Five years ago, my wife and I carried bunk bed pieces down the hallway and into Jackson’s room, assembling what felt like the physical symbol of brotherhood. Two small boys. One room. One nightly routine. One parent wedged awkwardly between a wall and a ladder reading just one more book.
That first night they slept together in their bunks felt monumental. I even wrote about it at the time because that’s what dads like me do when they realize a moment matters—try to freeze it in words before it slips away.
Fast forward to now.
For the past couple of months, both boys have been asking to “set up their own rooms.” Not demanding. Not dramatic. Just casually, the way kids do when they’ve already moved on emotionally and are waiting for you to catch up.
So today we did it.
We rebuilt the bunks in Oliver’s room. Jackson’s room got a solo bed—no ladder, no top bunk negotiations, no whispered conversations that definitely weren’t happening five minutes after lights out.
Tonight is the first night they’re sleeping separately.
(Unless you count the occasional 3 a.m. migration into mom and dad’s room or a friend’s sleepover—but let’s not ruin the narrative.)
I knew this day would come. I just didn’t realize how much I’d miss the old routine until it was gone.
There was something special about bedtime in that shared room. Reading a book while one boy asked questions and the other slowly drifted off. Turning the lights down and listening to them talk to each other—about nothing and everything—until their voices faded into sleep. Sitting there longer than necessary because once they were asleep, the day officially ended.
Now there are two rooms. Two goodnight hugs. Two light switches. And somehow… less noise.
I’m proud of them. Truly. This is growth. Independence. Confidence. All the things we’re supposed to want for our kids.
But tonight, standing in the hallway after tucking them in, I felt it—that quiet reminder that childhood doesn’t ask permission before it changes. One day you’re climbing down from a top bunk, and the next you’re realizing you’ve done it for the last time.
I hope they always remember what it felt like to share a room. To fall asleep knowing their brother was right there. To learn—early—that even when life eventually gives you your own space, you don’t have to do everything alone.
Because rooms change. Beds move. Eras quietly end.
But brothers? That’s the part I hope never does.
PS: The fight for where Wednesday sleeps from now on has begun. Chalk up a night one win to big brother.
The scoreboard said we lost our playoff game today… but I walked off that field proud of my son and my team.
This season, my son played up with the fourth graders even though he’s only in third grade. From day one, he never used that as an excuse. He just showed up… every single time. Not one missed practice. Not one late arrival. Every drill, every rep, every huddle… he gave his full effort.
He earned his spot as a starter on offense and defense. He returned kicks and he did everything we asked and more, without ever complaining. He worked hard, listened, and played with heart every single game. That’s not something you can coach… that’s just who he is.
As his coach, I saw the growth. As his dad, I saw the love for the game and for his teammates in his eyes everytime I looked at him.
The quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’ve earned it, that is not part of his game yet… so I’ll say it for him…
He belonged here this year… and he earned every second of it. When the season ended, even in that tough loss, I realized something: stats and scores don’t define a player — character does
There are trips you plan, and then there are trips that have been living in you for years even before you ever pack a bag.
This one felt like the latter.
I had been to Lambeau Field before—twice, actually. Once with Stephanie which resulted in me catching Jordy Nelson in Lambeau Leap and once for a -19* playoff win, so I knew what it looked like, what it felt like, how it somehow manages to feel both massive and intimate at the same time. But I had never been there like this. Never with both of my boys. Never with the four of us together. Never as three Packers owners standing side by side, carrying a tradition we’ve talked about endlessly at home into the place where it actually lives.
After landing in Miwaukee on a quiet Friday night, we started the long drive across Wisconsin, the kind of drive where conversation fades in and out and everyone is half-tired but too excited to really sleep. Green Bay doesn’t announce itself loudly. There’s no sudden skyline, no dramatic entrance. Instead, it sneaks up on you. And then, in the distance, you see it—a small glow against the dark sky. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
But we knew.
That tiny illuminated speck grew with every mile. Slowly at first. Then unmistakably. Until finally, there it was—Lambeau Field, rising out of a sleepy town like a cathedral, glowing against the night as if it had always been there and always would be. I’ve seen it before, but seeing it through the windshield with my family beside me made it land differently. Heavier. Fuller.
We couldn’t go to bed, not even after a long flight and a three hour drive… That night we found ourselves right inside Lambeau for some food and a walk around the atrium where so many of my football memories live. It wasn’t the focus of the trip, but it added to the feeling that this place isn’t just about Sundays. It’s about moments. Shared ones.
Inside the stadium, everything felt amplified. We took the tour. We walked the halls. Later in the trip we would step onto the field and stand beneath the goalposts, trying to fully process the fact that we were standing where legends stood. In the Hall of Fame, the Lombardi Trophies gleamed behind glass, and for a moment the boys were quiet. Not because they were bored—but because they were registering something bigger than themselves.
Meeting former players throughout the weekend felt like touching history. Dan Majkowski. Brady Poppinga. James Lofton. Jerry Kramer—a Hall of Famer whose name still carries weight the second it’s spoken. Watching him talk to Jax about how to avoid a block and footwork and then allowing him, as the oldest, (because according to Jerry, “the oldest has the most responsibility”), to wear his Super Bowl Ring had me covered in goosebumps. Watching my boys meet them, shake their hands, listen to their stories, felt like watching football generations overlap in real time.
And then there was Oliver, standing with Super Bowl champion Ryan Grant, getting a lesson in running back technique. No crowd. No pressure. Just a former Packer passing down knowledge to a kid who dreams in green and gold. That’s the kind of moment you don’t fully understand while it’s happening—but you know it will matter forever.
Game day came fast.
We spent the morning in Titletown, the boys running around with that restless energy only kids can have when something big is coming. We tossed a football back and forth, the boys throwing passes to Steph (who believe it or not throws a pretty tight spiral) while Lambeau towered over us in the background. That image—casual, unscripted, perfect—might be my favorite memory of the whole trip. No tickets scanned. No crowd noise yet. Just us, a football, and the stadium looming quietly behind it all.
Tailgating together felt like something we had been rehearsing for years. Food, laughter, green and gold everywhere. Conversations with strangers that didn’t feel like strangers at all because when you’re there, wearing those colors, you’re already connected. The boys took it all in, wide-eyed, absorbing not just the spectacle but the sense of belonging.
The game itself had its own unexpected twist. With Jordan Love injured, Malik Willis stepped in and did what Packers quarterbacks have always been asked to do—win. Watching him guide the team to a win felt symbolic, especially with my boys beside me… waiving the Yellow G Flag in support. Football, like life, doesn’t always go according to plan. But preparation, belief, and opportunity still matter. The end of the game came down to a defensive stop on fourth down to put the game away and just like that the four of us cheered like it was a Super Bowl win.
As we walked out of Lambeau that day, tired and happy and still buzzing from a HUGE WIN, I realized something simple but important. I’ve written a lot about the Packers. I’ve watched them for decades. I’ve passed that love down intentionally, sometimes obsessively. But this trip wasn’t about teaching my kids why the Packers matter.
It was about watching them feel it.
Seeing the place. Standing on the field. Meeting the players. Throwing a football in the shadow of Lambeau. Driving toward a glowing stadium on a quiet Wisconsin night and knowing exactly where we were headed… to the place where the Lombardi Trophy was born…. and while it might visit other cities… the Lombardi Trophy will always call Titletown home.
Titletown
This wasn’t just my third trip to Green Bay.
It was our first—together.
And somehow, that made Lambeau feel brand new again.
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BTW… we are now all currently on the 44 year waitlist for Season Rickeys at Lambeau:
Go Pack Go!!!
The Owner Trio
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…PS When you can try to get in a Lambeau Leap… you do it!
Hopefully this is just the first of his many Lambeau Leaps
Half and hour in and my four year-old has already made approximately 187 references to Elfie (his #ElfonTheShelf). Check out @thedadexperience on Thursday, December 20th for a hilarious look at how that damn Elf has ruined parents everywhere. There’s also an in-depth look at the #Hanukkah equivalent of the Elf called #MoistureOnAMat
What breakfast, lunch and dinner looks like with two children
“The best way to spread Christmas Cheer, is singing loud for all to hear.”
As everyone would expect, a new dad would rarely get much rest and would constantly be on his toes. As everyone who knows me would expect, this would be right up my alley. ADHD is an understatement, and there’s no doubt I rarely sit still. However, this new family thing is a whole new level of not sitting still.
What once would be called a relaxing weekend has turned into an every lasting marathon of events that should not take longer than five minutes. Yes I know this “play on words” seems a bit extreme… marathons are already long… why do they have to be called everlasting? Come here on a Friday night, and I’ll show you an everlasting marathon.
Saturday’s main event consisted of watching a movie with the little guy while mom was out at the fair. Seems easy enough:
Before bundle of joy: Make yourself some lunch grab a vitamin water (I’m a dad now… vitamins are important), take out DVD, turn on TV and surround sound, hit play, put butt in recliner and enjoy.
After bundle of joy:Take out cold cuts for lunch, hear a loud rumble from the other side of the room, realize you have to change gigantic messy diaper, realize there are no diapers at the changing table, run upstairs (realize you left baby on changing table alone half way up the stairs, run back downstairs, pick up naked baby, run back upstairs to get diapers), get peed on walking back downstairs, curse at yourself for not wrapping up that little fire hose, change baby, clothe baby, run back upstairs, change and wash yourself, head back down stairs, forget what you were doing before the mud butt struck. When you see both your dogs polishing off the cold cuts you left out, curse at yourself again and warm up leftovers. Eat standing up while dangling keys in front of baby to keep him from crying. Forget vitamin water; quickly take a vitamin with a glass of water. Pack up toys and Mr. McGibblets for optimum movie watching in the basement (for those of you who are not familiar with Mr. McGibletts see my earlier blog entries from the end of July). Once you are completely packed up and downstairs, curse at yourself again for forgetting to bring the baby downstairs. Realize it’s been almost 40 minutes and you no longer have any desire to watch a movie. It’s a mystery how anyone with a baby watches anything on TV at all.
I did get out of the house for a little bit Saturday night, which was nice. Although a night out with the guys now includes showing each other pictures of our kids and swapping stories about how insane it is to think we all have kids now.
Sunday was epic. “Let’s go to the pumpkin patch and take some family photos before the Packers game.” (Famous last words!). First of all how does layering clothes for an infant work. Remember that old math problems: Jax has 3 different shirts, and 4 different pairs of pants and 6 set of socks. How many different combinations of outfits can he make from what he has? That perfectly sums up my morning. If you buy everything the same size: onsie, khakis, sweat shirt and lined jacket… how the hell are they all supposed to fit. I literally must have had to try 17,000 combinations of layers in order to get this little guy bundled up. After struggling to get him all set barely squeezing him into his car seat, I realized he hadn’t been changed in a while… at least now I know the perfect combination of clothes. I remember thinking, “I just have to work backwards to get them off. I’ll make sure to leave a trail of bread crumbs so I can figure out how to get them back on.”
Clearly I could go on explaining how life’s simple events took hours to complete, but I’m sure everyone gets the point. The funny thing is, I don’t mind. I don’t mind one little bit. Every second I spend with this little guy is amazing. Either way, my ADHD is sure enjoying the ride.
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 