The kids are tired, the air is cold, and we’re way too far away from our starting point.
The box is tossed in front of the front door, the bag is almost completely empty, and, mixed between the pieces, are squashed particles of cereal dust.
My son turns television watching into an all-out physical event.
I didn’t get mad at him for an impulse that he obviously couldn’t control in that moment. I wanted to. A voice in my head said, “Yo. Freak out.”
The things I do for my son aren’t done for his recognition, appreciation, or even attention. They’re done because I love him.
Keeping his iPad away for the entire final day of Spring Break sounded crazy to everyone, including me, but it had to be done.
Fireworks don’t go off for great parental achievements. There are no major awards to be handed out.
I may have helped, but his successes were about him doing it, not me teaching him.
It’s why my stomach gets knots. It’s why I come running.
It’s easy to be so fixated on one specific victory that we miss all the other ones happening around us.