I am officially on PTO.
Microsoft apparently took that personally.
Approximately thirty to forty-five seconds after I logged out yesterday, my phone started ringing.
Critical issue.
Alerts.
Messages.
Texts.
The usual assortment of things designed to make someone who has just started PTO question whether PTO is actually a real thing.
So I did something remarkable.
I ignored them.
It was beautiful.
Cathartic, even.
Because work will survive without me.
Microsoft will eventually figure itself out.
And I have somewhere considerably more important to be.
Today, I am kidnapping my son.
He does not know this.
There has been approximately a month of planning.
Subterfuge.
Hidden boxes.
Quiet conversations.
Things arriving at the house that David has somehow managed not to question.
Yesterday, Zoey helped me preload the truck and asked some genuinely useful questions while doing it.
She is currently the only child in on the operation.
Today, Kati will pick the boys up from school.
She will casually mention needing gas for the van.
There will be a handoff.
David will get into my truck.
And then?
We're gone.
Father and son.
One night.
No screens.
No schedule.
No school.
No work.
Just us.
Okay.
There might be a little baseball.
I'm bringing our gloves and a ball.
Just in case.
Some things don't need to be left behind.
Before that happens, I have a few things to do.
Finish the packing list.
Check it again.
Replace the tarp I apparently sacrificed to the shed-cleaning gods.
And, most importantly, visit one of our local butchers.
Because my boy loves steak.
So we're having steak for dinner.
And then we're having steak again for breakfast.
There are moments in a young man's life when nutrition gives way to principle.
Thirteen feels like one of them.
Tomorrow, David becomes a teenager.
My second teenager.
I'm doing great with that.
Completely fine.
No notes.
I've actually been planning this for about a month.
Not just the camping trip.
The tradition.
When each of my boys turns thirteen, I want to take him somewhere.
Just Dad and son.
Camping.
Away.
A night outside the normal noise of our lives where we can sit together and talk about where he's been, where he's going, and what growing up might mean.
Nothing ceremonial.
Nothing forced.
Just time.
And I am incredibly grateful to Kati for giving me this time with David.
This is the first time we're doing this.
There will be other trips. Jacob and Asher are already waiting somewhere down the road, with a few years between each of them.
But this one is David's.
Tomorrow is his birthday.
Tonight, his mom is trusting me with our twelve-year-old boy for one last night before he becomes a teenager.
She carried him.
Fed him.
Loved him before either of us had any idea who he would become.
I was there too, changing diapers, doing whatever I could, and occasionally attempting to bottle-feed a boy who quickly determined Dad was an inefficient food-delivery system.
We have spent almost thirteen years raising him together.
And now she understands why I want this night alone with him.
Not because I'm taking him away from her.
Because we're both watching him grow up.
And she's giving me the space to mark this moment with our son in my own way.
That's a gift I don't take lightly.
Tonight, somewhere after dark, David and I will sit beside a fire.
There will be root beer.
S'mores.
Stories.
A few poems I've brought along.
Probably more steak than medically advisable.
And a lot of firewood.
A few weeks ago, I told the kids that fire tells stories.
You just have to be quiet enough to listen.
Tonight, I think the fire and I have some stories to tell David.
And I want to hear whatever stories he has for me too.
Tonight, I'll go to sleep with a twelve-year-old in the tent across from mine.
Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up with a thirteen-year-old there.
I am not ready for that.
Of course I'm not.
But I am ready for him.
And I am absolutely ready for this.
There are moments in fatherhood you can see coming from years away, and somehow they still arrive too quickly. Thirteen has been sitting on the calendar since the day David was born, but tonight it feels impossibly close. I can't stop him from growing up. I wouldn't want to. What I can do is make sure that every once in a while, we step away from the noise long enough to notice that it's happening. Tonight there will be no work alerts, no screens, and nowhere else we need to be. Just a father, his son, and a fire with stories to tell.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
