Five Minutes

Tuesday started with a reasonable plan.

That was adorable.

By the time I actually got into the day, I was heads down.

Then pulled into a meeting.

Back down.

An email.

Another meeting.

A personnel issue.

Stakeholder questions.

Something for one team.

Something for another.

Back to the thing I was originally doing.

Wait.

What was I originally doing?

It wasn't a particularly difficult day.

That's the strange part.

It was just...

Draining.

Fractured.

The best example might be something that sat on my computer for most of the afternoon.

My paper for school.

Finished.

Ready to submit.

I needed maybe five minutes.

Attach the document.

Write a quick note to my professor.

Submit.

Done.

Four hours later, I still hadn't found the five minutes.

Then, about fifteen minutes before I needed to leave my desk, chat exploded.

Something else.

Something that will probably need attention today.

Something that stretched beyond the time I needed to walk away.

The paper was still sitting there.

Ready.

I submitted it this morning.

It's not late.

Nothing bad happened.

But there's something strange about being so fragmented that five uninterrupted minutes becomes an unreasonable request.

Then came Dad's second shift.

Jacob had actually done something great.

He finished most of his homework on the ride home.

He still had spelling and reading, but he'd done enough that we decided to try something different.

Go play.

Relax.

Spend some time with your brothers.

We'll finish the rest later.

Excellent theory.

Poor execution.

After dinner, we spent most of the evening coaxing a very tired ten-year-old through the things he still needed to finish.

Lesson learned.

He's still adjusting to school.

He's tired when he gets home.

And apparently, once the relaxation switch flips, getting it back into homework mode requires considerably more energy than any of us possess.

So we'll adjust.

Homework before dinner.

Then relax.

Experiment conducted.

Results received.

Moving on.

Then David asked:

"Do you know where my phone is?"

No.

No, I did not.

Apparently, neither did anyone else.

So we searched.

All of us.

For hours.

The last time the app saw it was Monday.

One percent battery.

Meaning the very helpful "play sound" button currently has approximately the same effectiveness as standing in the hallway and yelling:

"PHONE!"

It's somewhere.

It has to be.

That knowledge did absolutely nothing to stop it from bothering me.

Which is probably why I was back in my office around 1:00 this morning...

Looking again.

Still no phone.

But somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, something else happened.

We got eggs.

Our chickens have officially started earning their keep.

Well...

Some of them.

We have two, maybe three, laying now.

After months of raising them, feeding them, watching them grow, building things, fixing things, cleaning things, and wondering when they'd finally start...

Eggs.

It's such a small thing.

But there is something ridiculously satisfying about walking out and finding one sitting there.

Proof that another little cycle around our house has started.

Before we know it, all ten will probably be laying.

Which means, naturally, we'll go from:

"LOOK! AN EGG!"

to:

"What the hell are we going to do with all these eggs?"

Apparently abundance creates its own workload.

There's probably a lesson there.

I'm choosing not to investigate it too closely this morning.

Because today is already full.

Coffee is flowing.

The red meeting light in the hallway is probably going to spend most of the day illuminated.

Yesterday focused heavily on two of my teams.

Today, the other two need me.

There are one-on-ones.

Skip levels.

Stakeholders.

Leadership.

Follow-ups from yesterday.

And whatever else decides to introduce itself.

Monday I wrote about having twenty-four Mondays left until I finish school.

I like knowing the finish line exists.

But there's a danger in seeing it too clearly.

Sometimes I catch myself staring at it.

Because the closer it gets, the more protective I become of the little pieces of time that belong to me.

And lately...

Those pieces feel like they're shrinking.

I hesitate to say I'm going to violently protect my time.

It sounds dramatic.

But maybe I need a little dramatic.

Because there will always be something.

Work.

Leadership.

Parenting.

The kids' education.

The house.

Helping Gerald, Jacobs beloved Gecko, through the final stages of recovery.

A habitat swap for the hermit crabs.

David's baseball.

Zoey's school and violin.

Jacob adjusting to school.

Asher becoming more and more himself.

My classes.

My office.

Getting things ready so I can stream again.

And apparently...

Eggs.

Lots and lots of eggs.

All of those things matter.

That's the problem.

But somewhere in that list has to be sleep.

Somewhere has to be decompression.

Somewhere has to be five minutes.

Maybe this week isn't about getting better at squeezing things into smaller spaces.

Maybe it's about deciding that some spaces aren't available anymore.

Five minutes to submit the paper.

Twenty minutes to sit quietly.

An hour to play a game.

Enough time to sleep.

Time with my wife.

Time with the kids that isn't attached to homework, schedules, chores, or getting somewhere.

Not leftovers.

Time.

So maybe that's today's assignment.

Not another checklist.

Not another productivity experiment.

A boundary check.

Where is my time going?

What actually needs me?

What can wait?

And what have I allowed to consume space that was supposed to belong to something else?

I have a feeling I already know some of the answers.

Now I need to do something with them.

Wednesday.

Coffee.

Red light on.

Plenty to do.

Probably another egg waiting outside.

But somewhere in there...

I'm finding my five minutes.

Being busy and being fragmented aren't the same thing. I can handle busy. What wears me down is when every few minutes belong to something different and the smallest tasks become impossible because there is never enough uninterrupted space to finish them. The answer probably isn't learning how to fragment myself more efficiently. It's remembering that boundaries don't only protect us from things that don't matter. Sometimes they're necessary because too many things genuinely do. I can't give everything all of me at the same time. Somewhere in this week, I need to make sure I leave a little of me for me too.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.