Not Tomorrow

This morning my oldest will be home.

Suspended.

We had two choices when we found out.
Be angry. Or be supportive.

Life is rarely as simple as a single mistake and a single person to blame. Situations build. Pressures collide. Sometimes the story behind a moment is bigger than the moment itself.

When we sat with it long enough, the right answer became obvious.

She’ll be home today.

And honestly, she probably needs it.

She has been working harder than just about anyone I know. School has never been simple for her. Between her craniosynostosis, the hearing aids that help but can’t always separate a teacher’s voice from the noise of a classroom, and the way instructions sometimes slip through the cracks even when she understands the words, she has had to fight for things that come easily to other kids.

And she does.

Every single day.

She carries expectations. She carries the pressure of wanting to keep up. She carries the quiet frustration of knowing she understands what’s happening but not always how to get there.

Most people never see that part.

They see the bubbly teenage girl with the easy smile.

They don’t see her come home and look defeated. They don’t see the nights she skips eating because she thinks she needs to study more, do more, be better. They don’t wipe her tears as she struggles with trying to do the right thing, and not always being told what that is. They don’t see her collapse onto her bed, her cat climbing up beside her, exhausted from spending the entire day just trying to keep up.

That kind of effort doesn’t always show up on a report card.

But it’s real.

And there’s a fire in me about it. A deep one. The kind that wants to storm into rooms and demand answers and fairness and understanding.

But those conversations are better had once I’ve cooled down.

My wife knows that.

She’s the only one who still can slow me down when it involves our kids. One look. One word. And I pause.

Sometimes rest isn’t a reward.

Sometimes it’s repair.

Meanwhile our youngest has started eating like a small hurricane.

Not snacking.

Actually eating meals.

Which means something big is coming.

Anyone who has raised kids knows the pattern. The appetite shifts first. The mood follows shortly after. The body quietly preparing for a growth spurt before anyone else realizes what’s happening.

So the house feels slightly hungrier than usual.

And a little moodier.

The middle two boys are doing great.

Flying straight.

Or scheming.

With those two, it’s sometimes hard to tell.

The van is still in the shop.

Something is draining the battery. Slowly. Quietly. Persistently.

A lot like it has been draining our account while we try to figure out what exactly is wrong.

We’ll solve it.

We always do.

But it sits there in the background of the week like a quiet reminder that life rarely breaks in convenient ways.

I’ve spent the last few days working on my streaming rig.

Clearing pathways. Organizing cables. Rebuilding scenes. Fixing things that used to work automatically before I stepped away for a while.

Preparing.

Preparing is responsible.

Preparing is useful.

Preparing is also a wonderful way to avoid pressing the button.

So there was no stream Tuesday.

No stream last night either.

Tuesday belonged to family.

Last night belonged to the future.

School is moving along.

Week one closing out this weekend.

Ethics in Anthropology.
World Religions.

Papers submitted. Journals written. Discussions posted. Cohort replies sent.

A whole constellation of ideas that can go in a thousand directions depending on who is doing the talking and who is doing the listening.

It’s the kind of intellectual noise that feels chaotic while you’re inside it and strangely beautiful once you step back.

The desk repair seems to be holding.

We’ll really find out this weekend when we start rearranging the office.

Running cables. Moving furniture. Patching holes. Building a little computer lab for the kids. Hoping everything powers back on once the dust settles.

I’m already picturing the moment when it’s done.

A drink.

My wife.

My kids.

A good meal.

But that’s tomorrow wishing it was today.

One thing I’ve learned since becoming a dad is something people say all the time.

Time moves faster.

It really does.

But not just because kids grow.

It’s because we spend our twenties and thirties chasing tomorrow.

When X is done.
Once we get through Y.
After this season settles down.

We keep trying to pull tomorrow into today.

But fatherhood doesn’t live in tomorrow.

Kids don’t live there either.

They live right here.

In the doorway while you’re on a call.
At the table when you’re thinking about emails.
At home on a random Friday morning when life hands them a hard moment and they just need somewhere steady to land.

And if you keep trying to skip ahead to the next thing…

You miss the thing that’s already here.

So today?

My daughter will be home.

My youngest will probably eat the house.

The middle boys will either be angels or masterminds.

The van will still be broken.

The stream might happen.

The office will eventually get rebuilt.

And that quiet moment with my wife and my kids over dinner will come when it comes.

Not when I schedule it.
Not when I plan it.

When we arrive there.

Together.

This is where I’m ending the week.

Still a dad. Still figuring it out.
Choosing today instead of tomorrow, at least for tonight.

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