There are certain games that stick with you — not because of the final score, but because of the way they’re played. The kind where effort shows up in every possession and leadership doesn’t need to be loud to be felt (and coming from me, that’s saying something). This one happened to be my first game stepping in as head coach, but what made it memorable had very little to do with me.
This weekend was one of those games for Jackson.
From the opening tip, he was locked in. Focused. Ready to do whatever the team needed… and as the game unfolded, it became clear that his impact wasn’t going to be measured just in points, but in stops, hustle plays, and moments that quietly changed the direction of the game.
Let’s start with defense — because that’s where this game was won long before the scoreboard caught up.
Jax, you took on their best shooter and shut him down. He managed just one shot all game because you were everywhere — hands up, feet moving, body in the right place every possession. You forced tough jumpers and never let him get comfortable. That kind of defense doesn’t always show up in the stat sheet, but it wins games. Your defense was locked in, disciplined, and relentless.
Then there was the hustle.
The ball felt like it had your name on it. You kept it alive over and over — offensive rebounds, assists, steals, tip-outs — just refusing to let possessions die. When we were down by six and momentum wasn’t ours, you were the spark.
No one in this league wants to see you defending them and for sure no one wants to drive the lane and see you standing in the key. You’re like a young Dennis Rodman (before he dyed his hair like an Easter egg). Those extra efforts don’t always go as stats in the box score, but they change everything. They kept us in the game and helped turn it around.
Slowly, possession by possession, we climbed back.
Eventually, we took the lead. Eventually, we won.
And there you were, right in the middle of it — leading the way, doing the little things, helping us come back and keep our team in first place.
Jackson, this was your game. And it’s one I’ll never forget.
PS: I plan on retiring with an undefeated head coaching record!
By the end of 2025, I realized I had spent most of the year trying to keep pace — not just with schedules or seasons, but with the quiet, steady way Jackson and Oliver were growing right in front of me. This wasn’t a year defined by one headline moment. It was a year defined by accumulation — small changes stacking up until suddenly, unmistakably, things felt different.
Both boys took real steps forward this year, though in very different ways. Oliver’s year was full of momentum. He played up in sports, took on bigger competition, and carried himself with a confidence that felt new — not loud or cocky, but earned. There were moments when the game seemed to slow down for him, when he trusted his instincts and went for it. Watching him compete against older kids and belong on the field with them was one of those parenting moments where pride and disbelief exist at the same time. Just as meaningful, though, were the moments when things didn’t go his way — the tough losses, the playoff ending, the frustration — and seeing him learn how to process that, reset, and come back ready to work.
Jackson’s growth in 2025 was quieter, but no less significant. He found his place — not by forcing it, but by steadily earning it. I watched him grow more confident in himself, more comfortable stepping in when needed, contributing in ways that mattered, that he earned himself by putting in the work and getting results in big moments. There were moments this year where he surprised me — not with flash, but with consistency, awareness, and leadership that showed up when it counted. He became more sure of who he is, and less concerned with proving it to anyone but himself.
Sports were a big part of the backdrop this year, but they were never really the point. They were just the setting where so many lessons played out — about effort, resilience, teamwork, and handling disappointment with maturity. I watched both boys learn how to lose, how to support teammates, and how to show up the next day regardless of the outcome. Those were the moments that stuck far longer than any score.
Jackson has always stood out. Known as the “mayor of his school,” and being asked to coach the younger football team (earning his own coaching whistle), Jax had already cemented a place among the wise beyond his years crowd.
2025 gave Oliver one of the more unexpected experiences of 2025… seeing people outside our family take notice of him — not just for his ability, but for his heart and effort. this year seeing strangers rally around Oliver was humbling and emotional in a way I didn’t anticipate. It forced me to pause and see him not just as my little boy, but as someone capable of inspiring people simply by being himself. At the same time, it reminded me how lucky Jackson and Oliver are to have each other — one pushing, one steadying, both learning what it means to grow side by side.
And then there were the moments that had nothing to do with sports at all. Near the end of the year, we took down the bunk beds the boys had shared for years and gave them separate rooms. It felt like a practical decision — until it didn’t. That first night, standing in the hallway with two closed doors instead of one shared space, landed heavier than I expected. It marked the end of late-night conversations, shared laughter, and the comfort of knowing they were just a few feet apart. Jackson was ready. Oliver was ready. I wasn’t sure I was — but that’s usually how these transitions go.
Looking back, 2025 wasn’t about milestones you circle on a calendar. It was about watching independence take shape in real time. It was about realizing that the things I used to focus on — wins, stats, outcomes — mattered less than character, effort, and growth. It was about seeing Jackson become more grounded in himself, and Oliver begin to test just how far his drive could take him.
As the year closed, I felt deeply grateful. Not because everything went perfectly — it didn’t — but because I was present enough to notice the changes while they were happening even if watching those changes happened while the boys quietly closed the doors to their own rooms for the first time in many years. The practices, the car rides, the quiet talks, the proud moments, and even the silence after lights out — that was 2025.
We’re heading into a new year now, and I know the pace won’t slow down. But this year reminded me that growth doesn’t need to be rushed or measured to matter. Sometimes it just needs to be noticed, because realizing they are now forging their own path and leading their own journey is not just hard to handle… it’s exactly what you’re been raising them to do.
Sometimes the view from the hallway comes with the best seats in the house — if only you don’t mind a little distance from the action.
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.
On my way home, I have to stop and pick up the dogs. I still have at least 40 minutes of driving ahead of me… so even though I (guiltily) left work at 4:30 p.m., I know I am going to miss dinner with the wife and Jax. After getting home just in time to finish the last few words of another Dr. Seuss book, Ill finally make my way into my bedroom to try to put on some sweatpants. I’ll probably fall asleep at the dinner table and soon, groggily rouse to check my work email, through together tomorrows lunches, if someone remembered to stop at the grocery store, empty and reload the dishes into the dishwasher and feed the dogs. What’s wrong with this picture? Maybe the fact that I’m lucky to get a half an hour with my wife and son on work days.
Funny is really my specialty, or at least in my own mind funny is my specialty. Yet, every now and again, I can really come back to reality and focus on the more serious issues that my wife and I are confronted with as new parents. Beyond the normal questions we ask ourselves every day, “Why is his poop orange?” “How long did he even nap for?” “Are the dogs eating another dirty diaper?!!!”… We are constantly faced with the question of how we balance family time with our jobs.
I love what I do, I love the district I work for, I love helping students realize their full potential and support them in their journey to becoming lifelong learners. I have no complaints about being an elementary school administrator… yet, there are times I feel like I am missing out on so much of my son’s life and that makes me wonder how do you balance your work with being a father?
The thing is… I don’t know… I’m not sure how I am supposed to do this. I’m pretty sure I know what not to do… I’m pretty sure that I have made my share of mistakes over the past six and half months. As part of this “blog thing” I try to read as much as I can by other dad’s out there. I’ve read a few that list all these unrealistic ideas and I’ve read some blogs that talk more about the abstract. The idea that quality is better than quantity when it comes to spending time with your family, is one that is generally common sense. So if it… why is it so hard?
Here are some of the things I struggle with the most:
Not just “being there”… When I am home, I often get calls from work or have to answer emails from staff and parents. There’s always something to do. There is always a problem to fix. Isn’t this the bane of every working parent’s life? For Stephanie and I to make sure that our attention is on the present, not what we have to work on tomorrow, we have been leaving our cell phones in another room. It is hard to just unplug, but sometimes it is exactly what he need.
The commute… I spend more of my day in my car then I do with my family. THIS IS A PROBLEM. DO I really need to spend 2+ hours driving to and from work? Is it necessary to live out of my car? No, and for the past six months I just could not figure what to do. I try to live by the philosophy of, “Worry about the things that are in your control to change.” I had to make a change, I could not miss out on days of my son’s life because I was sitting in traffic on 84. Sometimes the biggest changes in life happen for another reason than you originally planned… but often times those changes are for the best. I knew I needed to make a change at work, and circumstances presented themselves and I did. I made a move and in the process shaved almost 45 minutes off my commute. I cannot- CAN NOT- express how much of a difference 45 minutes each way makes when you have a six month old!
The guilty feeling that persists after having to sneak into Jackson’s room at 6:00AM kiss his head and tip toes out is real. It’s one of those “guilts” that sits on your chest like an elephant from those CPD commercials. The guilt can and will eat away at you, and no amount of “make up time” with the family can do anything about it. “Lost time is never found again.” You know, Benjamin Franklin had a point. In all reality though… I try to remember that something I cannot change, and that I have to make do with what I have. I have to work, I have to travel… but I can make the best of the time I do have with my little man.
But for now, this father can shrug off the insane work load that comes with being a working dad, because as I write this I am right where I most want to be at home with my family.
“Do the things you say you will do… do or do not, there is no try.”
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 