All Six Chairs

The weekend disappeared.

I'm pretty sure it was here.

I remember seeing it.

Then I blinked...

And Monday arrived.

It was supposed to be a quiet weekend.

For the most part, it actually was.

With one rather significant exception.

Asher apparently decided to conduct an unauthorized scientific experiment involving caffeine.

Friday night into Saturday morning was rough.

When I went to bed around 2:00, he'd already been awake twice.

Around 3:00, he was up trying to watch television.

Back to bed.

Around 4:15...

Again.

Back to bed.

By about 5:30, we surrendered.

Then the alarms went off around 7:30.

Everyone was exhausted.

Eventually, we discovered the culprit.

Sometime on Friday, my child, who almost never gets caffeine and whose sugar intake we've been intentionally reducing, drank approximately half a gallon of Southern sweet tea.

Half.

A.

Gallon.

Apparently Asher spent the night quietly converting himself into a hummingbird.

If I could bottle one-tenth of the energy that child possessed Saturday morning, I could probably solve several of the world's energy problems.

Unfortunately, all we could do was ride it out.

And even this morning, I think everyone is still feeling it.

Mom came down for the weekend too, which made the house a little fuller than usual.

It had been a while since she'd been able to make the trip, and she specifically wanted to check out the church we've been considering.

It was good having her here.

Good having everyone together.

And by Saturday evening, we were ready to make a family decision.

We've been talking about this church for a while.

We've met with the pastor.

Asked questions.

Prayed.

Talked among ourselves.

The kids have been part of those conversations too.

Because if we're talking about where our family worships, I don't think that's something KatiAnn and I should simply announce to everyone else.

They live this too.

They should have a voice.

So Saturday evening, we voted.

And because apparently I am incapable of doing anything without turning it into some kind of learning experience...

We made a whole thing out of it.

Two bowls.

One for yes.

One for no.

Everyone received an identical block to use as a ballot.

Before we started, we talked about voting.

What it means to cast a ballot.

Why ballots can be secret.

Why everyone's vote should belong to them.

Somehow we even ended up discussing where the term "blackballed" comes from and how balls or objects of different colors could historically be used to secretly accept or reject someone.

That wasn't how our vote worked.

But once Dad starts explaining something, apparently we're going all the way.

Then I moderated.

Everyone turned away from the bowls.

Heads down.

Take a minute.

Think.

Pray.

Make your own decision.

When someone was ready, they raised their hand.

I tapped them on the shoulder.

They walked forward alone.

Cast their ballot.

Then returned to their place, put their head back down, and waited.

One at a time.

No watching what anyone else did.

No changing your answer because you knew what your brother or sister thought.

Your voice.

Your decision.

When everyone had voted, we counted.

Unanimous.

There was something really neat about that.

Not simply because everyone agreed.

Because everyone participated.

The kids weren't informed of a family decision.

They helped make one.

That's how we try to do things around here.

Their voices matter.

There were other little things this weekend.

Some new audio equipment arrived for my streaming setup.

The current equipment is working.

Mostly.

There are enough signs of trouble that I know replacement is probably somewhere on the horizon.

I hoped I'd have time to start setting up the new equipment this weekend.

I didn't.

It'll wait.

School gave me another little win too.

My final Anthropology project grade came in.

I aced that one as well.

I'm proud of it.

I'm going to miss both Anthropology and Sociology more than I expected.

They were easily two of my favorite courses I've taken.

But if you've been reading these for any amount of time, you already know how this works.

I'll smile about the grade.

Then I'll probably move on.

Because one small win for one of my kids will always outweigh just about anything I accomplish myself.

That's just how I'm built.

And this morning gave me a very different reminder of that.

I sat on the porch and watched the van leave again.

Except this time...

Everybody was in it.

KatiAnn.

Zoey.

David.

Jacob.

Asher.

All heading in different directions for different reasons.

The boys have school.

Zoey and Asher have appointments in Richmond.

Dentist.

New molds for Zoey's hearing aids.

New glasses.

A full day.

I stayed behind.

As they pulled away, I waved.

The "I love you" sign.

Little hands waving back.

My wife waving.

The van disappearing.

And then...

Quiet.

Obnoxiously quiet.

I walked back inside and hated it almost immediately.

I don't like being away from my family.

I miss their voices.

Their movement.

Their presence.

The random interruption while I'm trying to work.

Someone needing something.

Someone laughing down the hall.

Someone arguing about something completely ridiculous.

Someone walking into my office because apparently closed doors are merely suggestions in this house.

When they're all gone, it feels like part of me that should exist nearby is somewhere else.

I have plenty to do.

More than plenty.

My new classes unlocked this morning.

Ethics in Anthropology.

A Political Science course that also deals heavily with ethics.

I'm excited about both.

Work certainly isn't going to leave room for boredom either.

There are presentations to schedule.

Work that needs to happen this week.

Work that needs to be positioned for the weeks ahead.

An entire Innovation Lab for my department that needs to come together.

Questions.

Meetings.

Emails.

Decisions.

Plenty of fires available if I get desperate enough to need one.

For once, I'm thankful for all of it.

Idle hands and an idle mind aren't always a particularly good combination for me.

Especially today.

Because none of those things are what I'm really paying attention to.

My phone is.

My wife is wonderful about sending updates.

I'll be watching for every one of them.

A text.

A picture.

A quick message telling me where they are or how something went.

I'll pretend I'm not checking constantly.

I will be lying.

Thankfully, I get a partial rescue this afternoon.

I get to pick up David and Jacob from school.

I'm genuinely looking forward to it.

I want to hear about their day.

I want to know what happened.

I want to know whether they have homework.

Though whether they do or don't simply determines what the evening looks like.

Then the boys and I have an assignment.

Dinner.

Most likely cheeseburgers.

French fries.

All the fixings.

Nothing complicated.

Nothing particularly impressive.

Just dinner.

And somehow that's the thing I'm looking forward to most today.

Not the Anthropology grade.

Not opening the new classes.

Not whatever I accomplish at work.

Not the new audio equipment waiting for me.

Not even whatever gets crossed off the enormous list of things currently competing for my attention.

Dinner.

At some point tonight, the door will open.

The house will get loud again.

Someone will need something.

Someone will leave something where it doesn't belong.

Someone will probably complain that someone else is sitting too close to them.

We'll get the food on the table.

And I'll look around.

My wife.

Zoey.

David.

Jacob.

Asher.

Me.

All six chairs doing exactly what they're supposed to do.

Full.

I spend a lot of time writing about preparing my children to leave.

To grow.

To walk through doors without me.

To become increasingly independent.

That's part of the job.

And I'm proud every single time they do it.

Today reminded me of the other side.

I really love watching them come home.

This morning, I wished today would pass in the blink of an eye.

It probably won't.

It will probably drag just because I want it not to.

So I'll work.

I'll start my classes.

I'll answer emails.

I'll watch my phone like a hawk.

I'll pick up my boys.

We'll make dinner.

And eventually...

I'll hear the door.

Tonight, I don't need anything extraordinary.

I don't need an accomplishment.

I don't need another grade.

I don't need anything crossed off a list.

I just want all six chairs.

Home is easy to think of as a place until everyone you love leaves it at the same time. Then you realize how much of home is actually sound, movement, interruptions, laughter, arguments, footsteps, and people simply existing nearby. We spend years preparing our children to go out into the world, and that's exactly what we're supposed to do. But I don't think that makes it wrong to miss them when they go. Maybe that's part of loving people well too. We cheer when they leave ready for whatever comes next, and we're grateful when the door opens and they come home again.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.