Showing Up Again

It is Monday morning.

It was a long weekend. A heavy one.

Let’s walk through what happened.

Friday started the way it was supposed to.

I took off work. Haircuts for Jacob and me. A quick run to the hardware store. Lunch for just the two of us. Gas in the truck. Then back home to keep things moving.

That night we picked up the older two, took David for a haircut. He asked not to go short this time. That was new. We talked it through. I gave some ground, he gave some ground.

Then came talk of a mohawk.

Not yet.

We’ll revisit that one.

We grabbed pizzas for dinner. The house was clean. We were doing the things we do to keep it that way.

And then the migraine hit.

It settled into the back of my head like pressure I couldn’t push out. I knew what that meant. Meds. Early bed. Missing game night.

I slept.

Restlessly.

And that was just the beginning.

Saturday came in fast.

Breakfast runs. Food pantry runs. Splitting the family to get things done.

The pollen was everywhere.

Sinus pressure layered on top of the migraine. Light hurt. Sound hurt. Everything felt sharp before settling back into a dull, constant ache.

We had a chicken run to build.

My wife and the kids got after it. Progress was happening. Real progress.

But the signs were already there.

David was worn down.
Asher was acting out.
Jacob was holding on but fading.

And I was trying to push through pain that was bleeding into everything else.

By the afternoon, it started to unravel.

Tempers shortened.
Voices got sharper.
No one really saw it happening in real time.

The plan had been simple.

Finish the chicken run.
Then finish my office.

My space. The place where I do the work that supports everything else.

Thirty minutes of help was all I needed to finish it.

Thirty minutes.

But help didn’t come.

Not because they didn’t care.

Because they were tired. Because they were kids. Because the day had already taken more than we realized.

I didn’t see that clearly in the moment.

I saw another delay. Another week. Another thing pushed back.

And I broke.

I cancelled dinner.

I unloaded.

There were tears. There was yelling. There was frustration that had been building long before that moment.

The kids ate leftovers.

I took a shower and laid down.

Not to rest.

To get away.

Later that night I came back up.

Joined game night.

Needed the distraction. Needed the laughs.

It helped.

It always does.

Sunday morning we made it to church.

It was the annual cantata.

My wife and Zoey played together. Guitar and violin. Watching them perform side by side… there’s not much that compares to that.

Zoey was locked in. Focused. Calm in a way that only comes when she’s fully inside what she’s doing.

They knocked it out of the park.

The choir followed. They sounded good. Really good.

And I had to actively stop myself from stepping in to fix things that weren’t mine to fix.

I don’t need another thing right now.

But the kids were still tired.

All of them.

And we missed that again.

By Sunday afternoon, it broke again.

We skipped brunch plans. I wasn’t in a good place. I could feel it.

At home, we tried to keep moving forward with the chicken run.

The same pattern.

Tired kids. Not listening. Fighting.

Then the moment.

A crash.
A shout.
The sound of a hit.
One boy having enough and hitting the other.
A cry.

That was it.

We packed up the dinner that wasn’t going to happen.

Put it in the freezer.

Another thing delayed.

And I exploded.

I said things that were true.

But said them the wrong way.

About effort. About expectations. About how little we actually ask compared to what we give.

None of it landed the way it should have.

That’s on me.

I went back to the room.

Not to sleep.

Just to not be seen like that.

They deserve better than that version of me.

That night I stayed up until 2am this morning trying to clear my head.

No real resolution.

Just quiet.

Four hours later, the alarms went off.

Morning doesn’t wait for you to be ready.

We moved.

Kids up. Dressed. Lunches made.

I made breakfast.

Took the older two to school.

And on that drive, something shifted.

David waited until we got there.

Then he said it.

“Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was tired sooner. And I’m sorry your office isn’t done. Can we try to finish it tonight or tomorrow?”

That kid.

That heart.

We talked.

Not about blame.

About the week ahead. About reality. About trying again.

On the drive home I rolled the windows down and turned the music up.

Let the air clear something out.

Now it’s Monday.

Work is here.

The week is here.

The weight is still there, but it’s quieter.

There are moments in parenting that don’t make it into the stories we tell.

The ones where you get it wrong.

Where you push too hard.
Miss the signs.
Let your own pain leak into everything else.

Those moments count too.

Not because they define you.

But because what comes after them does.

A quiet apology from a kid who sees more than you thought.
A conversation that resets instead of divides.
A choice to step back in instead of staying pulled away.

You don’t get to be perfect.

You get to keep showing up.

Even after you’ve cracked a little.

Especially then.

This is a grounded moment.
The work continues.
See you Wednesday.