common purpose that brings us together—our children and their school. We volunteer, plan events, and support the community around our kids.

But we also get something for ourselves.

We get a chance to spend time with other dads.

To have a drink.

To tell stories.

To talk about life.

To take our minds off responsibilities for a few hours.

That sense of community is important.

Honestly, I think every dad could benefit from having something like it.

When I started The Young Napoleon Project, I said it was a solo mission. Nobody knew about it and I was doing it on my own.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that’s not entirely true.

I’m the one doing the work.

I’m the one taking the walks, tracking the habits, and writing the blog posts.

But this project is about building a better life, and a better life includes the people around me.

My family.

My friends.

The Papa Pandas.

They’re all part of this journey.

They’re reminders that none of us are meant to do everything alone.

Last night, four dads showed up.

Not because they had nothing else to do.

Not because work had been easy.

Not because there weren’t dishes to wash, errands to run, or responsibilities waiting at home.

They showed up because they made the time.

To spend an evening with friends.

To talk about their kids.

To support their community.

And to take a little time for themselves.

It’s a community of dads.

And the longer I’ve been a dad, the more I understand how important that is.

Maybe next month there will be seventeen of us.

Maybe there will be two.

Either way, I’ll be there.

This week is the break between the preschool year ending and the summer session beginning. So Jillian and Joseph are off, and Brooks is already on summer vacation. Yesterday, however, Jillian needed to work to get the preschool ready for Monday.

Instead of asking the grandparents to watch the boys, I took the day off.

I had been trying to decide what to do with them and eventually settled on the zoo. We have annual passes and go fairly often as a family, but I had never taken both boys by myself before.

I wasn’t entirely sure how that was going to go.

We packed up the backpack with water and snacks, loaded the wagon into the car, buckled in the boys, and set off on our grand adventure.

Getting into the parking lot was hectic and the lines to buy tickets stretched out in front of the entrance. Thankfully we were able to walk right through with our passes and head inside.

We immediately turned away from the crowds and headed toward the elephants and lions before the exhibits became too busy.

Only a couple of elephants had made their way outside and the lions were sound asleep on their platforms, but Joseph was thrilled to see them anyway while Brooks was already eager to move on to the next exhibit.

We crossed the bridge and caught our first glimpse of the panda before stopping for a snack. Brooks and I shared some popcorn while Joseph worked his way through a variety of snacks from the backpack.

From there we bounced from exhibit to exhibit, lingering at the penguins as they darted through the water and stopping to admire the turtles and waterfall before moving on.

As we made our way through the zoo, I was reminded of something.

There is a big difference between taking one child somewhere and taking two.

There is an even bigger difference when one child is six and the other is two.

Brooks still had plenty of zoo left in him.

Joseph was beginning to run out.

After a while Joseph had done enough walking, so I loaded him into the wagon for the climb up the hill past the monkeys. Brooks wanted a ride too, but there was no way I was pushing both boys up that hill.

We made it to the top where we saw a baby koala, the giraffes, and a rhino cooling off in his pool. Joseph was fascinated by this and kept shouting that the rhino was taking a bath.

Eventually I let Brooks climb into the wagon as well for the trip back toward the front of the zoo, but it didn’t take long before Joseph decided that sharing the wagon was unacceptable. Brooks hadn’t done anything wrong, but Joseph couldn’t keep walking, so Brooks drew the short straw and had to get back out.

That’s life when you’re the older brother.

We stopped to see the orangutans and the warthogs, but by then both boys were running out of steam and, if I’m being honest, so was I.

So we called it a day.

We headed back to the car, loaded up, and started the drive home. I put on Danny Go and spent the ride reaching into the back seat to keep Joseph entertained so he wouldn’t fall asleep and ruin his nap later.

Parenting is sometimes a very glamorous job.

When we got home, Joseph couldn’t wait to tell Jillian about the rhino taking a bath.

Brooks wanted to talk about the penguins.

We had seen plenty of animals, shared a snack while watching the tour buses drive by, caught our first glimpse of the panda, and somehow survived my first solo trip to the zoo with both boys.

All in a little over two hours.

We didn’t see every animal.

We didn’t make it to every exhibit.

We didn’t even make it into the kids’ area, which honestly may have been for the best.

But that’s okay.

The goal wasn’t to conquer the zoo.

The goal was to spend a day with my boys.

We saw some animals, laughed at Joseph licking the glass at the baboon exhibit, made a few memories, and came home with two tired kids.

I’d call that a successful day.

Next time we go to the zoo, Jillian will be with us and we’ll be back to playing two-on-two.

But it’s nice to know that if I need to, I can take them on my own.

Even if it means leaving a little earlier than planned.

Yesterday morning I stepped on the scale and saw a big drop, 3.2 pounds exactly, which brought me down 5.6 pounds overall since the start of this project.

Weight loss is a huge part of this project. I have a goal weight that I am working toward while tracking my steps, calories burned and consumed, macronutrients, and supplements. So seeing a big drop is encouraging. It’s exciting. It’s the payoff for the work that I am putting in.

But it can also mess with my mind.

Instead of simply being encouraged by the number on the scale, I immediately begin wondering how much weight I can lose by the next day and how much faster I can reach my goal weight. Suddenly I’m living days, weeks, and months into the future instead of grounding myself in today.

This isn’t just about weight. It’s a pattern that I consistently find myself falling into, putting the cart before the horse, so to speak.

Instead of writing a page or two of a book, I start thinking about the ending.

Instead of focusing on today’s habits, I wonder when I will reach my goal weight.

Instead of concentrating on today’s actions, I wonder when I will have the entire project built.

I’m wanting to achieve things now that I can’t realistically hope to accomplish for six months, a year, or even longer.

This is one of the things that plagued me during previous attempts to launch this project. Instead of focusing on what needed to be done today, I would spend my time thinking about what I was going to accomplish in the future. I became so focused on the destination that I never allowed myself to enjoy the journey toward it.

That hasn’t happened during this attempt.

This time I have remained focused on completing the next action. Taking the next step. Moving the project forward one action at a time.

So when I saw that number on the scale and my mind immediately jumped to how quickly I could lose more weight, I stopped myself.

I reminded myself that this isn’t about losing the weight by tomorrow.

It’s about building a sustainable diet and exercise regimen that allows me to lose the weight over time and maintain it once it’s gone.

It’s not about self-publishing a book tomorrow.

It’s about spending some time writing today, even if it’s only a few hundred words.

I’m not going to achieve my goals of losing weight, writing books, becoming more organized, becoming more financially secure, and being the best husband and father I can be overnight.

Those goals take time.

And if I consistently put in the work, I’ll eventually get there.

Consistency looks like completing my morning routine.

Going for my daily walks.

Spending time with my family.

Being present in the moment.

Writing blog posts.

Hitting my reading goals.

None of these things are heroic.

They are ordinary tasks repeated over and over again.

But that’s how progress is built.

Small actions compounded over time become larger results.

Tomorrow there will be another weigh-in and my weight could fluctuate either way. There will be more steps to walk, more workouts to complete, and another opportunity to get it right.

But that’s tomorrow.

Today I just need to keep showing up.

Doing the work.

Taking the next step.

I’ve spent most of my life chasing finish lines. The older I get, the more I think the secret is much simpler than that.

Just take life one day at a time.

This past Sunday we went for a family hike.

Hiking is something that Jillian and the boys have been doing for a while on their own, not something I was ever particularly interested in. But this weekend we were looking for something to do as a family and I thought, let’s give it a shot. So I suggested a hike.

We got up early so we could beat the heat, drove to Mission Trails, and set out on the trail.

Immediately I was reminded why I wasn’t sure hiking with kids was going to be my thing.

Within the first hundred feet we had already stopped half a dozen times to look at cool rocks, stink bugs, and random plants.

I struggled with that for the entire hike.

I wanted to keep moving.

Get my steps in.

Make good time.

Reach the finish line.

But kids don’t think like that.

They aren’t out there to get exercise. They’re out there for the experience. They want to see what nature has to offer, look for animals, and explore.

At one point Brooks even decided that the mountain bike tracks on the trail had been left by aliens and that we were following in their footsteps.

The boys were exploring.

I was hurrying us along.

As an adult—and especially since launching this project—my life revolves around metrics.

The scale.

The steps.

Calories burned.

Pages read.

Actions completed.

Tasks finished.

And that’s okay. Part of being an adult is measuring progress and handling responsibilities.

But hiking wasn’t about any of those things.

My kids don’t know what those numbers mean, and they certainly don’t care.

As I urged everyone onward after a break by the creek, I remember thinking that we still had a long way to go. I interrupted rock skipping and tadpole hunting because we needed to keep moving.

A few minutes later the trail ended.

I had rushed everyone along for a finish line that was practically right in front of us.

I missed the moment because I was in a hurry to finish.

At the trailhead, Jillian asked if we had time to stop by the visitor center because the boys wanted to show me everything inside, or if I was in a hurry to get home.

I deserved that.

So I changed my attitude and let the boys lead the way.

Inside were exhibits filled with stuffed animals that lived in the park, motion sensors that played animal sounds, and a tunnel lined with carvings of wildlife where the sounds echoed through hidden speakers.

Joseph kept walking through the tunnel saying, “I don’t like that.”

Then he would immediately walk through it again.

And again.

Because he absolutely did like it.

There is a lesson somewhere in all of this.

Not everything needs to be timed, tracked, and optimized.

Not every walk is about step counts and calories burned.

Not every activity has to produce a measurable result.

Although this one did.

It reminded me that sometimes we get the chance to experience something new, and when we do, we should try to see it through the eyes of a child.

A child who thinks every rock should come home and join a collection.

A child who believes tire tracks might have been left behind by visitors from another planet.

A child who can spend twenty minutes looking for tadpoles without ever wondering whether it’s productive.

There is value in letting time pass unnoticed.

There is value in being present without worrying about how long something is taking.

This project is about a lot of things, but at its core it’s about becoming the best husband and father I can be.

This past Sunday I tried.

And at times I failed.

But I also learned something.

This Father’s Day we’re going on another hike.

And this time I’m going to worry a little less about where the trail ends and spend a little more time enjoying the people walking beside me.

Yesterday, after a family hike, Jillian needed to run to the store and I was watching a World Cup game on TV. The kids had already had some tablet time that morning, so we asked them to find something else to do.

Joseph chose to play Hungry Hungry Hippos and cause general chaos in the living room.

Brooks, meanwhile, came out of his room carrying his baseball and Pokémon card binder and announced that he was going to draw some Pokémon cards. He grabbed some paper and crayons and set himself up at the kitchen table.

He was quiet for quite a while before finally saying, “Okay, I’m done. Do you want to see my book?”

So I got up and walked into the kitchen to find that he had recreated several Pokémon from his cards onto sheets of paper, drawing them in his own style and coloring them in.

They turned out great, and he was incredibly proud of what he had created.

I think he had drawn four or five different Pokémon by the time he was finished. He eventually wrote their names on the pages, stapled everything together into a book, and later brought it to the family barbecue so he could show everyone and have them sign the back for him.

I took a picture of him standing there coloring those pages and immediately had flashbacks to being a kid myself.

My dad’s parents lived about twenty minutes from us. Not far, but far enough that our visits usually happened once a week or so.

My grandfather had emphysema and was on oxygen, which limited what we could do together. We played checkers on the patio, dug through his fishing gear, and watched shows like Walker, Texas Ranger and Lawrence Welk.

But one of the memories I remember most clearly is sitting at their dining room table with the “funnies” spread out in front of me.

I would have the newspaper comics, a blank sheet of paper, and a box of colored pencils.

Then I would sit there and draw what I saw.

I would copy the characters from the comics onto my own paper, recreating them the same way Brooks was recreating those Pokémon yesterday.

I’m sure I made my own books and comic strips too, proudly showing them off to my grandparents when I was done.

Somewhere along the way, that love of drawing followed me into adulthood.

I eventually enrolled in an animation program in college, convinced that drawing might become a career. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. The competition was fierce, and the more my work was critiqued, the more I lost the passion that had made me want to draw in the first place.

Eventually I left the program and came home.

These days I don’t draw much beyond the occasional doodle.

It’s funny how life comes back around.

It feels like just yesterday I was the one sitting at a dining room table drawing characters from the newspaper. Then, actually yesterday, it was my own son standing at the kitchen table doing the same thing I had done all those years ago.

I don’t know what Brooks will do as he gets older.

I don’t know if he’ll continue drawing or if this was simply something fun to do on a Sunday afternoon.

What I do know is that he felt a pure sense of enjoyment and accomplishment from what he created.

He was proud of it.

He wanted to show it off.

And there is something wonderfully innocent about that.

It’s something many of us lose as we get older.

We stop creating for the simple joy of creating. We start worrying about expectations, outcomes, criticism, and whether what we’re making is good enough.

Kids don’t think that way.

They sit down with some paper and crayons and see what happens.

Watching Brooks reminded me what that feels like.

It was fun getting a glimpse of that creativity and freedom again.

And I hope he holds onto it for as long as he can.

Because once it’s gone, it’s surprisingly difficult to get back.

After yesterday morning’s swim lesson, the family piled back into the car and Joseph asked, “Coffee shop?”

He’s two years old and already knows exactly what the coffee shop is.

And honestly, that’s okay because it’s one of our favorite things to do as a family.

So we headed home to grab Joseph’s shoes, let Jillian change, and then made our way to our favorite coffee shop.

It was packed, which isn’t unusual for a Saturday morning, although we normally get there a little earlier. Jillian and Brooks got in line while Joseph and I claimed the last table that would fit all four of us.

Joseph was hungry and getting restless, so I dug some granola balls out of the diaper bag while we waited.

Meanwhile, Jillian ordered strawberry cream matchas for the two of us, muffins for the boys, and a smoothie for them to share.

Once the muffins arrived, Joseph climbed onto my lap and all was right with the world again.

He dug into that chocolate muffin like it was his full-time job, smashing pieces into his face while I tried to keep up with the crumbs falling in every direction.

Across the table, Brooks methodically worked through his blueberry muffin while announcing that he was going to be the first one to finish his drink.

Meanwhile, Jillian and I attempted to enjoy our matchas while also helping the boys with theirs.

Every family has traditions.

As a kid, I thought family traditions revolved around holidays and big events. Things like Christmas morning or our annual trips to the mountains.

Now that I’m older and have kids of my own, I’ve realized traditions can be much smaller than that.

They can be things like going to the used book sale at the library on the first Saturday of the month.

Reading together before bedtime.

Or Saturday mornings at the coffee shop.

None of those traditions were planned.

Nobody sat down and decided they would become part of our family’s routine.

They just happened naturally and kept happening until they became part of who we are.

And that’s what I love about these Saturday mornings.

It’s not really about the matchas, although they are delicious.

It’s not about the muffins.

And it’s not even about the coffee shop itself.

It’s about taking thirty minutes to get out of the house and sit around a table together.

No work.

No chores.

No bills.

No errands.

Just the four of us enjoying each other’s company.

Who knows how long this tradition will last?

The boys will get older. They’ll have sports, activities, and friends competing for their weekends. Eventually they’ll be going to the coffee shop without Mom and Dad.

That’s part of growing up.

But until then, until the Saturday morning matchas are no more and muffins are no longer on the menu, I’ll keep enjoying these mornings around the table.

Because sometimes the traditions we cherish most aren’t the ones we set out to create.

They’re the ones that quietly become part of our lives before we even realize they’re traditions at all.

Yesterday was Donuts With Dad at Joseph’s preschool.

The school year was coming to an end, and they were hosting the event as an early Father’s Day celebration. Nothing extravagant. Just dads bringing their kids to school and spending a few minutes together in the courtyard over donuts and juice before the day began.

I walked in with Joseph, checked him in, and then headed out to the courtyard where I grabbed a few donut holes for both of us and a cup of orange juice to share.

As we walked to our table, Joseph made sure to say hello to every kid we passed. He knew all of their names and seemed determined to greet each one before we sat down.

Once we got settled, Joseph went to work on the donuts.

The sprinkle-covered one disappeared first, followed quickly by the glazed one. The crumb-covered donut hole required a little encouragement, but eventually it met the same fate as the others.

When he finished and took a sip of juice, he looked up at me and said:

“More donuts.”

So, of course, I went and got him another one.

I don’t get to take Joseph to school very often or pick him up at the end of the day. Jillian teaches at the preschool, so unless she’s off work, she usually handles those responsibilities.

It was fun getting to see Joseph walk into that school like he owned the place.

He waved at kids as he passed them, as if he had been voted Most Popular in the Preschool Yearbook. It was fun getting to see him in his element.

As parents, we spend a lot of time with our kids before school and after work, but we rarely get to see them in the environment where they spend so much of their day.

I’m fortunate that I get to volunteer in Brooks’s classroom and coach many of his classmates on the baseball field, but I don’t really know Joseph’s friends beyond the stories I hear from him and Jillian.

So it was nice to put some faces to the names.

It was also nice to see a few familiar dads, including my brother-in-law, who was there with my niece and ended up joining us at our table.

Time is moving fast.

Brooks will be in first grade next year, and Joseph will be heading to elementary school before I know it. It feels like yesterday that we were bringing them home from the hospital. In fact, we were looking at those pictures just this morning.

Being able to pause time for a moment and sit next to Joseph while sharing a donut in the middle of a busy week felt meaningful.

It wasn’t a vacation.

It wasn’t a birthday.

It wasn’t a holiday.

It was just a Friday morning in June before I headed off to work.

An ordinary moment.

But one that was captured in a few photographs and permanently stored in my memory.

Next year will be my last Donuts With Dad at preschool.

And before I know it, there won’t be classroom parties to attend or baseball teams to coach.

But yesterday there was.

And I’m glad I got to share that moment—and that extra donut—with Joseph.

Ideally, I would get up in the morning and complete my routine of weighing in, stretching, and doing my push ups, sit ups, and squats before waking up the boys. While they watched cartoons, I would have my standard breakfast and get ready for the day.

Assuming it’s a weekday, I would then take Brooks to school and head to the office where I would go through my morning routine, complete some administrative work for this project, publish a blog post, and begin the balancing act between work and project tasks. Somewhere in there I would fit in a morning walk, a lunch walk, and some reading.

After work, I would come home, change clothes, have dinner with the family, complete my evening chores, get the kids to bed, and finish a workout. Then, after a shower, I would spend some time working on the project or writing while watching TV with Jillian before heading to bed.

That’s the ideal weekday.

Do you know how many of those days I’ve had since this project began?

Zero.

Because the ideal day and the real day are two completely different things.

Take yesterday for example.

I had completed all of the morning pieces of my ideal day and was feeling pretty good as I headed to work. Then I got caught in a tornado of unexpected tasks. Things were flying at me from every direction, and it was a couple of hours before I could finally come up for air and regain control of my schedule.

Then I got a text that Brooks might have a fever, which meant our evening plans could be changing as well.

Thankfully he felt better, which meant that after work it was straight to karate with him. By the time we got home, dinner was later than usual, and when I started my chores it felt like I was being pulled in a million different directions. The work never seemed to end.

Eventually we got the kids to bed and, instead of completing a workout, I collapsed into my chair and started working on things here. Before long I was dozing off while Jillian and I tried to watch a show together.

None of that is unique to me.

Every parent has days like that.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m simply pointing out that there is no such thing as an ideal day because life is going to happen no matter how carefully we plan.

Most of us wear multiple hats.

I’m a husband, a father, an employee, a writer, a coach, a homeowner, and a dozen other things depending on the day. Any one of those roles can demand my full attention without warning, and when that happens the ideal day disappears.

The goal shouldn’t be to create a perfect schedule and then force reality to conform to it.

That’s impossible.

The goal is to find balance between the day you planned and the day you actually get.

And balance doesn’t mean giving every role equal time and attention every day.

Some days work wins.

Some days family wins.

Some days your health wins.

Some days sleep wins.

Balance isn’t perfection.

Balance is adjustment.

It’s recognizing which role needs you most in that moment and being willing to give it your attention.

And honestly, even our best attempts at balance don’t always work.

Yesterday I fell asleep in my chair with goals unfinished because I was simply exhausted. Work had been demanding. There was karate, dinner, chores, family time, and an attempt to watch soccer with my son.

There just wasn’t enough energy left to do everything I wanted to do.

But this morning I woke up and started again.

I completed my morning routine. I attended an event at Joseph’s preschool. I came to work, prepared for an afternoon meeting, and sat down to write this blog post.

That’s the thing about the balancing act.

You don’t ever complete it.

You don’t master it.

You simply keep showing up each day and doing your best with whatever life places in front of you.

Some days you’ll feel perfectly balanced.

Other days you’ll feel like everything is falling apart.

Either way, tomorrow you’ll get another chance to adjust, refocus, and keep moving forward.

The last few weeks at home have been chaotic.

We discovered a hole in a sewer pipe, and the only way to repair it was by demolishing a bathroom and replacing the sewer lines beneath it. We have been dealing with contractors, buying materials, living with only one bathroom for four people (thank goodness Joseph isn’t potty trained yet), and we even had to move out of the house for a week while the water was shut off.

Like I said, chaotic.

What made it harder was that my grandparents had added that bathroom onto the house and decorated it the way they wanted. I never imagined that one day I would have to tear out something they had built.

Most people probably don’t get sentimental while picking out tile and flooring for a bathroom renovation, but I wasn’t just replacing a bathroom. I was investing in a space that my children may someday inherit.

My grandparents bought our house in the 1960s.

My mom, aunt, and uncle were raised there. My grandmother took care of the house while my grandfather was away on deployment. My uncle built the shed in the backyard, the bookcase in my office, and the cabinets above the washer and dryer.

Years later, I grew up there too.

The house was less than two miles from my parents’ home, so I would ride my bike over and have coffee at the dining room table with my grandparents. My friends and I would stop there after trick-or-treating for pizza, chili, and time with the neighbors. We had Easter egg hunts in the yard and Christmas mornings in the living room.

When I was sick, my mom would drop me off there before going to work, and I would crawl into the bed in the guest room, a room we simply called the Blue Room.

Then, about ten years ago, my grandparents passed away within a couple of weeks of each other.

Not long after, my mom approached me and asked if Jillian and I would be interested in buying the house.

I had always hoped to raise a family in the same neighborhood where I grew up, but I never imagined that would happen in my grandparents’ house.

Jillian and I moved in a few months before we got married, and two years later we purchased the house from my parents.

Since then, we have made plenty of changes.

We landscaped the backyard. We replaced the roof and added solar panels. We have replaced most of the appliances. Jillian even operated a childcare center out of the converted garage until last August.

Over time, we made the house our own.

Now Brooks’s bedroom is what used to be the Blue Room.

Joseph’s bedroom was once my grandfather’s office.

And my boys are growing up in the same house where so many of my own childhood memories were made.

They are creating memories of their own now, just as I did years ago.

The bathroom we demolished isn’t as tragic as it might sound.

It’s just a bathroom.

Just another change we are making as we continue shaping the house into our own home.

Because in the end, it really is just a house.

It’s walls and floors and plumbing and paint.

The structure itself isn’t what matters.

What matters is what the structure holds within.

The stories.

The memories.

The people who once lived there.

The people who live there now.

And maybe, someday, the people who will live there after us.

So while the plumbing, tile work, and flooring might look like nothing more than a bathroom renovation, to me it’s something more.

It’s a chance to remember the past while adding a new chapter to a story that began long before I ever stepped foot inside that house.

And it’s an opportunity to create a place where memories will continue to be made long after I’m gone.