Thursday was meetings.
All of Thursday.
From the time I logged in until the time I finally logged out, my calendar was essentially one long series of conversations occasionally interrupted by the few glorious minutes created when somebody ended a meeting early.
There was a lot to discuss.
A lot to figure out.
A lot that needs to happen.
This is a busy time of year in healthcare.
We're getting close enough to the end of the year that everything that needs to be finished suddenly becomes very aware that the end of the year is coming.
So Thursday was busy.
Productive.
Necessary.
And exhausting.
School, strangely enough, feels almost quiet.
I'm still waiting for grades from my new professor, so I don't quite know what to expect from this capstone yet.
I feel good about it.
But taking only one class at a time is weird.
Really weird.
For most of the last year, there has always been something else I should be reading.
Something else I should be researching.
Something else I should be preparing.
Something else I should be writing.
Now?
One class.
I keep feeling like I've forgotten something.
I'm sure the breathing room will pay off when this capstone really gets moving.
For now, I'll take it.
And somehow, it is Friday.
October 30th.
Tomorrow is Halloween.
All Hallows' Eve.
Sunday is All Saints' Day.
The clocks change Sunday morning.
The boys are working through their first nine weeks of school.
I'm beginning another eight weeks of classes.
Baseball is ending.
The holidays are approaching.
Everything feels like it is sitting right on top of everything else.
I had a plan for tomorrow.
Of course I did.
I wanted to do a family lesson about Halloween.
Not just costumes and candy, but the history behind it.
All Hallows' Eve.
All Saints' Day.
Harvest traditions.
I had food planned.
Stew.
Bread.
A fire.
The whole thing.
It was going to be awesome.
We're not doing it.
Sometimes being Dad means coming up with the plan.
Sometimes it means recognizing that the plan isn't what your family needs.
Right now?
We need a breather.
The lesson will still be there next year.
The history isn't going anywhere.
The stew will survive.
The fire can wait.
This year, I think Halloween can just be Halloween.
Besides, we already had a pretty good family project Thursday night.
David had a school assignment.
An edible animal cell.
He'd been given plenty of time to do it, and almost immediately he knew exactly what he wanted his cell to be built on.
A pumpkin pie.
Because apparently my almost-thirteen-year-old looked at an animal cell and thought:
Pie.
I respect that.
Then came the planning.
What candy could represent each part?
What would go where?
How could we make the whole thing actually resemble the diagram he was supposed to create?
There was some fine-tuning.
Some parental consultation.
Some candy selection.
And Thursday night, we gathered around the kitchen table.
David.
Jacob, who decided this was considerably more interesting than spelling.
Me.
And one pumpkin pie sitting on a cookie sheet about to become considerably more scientifically significant than the manufacturer ever intended.
And we built a cell.
Or, more accurately, David built a cell while the rest of us participated in various capacities.
Candy became organelles.
Pumpkin pie became cytoplasm.
Science became dessert.
It was adorable.
And he was proud of it.
He should be.
This morning, though, the science became considerably less important to me.
Because David had to carry the damn thing into school.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
Please, child.
For the love of everything holy.
Watch where you're walking.
There is a particular kind of parental anxiety involved in watching your kid leave the house carrying a school project he worked hard on.
At that point, my concerns about cell structure were over.
My entire academic standard became:
Please don't trip.
So somewhere this morning, my son is carrying a pumpkin pie covered in candy through a school parking lot.
And I'm waiting to hear from Kati that the cell successfully reached the building.
Once it crosses that threshold?
Not my problem anymore.
Science can take it from there.
Then we just have to make it through Friday.
Another workday.
Another school day.
Tonight, game night with friends.
Tomorrow morning, baseball practice.
And then Halloween.
Whatever Halloween ends up looking like.
Sunday, though?
Sunday has a plan.
Church.
Then David's final baseball game of the fall season.
The last one.
That feels strange to write.
This fall season disappeared.
Rain stole some of it.
School complicated some of it.
Life filled in all the spaces around it.
But Sunday, he'll put on that uniform one more time.
Number 12.
One more game.
Then fall baseball is done.
Baseball itself isn't going anywhere.
David is already talking about what comes next.
Batting cages.
Throwing.
Hitting.
Conditioning.
Work.
He'll be thirteen in a couple of weeks, and he recently asked whether that means he can start going to the gym with me.
I suspect this may actually be an elaborate attempt to get me back into the gym.
Fair.
Message received.
I think we'll start going together about once a week.
Nothing ridiculous.
Just Dad and son.
Some work.
Some baseball preparation.
And, apparently, cardiovascular exercise for both of us.
I was hoping fatherhood would eventually involve less running.
This appears not to be the case.
Then comes his birthday.
Thanksgiving.
Christmas.
The rest of the holiday season.
The calendar isn't getting any quieter.
Life isn't suddenly going to stop asking things from us.
Which is probably why I'm increasingly convinced that sometimes the best thing I can do is decide not to add one more thing.
The Halloween lesson was a good idea.
I still love it.
We'll do it.
Maybe next year.
This year?
We'll get through Friday.
We'll play games with friends.
We'll go to baseball practice.
We'll figure out Halloween.
We'll go to church.
We'll watch number 12 play one more fall baseball game.
And sometime in there, hopefully, everybody gets a chance to breathe.
But first?
I need confirmation that one pumpkin-pie animal cell has safely entered the school building.
Priorities.
I spend a lot of time planning things for my family because I want my kids to have experiences they'll remember. Lessons. Traditions. Trips. Baseball games. Nights around a fire. Sometimes, though, I think part of being Dad is recognizing when the experience everybody needs is simply having less to do. I had a great plan for Halloween this year. We aren't doing it. Instead, we spent Thursday night gathered around a kitchen table turning pumpkin pie and candy into an animal cell because that's what one of my kids needed from us. Maybe that's enough. The elaborate lesson can wait until next year. Childhood is full of things worth teaching. Knowing when to leave some room to breathe might be one of them.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
