Not Every Day Is Perfect

The weekend had plans.

Furniture to look at.

The usual trip to fill the food pantry.

Grand ideas about measuring, plotting, and finally beginning to shape the garden we have been talking about building.

The weather had plans too.

It usually does.

Saturday morning was already hot.

Not normal summer hot.

The kind of heat that sits on your shoulders and makes the air feel too thick to breathe.

Thunderstorms were supposed to arrive in the afternoon, followed by high chances of rain for most of the coming week.

Meanwhile, the grass had grown beyond the point where it could be politely ignored.

It needed to be cut.

That day.

We ran our errands first.

The kids did well.

Furniture was inspected.

The pantry was filled.

Everyone made it home in one piece.

Then David knocked over a metal tin while trying to get through the door.

The crash echoed across the yard.

A second later, our phones answered with a ping.

The power was out.

Perfect timing.

It was around 110 degrees in the sun.

The electricity was gone.

Rain was coming.

The grass still needed to be cut.

So I jumped the lawn mower and added a few more things to the growing fall maintenance list.

Battery replacement.

Oil.

Lubrication.

Fuel line.

Filter.

All problems for another season.

My wife dug out the weed eater we had not used in a while.

That is generally how we handle things.

Together.

One person starts.

The other finds another tool.

Somehow, the work gets done.

As I cut, I directed the kids from one side of the yard to the other.

Move this.

Pick up that.

Get the bike out of the way.

No, farther than that.

The chickens raced from one end of their run to the other every time the mower passed.

Then they raced back.

I could not tell whether they were terrified or having the greatest game of their lives.

Probably both.

About ten minutes in, I realized the heat was no joke.

I kept going anyway.

Then we discovered the weed eater battery was dead.

I knew I should have bought the two-cycle.

That problem would also have to wait.

By the end of an hour and fifteen minutes, the yard looked better.

I did not.

I was seeing spots.

I could feel the blood pounding through my neck.

Every breath made the world a little less clear.

At some point, determination had stopped being useful.

I was in trouble.

We managed without power.

Barely.

The grass was cut.

Most of the yard was handled.

Nothing else was getting done.

The outage lasted for several more hours, and dinner out had already been part of the plan.

That was fortunate because none of us had enough left to make much of anything happen at home.

Saturday was over.

Whether the calendar agreed or not.

Sunday was supposed to be different.

Brunch with the family.

Then a visit to a church we had been wanting to try.

Everyone was dressed and ready on time.

All six of us.

It was shocking.

It was beautiful.

It probably should have warned me that something had to go wrong.

We made it to the diner, found a table, and ordered.

The food was good.

The waiting was harder.

Asher is not built for long stretches of sitting still and speaking quietly.

By the end of the meal, my wife took the kids outside while I settled the bill.

Then we made the forty-three-second drive to the church parking lot.

Still ten minutes early.

We talked through expectations.

Prepared ourselves.

Walked inside.

The church was beautiful.

Built in the 1940s.

Large.

Old enough to feel established, but completely new to us.

Naturally, the kids wanted to explore every hallway, doorway, staircase, and room they could see.

There were bathroom trips.

Countless introductions.

Plenty of warm welcomes.

The people were wonderful.

But Asher was already coming apart.

The other boys were not far behind.

Most of the service became the familiar work of trying to keep one child quiet, another settled, and everyone vaguely facing the same direction.

Then Asher bit me.

Hard.

The ride home was tense.

I was angry.

Not really with him.

Not even with the other kids.

I was angry with myself.

I had tried to change too much too quickly.

They were trying.

It just was not working.

I stopped at a store on the way home, hoping to pick up what my wife and I needed to make a couple of drinks later.

I grabbed snacks for the kids too.

A small peace offering.

Or maybe an apology they did not know I was making.

By the time we got home, Saturday’s heat had collected its debt.

Migraine.

Dizziness.

Exhaustion.

I laid down.

Then woke up hours later.

That made me angry too.

Another piece of the day gone.

Time I could have spent with my wife.

Time I could have spent with the kids.

Time I could not get back.

It is easy to turn rest into another thing to feel guilty about.

Especially when you already feel like the weekend got away from you.

But here I am.

Monday morning.

Still tired.

Still a little frustrated.

Still carrying pieces of the weekend I wish had gone differently.

A new week has arrived anyway.

Meetings.

Schoolwork.

Maybe streaming.

The usual stack of responsibilities waiting patiently for me to pretend I have everything under control.

In the front room, the boys are arguing over Battleship.

Who plays whom.

Whose turn it is.

Which rules apparently apply only when convenient.

Life is back to normal.

Whatever normal means around here.

Not every day is perfect.

Not every plan works.

Sometimes the grass gets cut and almost takes you with it.

Sometimes the family arrives on time and still cannot hold everything together.

Sometimes rest feels like failure even when your body has made the decision for you.

The weekend did not go the way I imagined.

But everyone is here.

The house is standing.

The kids are arguing over a board game.

Monday came.

For today...

That will have to be enough.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I should have done differently. I should have stopped mowing sooner. I should have known the church visit was too much after brunch. I should have been more patient. I should not have lost part of Sunday sleeping. The list can grow quickly if I let it.

The harder truth is that sometimes we make the best decision we can with the information and energy we have, and it still does not work. Parenting does not always reward effort with a peaceful day. Hard work does not always leave us feeling accomplished. Rest does not always feel restorative when guilt is sitting beside us.

Maybe the grace in a weekend like this is simply accepting that nobody needed it to be perfect. The kids needed parents who kept trying. My wife needed a partner who eventually stopped pushing. My body needed rest whether I approved of it or not. And Monday did not ask whether I was ready before it arrived.

Not every day is perfect.

Thankfully...

It does not have to be.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.