Every Season Comes To An End

Last night I had a Papa Pandas event. It was a send-off for the dads whose kids are graduating from the elementary school and moving on to middle school. They’ll still likely come to meetings and support the Papa Pandas moving forward, but their time as dads with children at the school has come to an end.

We celebrated with dinner and drinks, and a few of us stayed until almost 11:00 watching the World Cup, talking, and enjoying one another’s company before I finally called an Uber and headed home.

As I sat around with these dads, who have now become friends, I couldn’t help but think back to my first meeting almost two years ago.

When I wrote about Papa Pandas a few weeks ago, I talked about walking up to that restaurant not knowing who I was looking for until I spotted a couple of guys wearing Papa Panda hats. I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t know if I’d fit in.

Now it’s one of the best decisions I’ve made.

Saying goodbye to a couple of the dads who welcomed me into the group—the same dads I’d worked alongside blowing up balloons for Panda Prom, setting up projector screens for movie night, and organizing school events—made me realize something.

Not that long ago…

they were the new dads walking into their first meeting.

Just like I was.

And somehow, without anyone really noticing, enough time had passed that their season at the school had come to an end.

That thought hit me harder than I expected.

One day Brooks will finish elementary school.

A couple of years after that, Joseph will too.

My time will come to move from active member to Papa Panda alumnus.

I’ll still come to meetings because these guys have become much more than a dads group. They’ve become friends. Just like I wrote in Softball on Monday Nights, friendships don’t survive because they’re important. They survive because people continue making time for one another.

I’ll still show up.

I’ll still welcome the new dads walking into their first meeting.

But it won’t be the same.

I’m not ready to think about that because it means my boys are getting older.

And as much as I wish I could keep them little…

I can’t.

We spend so much time taking the kids to school, picking them up, coaching their sports teams, taking them to karate, reading bedtime stories, helping with homework, and simply being there whenever they need us.

Sometimes it feels like we’ll be doing those things forever.

But we won’t.

Every one of those moments has a season.

Eventually they’ll have cars of their own.

They’ll stay up later than we do.

They’ll outgrow youth sports.

The bedtime stories will end.

The walks to the baseball field that I wrote about in Playing Catch will become less frequent until one day we don’t even realize we’ve taken the last one.

It’s hard to imagine that much time passing.

But it’s exactly what we want for our children.

We want them to grow.

We want them to become capable, independent adults.

Even if getting there means leaving behind the seasons we love the most.

The Papa Pandas was created to support dads while their children are in elementary school. It’s become much more than that because of the friendships we’ve built, but its purpose is still tied to a season of life.

One day I’ll attend my last meeting as the dad of an elementary school student, just as the dads we celebrated last night already have.

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the season I’m in.

I’m going to appreciate the people who make it better.

I’m going to keep showing up.

Because the goal isn’t to hold onto the seasons that have passed.

It’s to be fully present and thankful for the one we’re living right now.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:

Papa Pandas — How one dinner invitation turned into a community of dads and lasting friendships.
Softball on Monday Nights — Why friendships survive when we keep making time for one another.
Playing Catch — The ordinary evenings that someday become our favorite memories.

Little Eyes Are Always Watching

As part of my morning routine I do some push ups, sit ups, and squats. Normally I go back to the bedroom and do them after Jillian finishes getting ready, but the last couple of days I’ve been doing them in the living room after getting the boys up and turning on their morning cartoons.

Yesterday Brooks was sitting on the couch when I got down on the floor next to him to start my routine. He said, “Wait, Daddy,” and started climbing off the couch. I immediately thought he was going to jump on my back because usually when I get down on the ground it’s like Bruce Buffer has just announced the start of the next great UFC fight.

I told him, “Please don’t, Brooks. We aren’t wrestling this morning.”

He looked at me and said, “No… I was gonna do push ups with you.”

So he climbed down, got on the floor beside me, and started doing push ups. His form was pretty entertaining, but who am I to judge? Mine probably isn’t all that great either.

With push ups done, it was time for sit ups. Brooks tried with everything he had but just couldn’t quite get one. So he waited until I finished and asked, “What’s next?” Then we stood up and finished with squats side by side.

He didn’t do them with me this morning—maybe he was sore—but it made me think about all the little moments when those little eyes are watching you.

Like when I catch Joseph staring at me out of the corner of my eye at the dinner table. It’s a good reminder to eat my vegetables so he’ll at least try his. Or when I give Jillian a hug and a kiss and the boys come running from the other room to squeeze themselves between us. Or when another driver does something I don’t appreciate and, before I say anything out loud, I look in the rearview mirror and see the kids staring back at me.

They’re always watching.

Yesterday’s push ups reminded me of something I wrote a few days ago in Playing Catch. I hope Brooks doesn’t remember his batting average years from now. I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field and that Dad was always out there with him. Maybe these little moments work the same way. The push ups themselves won’t matter, but maybe the example will.

We spend so much time trying to teach our kids. We correct them when they misbehave. We remind them how things are supposed to be. We tell them to try harder when they’re struggling with sports, learning to read, or putting together a Lego set. We tell them to be kind to their brothers, to say hello when someone says hello to them, and to remember their “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me.”

We hope they learn those lessons.

But what about the lessons we don’t even realize we’re teaching?

The ones they learn simply because they’re watching us.

I wrote on Father’s Day about the lessons my own dad taught me. When I really thought about it, most of those lessons didn’t come from speeches. They came from fishing trips, baseball games, summers working together, and watching the way he treated other people. Looking back, I learned far more from what he did than from what he said.

Maybe that’s what this project is really about.

On the surface, it’s about me getting healthier, becoming more organized, writing more, creating better habits, being more disciplined, and becoming the best husband and father I can be.

But maybe it isn’t about me at all.

Maybe by trying to improve my own life, I’m quietly showing my boys how they can live theirs.

Because they’re always watching.

Not just on the good days either. As I wrote in Some Days You Just Survive, they’re also watching how I respond when I’m frustrated, tired, impatient, or struggling. They don’t just see my successes. They see how I handle my failures too.

Brooks may or may not get down on the floor with me to do push ups again, and he may never remember that one morning when we exercised side by side. But hopefully he’ll remember that Dad tried to stay healthy.

If he sees me reading, writing, doing the dishes, cleaning the bathrooms, showing up for my family, and treating people with kindness, respect, and patience, maybe those things will become normal to him too.

Because little eyes are always watching.

And maybe the greatest gift we can give our children isn’t telling them how to live.

Maybe it’s simply showing them.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:

Playing Catch — Why the memories we make on the walk to the ball field matter more than the game itself.
Father’s Day — Looking back at the quiet lessons my own dad taught me simply by the way he lived.
Some Days You Just Survive — Because our children are watching how we handle the difficult days just as much as the good ones.

Playing Catch

Depending on the week, and the calendar, I try to take the boys out after dinner one night. Sometimes we walk around the neighborhood or explore one of the local schools. Other nights, like our recent trip to Lowe’s, an ordinary errand somehow turns into an adventure. Last night, though, we ended up somewhere that has become familiar to all three of us—the baseball fields.

Brooks has a private baseball lesson this weekend, and we really haven’t had much time to practice since his last one. So he carried his glove and I carried mine, while Joseph carried a bright green bouncy baseball that he wasn’t letting go of for anything.

We headed over to the tee-ball field where the fences are still up because the All-Star teams are playing. One of the teams was practicing on the field next to us, so we stood and watched for a few minutes before Brooks and Joseph took turns throwing me the ball. Eventually Joseph lost interest and wandered over to the dugout, where he was perfectly content to sit in the dirt and entertain himself.

Brooks and I practiced fly balls, ground balls, and throwing mechanics. Having coached baseball for most of my life, I can’t help but try to correct every throw, and eventually he gets tired of hearing it. So we took a break.

Then Brooks invented a game.

I stood at the plate pretending to swing an imaginary bat before tossing the ball. Sometimes it was a ground ball. Sometimes I threw it high in the air. Brooks would field it, fake the throw to first, and then toss it back to me.

After a while he wanted to hit instead. Except instead of pretending to run to first, he was actually trying to make it all the way around the bases before I could retrieve the ball and tag him out. He quickly realized the secret was throwing the ball somewhere I couldn’t easily reach. After chasing a few intentionally launched balls into the outfield, I decided that particular game wasn’t nearly as much fun for me as it was for him.

Eventually we went back to ground balls while Brooks attempted a few tricks he’d seen watching Banana Ball. Before long it was time to head home. Joseph was done playing in the dirt—though the dirt certainly wasn’t done with him. He walked over, told me to take my glove off, grabbed my hand, and simply said,

“Let’s go… see Mama.”

So we did.

On the walk home we stopped to play hide-and-seek among the trees lining the ball fields, studied the map outside the community garden, and slowly made our way back for baths and bedtime.

Later that night, after the boys were asleep, I pulled out my phone. I had taken a few videos of Brooks throwing, but as I scrolled backward I found older videos too—his helmet hanging over his ears, swinging his first little bat.

I’ve played baseball for almost ten years. I wasn’t very good.

Then I coached for another ten years.

Now I’m coaching Brooks.

I don’t know how long he’ll play baseball. Right now he loves it, and as my dad always told me, “Keep playing until it isn’t fun anymore.”

That advice has stayed with me all these years.

When Brooks eventually looks back on baseball—whether that’s five years from now or fifteen—I hope he doesn’t remember his batting average, the wins and losses, the errors, or the strikeouts.

I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field.

The made-up games.

Trying Banana Ball tricks.

His teammates.

And me being out there with him.

Because when I think back on my own childhood, those are the things I remember most about playing baseball with my dad as my coach. The older I get, the more I realize that the memories that matter rarely come from championships or statistics. They come from ordinary evenings spent together.

Years from now, when baseball is over for both of us, I don’t think I’ll remember every practice or every game.

I’ll remember walking to the ball field with my boys.

When Errands Turn Into An Adventure

Last night we needed to go to Lowe’s to return some flooring we had bought for our bathroom remodel.

We decided to just go as a family and get the kids out of the house. So after dinner we all loaded up in the car and headed out.

We got to Lowe’s, loaded the flooring onto a cart, got Joseph situated, and headed inside.

Almost immediately, Brooks spotted the tiny blue Lowe’s buckets they were selling and nearly lost his mind talking about all the things he could do with them. Joseph, meanwhile, was shouting out everything he saw.

Jillian got in the return line and I took the boys to wander around the store.

They remembered that the last time we were at Lowe’s there had been an AI-powered robot driving around, so we were on a mission to find it.

We checked the docking station. Nothing.

So we started walking up and down the aisles.

“Robot, where are you?” Joseph shouted over and over again.

We searched the entire store.

No robot.

Eventually Jillian called and told us it was time to leave. Brooks was convinced the robot hadn’t come out because Mom hadn’t helped us look for it and suggested we try again as a family next time.

Luckily, when we got outside, Jillian distracted them with the tiny blue Lowe’s buckets.

Crisis averted.

Since we were already out—and had a gift card—we decided to stop for ice cream.

Being gluten-free, my options were limited, so I ordered a milkshake. Jillian got a cone, Brooks got a waffle bowl that was approximately the size of his head, and Joseph got a small baby cone.

While we waited for our ice cream, the boys and I sat outside watching cars go by.

I told them to point out the ones they liked.

Brooks picked Teslas and trucks.

Joseph picked every single car.

After we finished eating, we hung around for a bit while Jillian finished her cone. That’s when the boys decided it was time for exercise.

Suddenly the sidewalk outside the ice cream shop turned into gym class.

Squats.

Jumping jacks.

Lunges.

Walk push-ups.

We just kept calling out exercises and they kept doing them.

By this point I was wondering where all the energy was coming from.

Eventually it was time to head home, get the boys to bed, and get ready for the next day.

Later that night, while working on things for this project, I found myself thinking about the evening.

For Jillian and me, the night started as a necessary errand.

We didn’t want to run errands after a full day of work.

We were frustrated that the flooring we bought wasn’t going to work.

It was another item on a long list of responsibilities.

Just one more thing that needed to get done.

But for the boys, it was something entirely different.

It was hunting for a robot.

It was a new blue bucket and all the possibilities of what could go inside it.

It was ice cream while watching cars drive by.

It was spotting a fire truck and an ambulance in the parking lot.

It was turning the sidewalk into a gym.

As I wrote recently about our hike at Mission Trails, kids have a way of experiencing the world differently than adults do. They aren’t worried about schedules, return policies, or home improvement projects. They’re looking for adventure.

It’s the same lesson I learned during our trip to the zoo. Adults tend to focus on the destination while kids are busy enjoying the experience.

We all did the exact same thing last night.

But we lived two completely different evenings.

For us, it was an errand.

For them, it was an adventure.

I guess the lesson is that there’s fun to be found in almost anything if you’re willing to see it through the eyes of a child.

It wasn’t Disneyland.

It wasn’t a vacation.

It wasn’t even a trip to the park.

It was a trip to Lowe’s.

And somehow these two boys managed to turn it into an adventure.

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Softball On Monday Nights

Growing up, my dad played on a softball team called the Minute Men.

I remember going to the games, sitting on the bench with the guys, and running out to collect the bats after they hit. Some of those guys still play softball or over-the-line today, but that team itself has long since come and gone.

What hasn’t gone away are the friendships.

A few of those guys still get together for lunch every month or so. Whenever my dad comes home from one of those lunches, he tells me who showed up, where they went, and what everyone has been up to. Some of the guys have passed away. Others have moved. But the ones who are still around keep showing up.

Now I’m older and I play on my own softball team.

Ironically, we didn’t start as a softball team at all. More than ten years ago we were an indoor soccer team. Back then everything was competitive. There were arguments with referees, heated games, and an obsession with winning.

It’s not like that anymore.

Now we’re a co-ed team-pitch softball team playing in the lowest division on Monday nights.

Sometimes we win.

Usually we don’t.

In all the years we’ve been playing together, we’ve only won one championship.

But that’s not really why we’re there.

The team has changed over the years. People have come and gone. Most of us are married now. Most of us have kids. Sometimes those kids come to the games. Most of the time there isn’t anyone in the stands.

We show up thirty minutes early, take some swings in the batting cages, warm up, play for an hour, and then head back to our normal lives.

Some games are immediately after work when everyone is rushing to get there.

Other games don’t start until after the kids have gone to bed, and we’re all wishing we were already asleep too.

But we keep coming back.

Season after season.

I don’t know exactly why everyone else plays.

Maybe some miss their younger baseball days.

Maybe some enjoy the competition.

Maybe some like the exercise.

For me, it’s about the friendships.

It’s about maintaining relationships that have been part of my life for so long that I don’t want to watch them slowly disappear.

Sure, part of me still enjoys pretending I’m twelve years old and back on a baseball field.

But mostly it’s about the people.

When we first started playing together, none of us had the responsibilities we have now.

No spouses.

No kids.

No mortgages.

No school events, birthday parties, sports practices, work obligations, church meetings, home projects, or endless items on a to-do list.

Back then we were looking for something to do.

Now we have too much to do.

That’s why things like softball matter.

Not because they’re important on their own.

Because if they aren’t on the calendar, they get replaced by something else.

And when the time together disappears, the friendships slowly start to fade with it.

Not because they matter any less.

Simply because relationships require time.

The Minute Men went through the same thing.

Eventually life got busy. Bodies got older. The softball games stopped.

But now they’ve figured something out.

The lunches are on the calendar.

Each month somebody picks the restaurant.

Whoever can make it shows up.

Because that’s what keeps friendships alive.

Showing up.

I don’t know how long we’ll keep playing softball on Monday nights.

Hopefully long enough for my boys to come watch a few games.

But I do know that if softball ends, it will need to become something else.

A lunch.

A poker night.

A monthly dinner.

Something.

Because friendships don’t survive on memories alone.

They survive because people continue making time for each other.

I need those guys in my life.

And I hope I can be someone they need too.

So for now, I’ll keep showing up on Monday nights.

A Son And A Father

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

I slept in a little later than Jillian and the boys before coming out to find a fun gift on the table and a hand-drawn card from Brooks and Joseph. We spent the morning hiking at Mission Trails before stopping for coffee, pastries, and smoothies. It was a great start to the day.

Later, Jillian had to go into work for a bit, so it was Daddy Duty on Father’s Day. I made lunch, broke up a few sibling disputes, and hung out with the boys before Joseph went down for his nap. Then we headed to my parents’ house for a Father’s Day barbecue filled with family, soccer, and the usual chaos that comes with a bunch of cousins running around together.

Before we knew it, the day was over.

Father’s Day was simpler when I was a kid.

You were the one making the card.

You were the one running around with your cousins.

You were the one being reminded to wish your dad, your grandpa, and your uncles a happy Father’s Day.

Now things are different.

I’m still a son on Father’s Day, but I’m a father too.

One thing hasn’t changed, though, and that’s the opportunity to spend time with my dad.

That’s a gift not everyone gets, and it’s not something I take for granted.

My dad worked incredibly hard throughout his life to provide for our family. He helped with homework, coached my baseball teams, took us camping and fishing, and played catch in the front yard. Now I find myself doing many of those same things with my own boys—walking to the ball fields to practice, coaching tee-ball, taking Brooks to karate, and taking Joseph to swim lessons.

As a kid, I never really understood how much else he had going on.

As a dad, I do.

And it gives me a whole new level of appreciation for everything he did for us.

When I sit down and think about my memories of my dad, I realize most of them come with lessons attached.

Sitting on the shore of a lake with our fishing poles in the water taught me patience and how to appreciate silence.

Golf taught me that if you want to get better at something, you have to practice before it matters.

Baseball taught me that the things we do outside of work and responsibility should be fun or they aren’t worth doing.

Pocket knives taught me to be prepared.

The summers I spent working with him taught me work ethic.

And the conversations we had taught me honesty and integrity.

I wonder how many lessons I’m passing on to my own boys without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s how it works.

Maybe the most important lessons aren’t the ones we sit down and intentionally teach.

Maybe they’re the ones our children learn simply by spending time with us.

I’m still learning from my dad today.

But I’m also aware of how fortunate I am to be in this season of life.

I get to have my dad around while being a dad myself.

My boys get to spend time with their grandpa.

I get to look backward and remember being a kid with my dad while also watching my own kids make memories with him now.

That’s not something everyone gets to experience.

Yesterday there were moments when we celebrated me as a father.

There were moments when I was busy being a dad.

And there were moments when I got to be a son celebrating my own father.

I’m grateful for every one of them.

So to all the dads out there: appreciate the time with your kids.

And if you’re fortunate enough to still have your dad around, appreciate that time too.

One day you’ll realize what a gift it was to be both a son and a father at the same time.

Some Days You Just Survive

Yesterday started off great.

We got up with the boys, had breakfast, and then Joseph and I headed off to his swim lesson. We had a blast in the pool together. After swim, we met Jillian and Brooks at the coffee shop where the boys shared a scone and a smoothie while Jillian and I enjoyed our matchas.

The plan was simple: the library, a relaxing afternoon at home, and then a play date at the rec center with Brooks and his friends.

We did all of those things.

But the day was far from easy.

Joseph is going through a phase where being separated from his mom is a challenge, even if it’s only for a few minutes. So when I put him in my car after the coffee shop while Jillian and Brooks got into hers, he wasn’t happy.

At the library, Jillian went to look for a book while I stayed with Joseph. The moment he realized she had walked away, he took off after her.

Getting back in the car afterward didn’t go much better.

He was just having a hard day.

We think maybe he had water in his ears from swim lessons, or maybe he was overtired. Whatever the reason, things just seemed off.

The nap didn’t help much either.

Later, at the play date, he was perfectly happy playing on the playground, going on the swings, and climbing through the fire truck. But the moment he went looking for Jillian and discovered she had stepped away to use the bathroom, the tears started again.

And if I’m being honest, by that point I was frustrated.

Not frustrated with him.

Just frustrated.

The kind of frustration that builds throughout the day until you realize you need a break.

So I excused myself from the play date and walked home.

I had dinner, watched some soccer, and waited for Jillian and the boys to get home.

Then I let that frustration get the better of me.

I asked Jillian to bring home milkshakes and instead of working on the project, I sat in my chair scrolling Instagram.

Not exactly a productive evening.

As I sat there later that night, I realized something.

This was the kind of day that used to derail me.

The kind of day that would convince me to start over.

I would have looked at the milkshake, the missed work, the frustration, and decided the whole thing was ruined.

I would have convinced myself that if I could just start fresh tomorrow, everything would be different.

But that’s the trap.

Because there will always be days like this.

There will always be difficult days.

There will always be setbacks.

There will always be frustration.

The goal isn’t to build a life where those days never happen.

The goal is to learn how to keep going when they do.

So instead of blowing everything up, I did enough.

Not great work.

Not exceptional work.

Enough.

Enough that I wasn’t moving backward.

Enough that I could wake up today and keep going.

And as I sit here writing this, I realize yesterday wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt in the moment.

I got to take Joseph to swim lessons.

We went to the coffee shop as a family.

We visited the library.

I published a blog post.

We spent time at the playground.

There were a lot of good moments mixed in with the hard ones.

I just couldn’t see them at the time.

Some days you don’t thrive.

Some days you don’t make huge amounts of progress.

Some days you don’t feel particularly patient, productive, or successful.

Some days you just survive.

And that’s okay.

Because survival counts too.

Today I went on a family hike.

Today I’m celebrating Father’s Day with my dad.

Today feels a whole lot better.

But I only got to today because I didn’t quit yesterday.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Treasures In Uncle Rick’s Backyard

The other night was moving along like most others. I had come home from work, changed clothes, and hung out with the boys while Jillian finished making dinner. We ate, Brooks finished first—per usual—and then anxiously waited for Joseph to finish so they could have dessert. Joseph almost always finishes dinner last.

After a small treat, the boys and I put on our shoes and headed out for a walk. I try to take them at least one evening a week so Jillian can get a few things done around the house. That night Brooks wanted to walk past a friend’s house, so we set off down the street.

As we passed by the rec center, we ran into my sister and her family. They had just finished flag football practice and were heading home. After visiting for a bit, the boys and I continued our walk.

It was a long walk for Joseph, so I periodically picked him up and carried him. We passed by Brooks’s friend’s house, but they weren’t outside. Two houses later was my Uncle Rick’s house, and he and my aunt were home. My cousin was there too, checking out the progress they were making on their remodel.

My uncle invited us inside to take a look.

What I didn’t realize was that while we were touring the house, he had quietly slipped out to the backyard and hidden “treasures” for the boys to find under statues and among the decorations.

When we finally made it outside, he led them on a treasure hunt that resulted in a handful of gems and cool rocks.

Hiding treasures is just one of the many things that “Papa” Rick does for my boys.

And as I watched them search through his backyard, I couldn’t help but think about all the things he did for me when I was a kid.

I have so many fond memories of Uncle Rick.

He taught us how to body surf at the beach.

He took us to garage sales and taught us how to negotiate for a better deal.

There were hikes in Idyllwild, slip n’ slides in the backyard, ping pong games in the garage, and countless trips to the movies.

I still remember seeing my first double feature with him. I also remember seeing The 13th Warrior with Uncle Rick and my cousin Luke—a movie we had absolutely no business seeing at our age.

Those are the kinds of memories that stick with you.

I’m grown up now, and I’m an uncle myself.

I try to show up for my nieces and nephews’ sporting events. I roughhouse with them at family gatherings. I teach them silly jokes the same way Rick used to teach me.

And when they’re older, I look forward to taking them places, teaching them new things, and supporting them every step of the way.

I’ve been blessed with the family I have.

Between my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, I couldn’t have asked for a better support system or more love than I’ve received throughout my life.

But having Uncle Rick living so close when I was growing up—and even closer now that I have kids of my own—is something I’ll never take for granted.

Because of him, I got experiences I’ll never forget.

And now my boys get to have experiences with Papa Rick that they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.

At the same time, I get the opportunity to create those kinds of memories with my own nieces and nephews as Uncle Brian.

Some treasures are hidden in a backyard.

Others are the people who hide them for us.

Papa Pandas

Two years ago, when Brooks started school, I went to the parent orientation meeting. They talked about ways for parents to get involved, such as the Foundation and the PTA.

Being an involved parent is important to me, so I considered joining one of those groups. But my sister, whose kids also attend the school, suggested something else.

“You should join the Papa Pandas.”

The Papa Pandas are a group of dads from the school who meet at a local restaurant on the third Thursday of every month for dinner and drinks. The group is responsible for a few events throughout the year, including movie night on the blacktop and the end-of-year dance, known as Panda Prom. They also host an annual dodgeball tournament against other schools’ dads groups and help out with projects around campus when teachers need an extra hand.

It sounded right up my alley.

So I showed up to that first meeting.

I was nervous walking in, but the group was incredibly welcoming. By the end of that first school year, I felt like I had found my place. Now another year has passed, and I’m still attending meetings, playing on the dodgeball team, and showing up for poker nights. The dads I met through the group have become good friends—people I see at school drop-off, school pick-up, and school events throughout the year.

In fact, I’ve become one of the dads trying to convince other fathers to come out and join us.

Our meeting for this month was last night.

Even though school is out for the summer, we still meet. Attendance is usually lighter this time of year, and only four dads showed up. But that was okay.

We talked about the send-off event we’re hosting next week for the dads whose kids are graduating out of the school. We discussed next month’s poker night and ways we could have a presence at this year’s parent orientation to recruit new members.

But most of the evening wasn’t spent talking about school.

It was spent talking about our glory days as kids, old action movies, the World Cup, the Padres, and our children’s sports teams.

We had dinner, shared a few drinks, laughed a lot, and eventually headed home.

As kids, making friends is easy.

You sit next to someone in kindergarten, play on the same baseball team, or live on the same street. Before you know it, you’ve spent years together.

Adulthood works differently.

College, careers, marriage, children, mortgages, and responsibilities all compete for our time. Those childhood friendships don’t necessarily disappear, but they change. Conversations become text messages. Hangouts become occasional dinners. Life gets busy.

Making new friends as an adult is even harder.

Most of us spend our weekends with our families and our weekdays at work. Opportunities to build new friendships become fewer and farther between.

That’s why groups like the Papa Pandas matter.

We have a standing night every month that’s already on the calendar. We have a common purpose that brings us together—our children and their school. We volunteer, plan events, and support the community around our kids.

But we also get something for ourselves.

We get a chance to spend time with other dads.

To have a drink.

To tell stories.

To talk about life.

To take our minds off responsibilities for a few hours.

That sense of community is important.

Honestly, I think every dad could benefit from having something like it.

When I started The Young Napoleon Project, I said it was a solo mission. Nobody knew about it and I was doing it on my own.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that’s not entirely true.

I’m the one doing the work.

I’m the one taking the walks, tracking the habits, and writing the blog posts.

But this project is about building a better life, and a better life includes the people around me.

My family.

My friends.

The Papa Pandas.

They’re all part of this journey.

They’re reminders that none of us are meant to do everything alone.

Last night, four dads showed up.

Not because they had nothing else to do.

Not because work had been easy.

Not because there weren’t dishes to wash, errands to run, or responsibilities waiting at home.

They showed up because they made the time.

To spend an evening with friends.

To talk about their kids.

To support their community.

And to take a little time for themselves.

It’s a community of dads.

And the longer I’ve been a dad, the more I understand how important that is.

Maybe next month there will be seventeen of us.

Maybe there will be two.

Either way, I’ll be there.

The Zoo With Dad

This week is the break between the preschool year ending and the summer session beginning. So Jillian and Joseph are off, and Brooks is already on summer vacation. Yesterday, however, Jillian needed to work to get the preschool ready for Monday.

Instead of asking the grandparents to watch the boys, I took the day off.

I had been trying to decide what to do with them and eventually settled on the zoo. We have annual passes and go fairly often as a family, but I had never taken both boys by myself before.

I wasn’t entirely sure how that was going to go.

We packed up the backpack with water and snacks, loaded the wagon into the car, buckled in the boys, and set off on our grand adventure.

Getting into the parking lot was hectic and the lines to buy tickets stretched out in front of the entrance. Thankfully we were able to walk right through with our passes and head inside.

We immediately turned away from the crowds and headed toward the elephants and lions before the exhibits became too busy.

Only a couple of elephants had made their way outside and the lions were sound asleep on their platforms, but Joseph was thrilled to see them anyway while Brooks was already eager to move on to the next exhibit.

We crossed the bridge and caught our first glimpse of the panda before stopping for a snack. Brooks and I shared some popcorn while Joseph worked his way through a variety of snacks from the backpack.

From there we bounced from exhibit to exhibit, lingering at the penguins as they darted through the water and stopping to admire the turtles and waterfall before moving on.

As we made our way through the zoo, I was reminded of something.

There is a big difference between taking one child somewhere and taking two.

There is an even bigger difference when one child is six and the other is two.

Brooks still had plenty of zoo left in him.

Joseph was beginning to run out.

After a while Joseph had done enough walking, so I loaded him into the wagon for the climb up the hill past the monkeys. Brooks wanted a ride too, but there was no way I was pushing both boys up that hill.

We made it to the top where we saw a baby koala, the giraffes, and a rhino cooling off in his pool. Joseph was fascinated by this and kept shouting that the rhino was taking a bath.

Eventually I let Brooks climb into the wagon as well for the trip back toward the front of the zoo, but it didn’t take long before Joseph decided that sharing the wagon was unacceptable. Brooks hadn’t done anything wrong, but Joseph couldn’t keep walking, so Brooks drew the short straw and had to get back out.

That’s life when you’re the older brother.

We stopped to see the orangutans and the warthogs, but by then both boys were running out of steam and, if I’m being honest, so was I.

So we called it a day.

We headed back to the car, loaded up, and started the drive home. I put on Danny Go and spent the ride reaching into the back seat to keep Joseph entertained so he wouldn’t fall asleep and ruin his nap later.

Parenting is sometimes a very glamorous job.

When we got home, Joseph couldn’t wait to tell Jillian about the rhino taking a bath.

Brooks wanted to talk about the penguins.

We had seen plenty of animals, shared a snack while watching the tour buses drive by, caught our first glimpse of the panda, and somehow survived my first solo trip to the zoo with both boys.

All in a little over two hours.

We didn’t see every animal.

We didn’t make it to every exhibit.

We didn’t even make it into the kids’ area, which honestly may have been for the best.

But that’s okay.

The goal wasn’t to conquer the zoo.

The goal was to spend a day with my boys.

We saw some animals, laughed at Joseph licking the glass at the baboon exhibit, made a few memories, and came home with two tired kids.

I’d call that a successful day.

Next time we go to the zoo, Jillian will be with us and we’ll be back to playing two-on-two.

But it’s nice to know that if I need to, I can take them on my own.

Even if it means leaving a little earlier than planned.