Come along as we share the funny stories, the sacred moments, and the practical tips
There was a Sunday a few months ago when my 15-year-old went quiet in the car after church. Not the normal teenage-boy quiet. This was a different kind of quiet — the kind that fills up the whole backseat and makes you hold your breath a little. Later that evening, he finally said it out
It started with a cardboard box. My 10-year-old found one in the garage last winter — the kind that a new appliance comes in, enormous and a little beat up — and spent the better part of a Saturday turning it into something. I’m not entirely sure what it was supposed to be. A fort,
There is a moment I keep coming back to. My 12-year-old had been struggling with a math concept for three days straight. Three days of frustration, erased papers, and a lot of deep sighing at the kitchen table. And not once did he ask for help. Not from me, not from his dad, not even
I’ll be honest with you. The first time I introduced gratitude journaling to my boys, it was a disaster. My 10-year-old wrote “food” three times in a row. My 12-year-old stared at the ceiling for four solid minutes before writing “I guess the dog didn’t die today.” My youngest just drew a picture of a
My 12-year-old handed me a writing assignment he had worked on for two days. He was proud of it — I could tell by the way he held the paper out, chin lifted just slightly, waiting. I read it carefully and then gently offered a few suggestions for improvement. Within thirty seconds, his shoulders dropped,
There is a particular look my 15-year-old gets when he has been sitting still too long. It is not peace. It is not contentment. It is low-grade anxiety, like his body is physically uncomfortable with the idea that he is not being productive. He will pick up his phone, wander into the kitchen looking for
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. My 12-year-old had been working on a project for over an hour — something he’d genuinely put effort into — and when it didn’t go the way he planned, he slammed his hands on the table, shoved his materials across the floor, and stormed upstairs without a word. My
It started with a board game. My 10-year-old wanted to play, my 6-year-old wasn’t ready to sit still, my 12-year-old kept checking the clock because he had something else he wanted to do, and my 15-year-old — bless him — was sighing loudly every time someone took longer than thirty seconds on their turn. We
It started with a broken window. My 10-year-old was throwing a baseball in the backyard — something we’ve told him a hundred times not to do near the house — and sure enough, a wild pitch found its way straight through the garage window. I heard the crack from inside. I came out to find
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in March — the kind of grey, drizzly day that Connecticut does so well — and all four of my boys were home, which is every day, but somehow the house felt especially small. My 10-year-old had finished his schoolwork early and wandered into the kitchen looking like the