I Envy the Cat

Monday morning.

This weekend was about doing what needed to be done.

Not what we wanted.

What was needed.

And I did what I felt called to do as a husband and father.

Saturday started early, exactly as expected.

Drive to Richmond.

Drop Zoey and my wife off at my mom’s.

Load up the boys and head to the YMCA for swim lessons.

Walking in, the humid, chlorinated air hit me immediately.

And for a moment, I was somewhere else entirely.

Back to youth.

Back to health.

Back to swim teams.

I played everything growing up.

But swimming was constant.

Swimming taught me resilience.

Self-reliance.

Perseverance.

Camaraderie.

The old body aches for it now.

For the workout.

For the recovery.

For the peace.

The boys did well.

David and Jacob listened, focused, did exactly what they needed to do.

Asher did his best.

The sounds.

The excitement.

The nerves.

It was a lot.

But I think he’ll do better next week.

After lessons, quick rinse off, quick change, back to my mom’s.

Switch places.

My wife took Zoey to her lesson.

Because fourteen apparently comes with graduating to a different group.

First time for something like this.

And from what I hear?

She absolutely crushed it.

All of the kids are excited to go back.

To learn.

To improve.

And honestly, they should be.

We live five minutes from a twenty-thousand-acre lake.

We have access to boats.

Fishing.

Summer.

Adventure.

I need peace of mind before all of that starts.

The stories of fishing and baseball will come later.

That’s the reward.

This is the work.

The hard part is we’re all still sick.

All of us.

Different degrees.

Same exhaustion.

Coughing.

Draining.

Just trying to hold position.

We knew before we even left Saturday morning we weren’t making church Sunday.

Sunday became recovery.

Or at least our version of it.

I could feel my fever coming and going.

Zoey and Jacob were much better.

Asher was close.

David was not.

David and my wife being hit as hard as they were meant an early run to the drugstore.

Stronger medicine.

More tissues.

Breakfast for everyone from Sonic.

Driving past the Catholic church before Mass had even started left a pit in my stomach.

Not guilt.

Not exactly.

Just... longing.

Later that afternoon I made another quick grocery run.

Baked potatoes for dinner.

Everyone asleep on time.

Except me.

I ended up out on the porch.

Not with a purpose.

Not because something needed fixing.

Not because I had a task.

I just needed somewhere to exist for a little while.

Needed air.

Needed quiet.

Needed a place where nobody needed medicine, answers, decisions, encouragement, schedules, or another piece of me.

The night had that heavy Southern weight to it.

Not hot exactly.

Not cool either.

Just thick.

The kind of air that settles onto your shoulders and reminds you summer is coming whether you're ready for it or not.

The porch boards still held some of the warmth from the day.

The smell of damp earth and pine drifted in from the woods.

Everything felt still.

Not silent.

Never silent.

Just still.

I had been reading and researching things that interested me.

Trying to let my mind wander somewhere other than work and school and meetings and sickness.

Trying to convince myself I was resting.

Then the cat showed up.

We’ve seen this one around before.

Gray tuxedo.

Feral, or close to it.

I had heard a cat fight off in the woods a while earlier.

One of those sounds that immediately makes you stop and listen.

And when it walked up onto the porch, it looked tired.

Not hurt.

Not injured.

Not scared.

Just tired.

There’s a difference.

Its steps were slow.

Careful.

Like every movement had to be negotiated first.

Its eyes looked heavy.

Its shoulders seemed low.

Like the world had simply asked too much of it for one day.

I dumped out a screw box from the toolbox and poured water into it.

Set it down nearby.

Talked to it softly.

Like you would a child who had fought sleep for too long.

Or someone who had been carrying something heavy.

I told it that it could rest.

That it was safe.

That whatever had happened out in those woods tonight was over now.

That it didn’t have to keep moving.

And it listened.

Slowly it curled up on our welcome mat.

Circled once.

Then twice.

Then laid its head down.

Eyes closed.

No hesitation.

No looking over its shoulder.

Just trust.

So I sat there too.

For over an hour.

The wind moving softly through the trees.

Night birds calling in the distance.

The hum of insects rising and falling.

The occasional sharp pop from the bug zapper out in the yard.

And next to me, barely louder than the wind itself, the soft sound of a tired creature finally sleeping.

It felt like gentle care.

The kind that asks for nothing back.

The kind that simply says:

You’re safe now.

Rest.

You made it.

And sitting there in the dark, breathing thick air and listening to a cat sleep beside me, I realized something I probably wasn’t supposed to.

I envied the cat.

Not because life had been easier on it.

Not because it carried less.

But because when it finally found somewhere safe enough to stop...

it stopped.

No guilt.

No calendar.

No meetings.

No responsibilities waiting for tomorrow.

Just rest.

Around 2 AM, either my brain finally slowed down or the fever won.

Maybe both.

I finally slept.

This morning was rough.

David was too sick for school.

Even after getting dressed and trying.

He made it all the way to the van before the tears came.

He has to make it through the next three days.

Awards.

Tests.

End of school things.

He wanted to.

He really did.

I relented.

He’s home.

Already asleep.

My wife is taking Zoey to awards day, beautifully dressed and ready.

Loading the food pantry.

Serving people.

Showing up.

Like she always does.

School for me starts week three.

Grades in one class are over a week behind.

The class that may cost me my 4.0.

We’ll see what we see.

Work is demanding this week.

Very demanding.

And being sick on top of it is going to make things rough.

Very rough.

I know I should probably take time off.

A day.

Maybe more.

People would tell me I should.

People would probably be right.

And I know the saying.

If I disappeared tomorrow, work would replace me.

But there’s another part of me that doesn’t care.

I was poured into by my grandfathers.

My father.

Generations before me.

Work is only one of the hats I wear.

But I still wear it.

And I wear it intentionally.

My name is going on things that will outlast me.

Things I’m building with my team.

With people I care about.

Things that matter.

And if I stayed home every time I felt exhausted...

Every time I felt overwhelmed...

Every time I struggled...

What lesson would my kids see?

Not perseverance.

Not sacrifice.

Not responsibility.

Not pushing through.

So today, while my oldest is at awards day...

While my oldest boy is asleep sick...

While Jacob is asking about baseball tonight...

While Asher is building birthday wish lists...

While my wife is taking care of our daughter and our community...

I’ll work.

I’ll meet with people.

Hold town hall.

Do schoolwork.

Push.

And I won’t mention it outside this blog.

Because that isn’t the point.

There’s no glory here.

No applause.

Just the day-to-day.

The push.

The slog.

If they see it without me saying it, maybe one day it resonates.

If I turn myself into a martyr, they’ll pity me and miss the lesson.

Maybe adulthood is learning that perseverance matters. Responsibility matters. Sacrifice matters. But wisdom might be learning when it’s finally safe to put your head down and stop carrying things for a little while. I hope one day, far down the road, after they’ve worked hard and carried their own burdens, my kids understand that feeling.

I hope someday they envy the cat too.

This is a grounded moment where sometimes the strongest thing in the world might just be finding a safe place to finally rest.

Much love. Stay safe. Wash your damn hands. I’ll see you Wednesday.