DadHD Brain

This summer gave me some of my favorite family memories. It also made me question my parenting, my sanity, and the structural integrity of our bathroom sink.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Actually, it was summer break, which, when you work from home and have children, is basically both of those things happening simultaneously, at full volume, in every room of your house.

For the past few months, I have spent pretty close to twenty-four hours a day with my kids. I worked while they played, argued, laughed, cried, asked for snacks, rejected those snacks, and then complained that we never have anything to eat.

I answered work messages while breaking up fights. I joined meetings after checking my shirt for mysterious substances. I tried to sound like a competent professional while someone just outside the camera’s view loudly accused a sibling of looking at them wrong.

There were days I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. There were also days I considered hiding in the garage, despite the fact that our garage is hot, cluttered, and contains absolutely nothing that would improve my life.

That is the strange truth about this summer. Some of my favorite memories and some of my worst moments happened in the same rooms, sometimes within minutes of each other.

I got more time with my kids than most working dads ever get. Real time, not just the cleaned-up version that fits between dinner and bedtime. I got the random hugs, ridiculous conversations, jokes that stopped being funny after the forty-seventh repetition, and dramatic injuries that healed instantly when someone mentioned popsicles.

I also learned precisely how many times a human being can hear “Dad” in one day before the word temporarily loses all meaning.

Unfortunately, summer did not occur in some magical empty space where my only responsibility was making memories with my children.

I was working a full-time job from home while also balancing school, a couple personal projects, my responsibilities as a Lincoln Chamber of Commerce Ambassador, my marriage, and full-time fatherhood.

Not “full-time” in the sentimental way people use it to acknowledge that parenting never stops. I mean full-time in the most literal sense possible.

They were there while I worked. They were there while I studied. They were there while I tried to do everything else. Every responsibility had to fit around every other responsibility, usually while someone needed food, help, permission, conflict mediation, or an immediate answer to a question that could not possibly wait thirty seconds.

There was no transition between the different parts of my life. I didn’t leave work and come home to my family. Work was at home. School was at home. My children were at home.

I was always at home, somehow expected to be fully present in five different places at once.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, I made the Dean’s List for the spring semester.

I found out only a few days ago. I’m proud of it, although I’m not sure I’ve had enough room to actually feel proud yet. Life has a way of handing you something worth celebrating while simultaneously announcing that somebody spilled something in the next room.

Making the Dean’s List does not mean I balanced everything perfectly.

I did not.

There were days I lost my patience. Days I was distracted when my kids deserved more of me. Days I stared at my computer knowing I needed to work, but my brain had already clocked out and left no forwarding address.

Maybe making it through this season was never going to look graceful. Success wasn’t keeping every plate spinning without letting one wobble. Most days, it was picking the plates back up, checking whether they were still technically usable, and putting them back into circulation.

I kept showing up for work, school, the Chamber, my wife, and my kids, even when I was exhausted and had absolutely nothing impressive left to give.

Some days, showing up looked productive and responsible. Other days, it looked like answering an email from Urban Air while my children launched themselves through the air behind me.

But when this summer was good, it was really good.

Amanda, JD, and I got electric bikes. We even got the Penny Carriage for Penny to ride behind Mom.

That is its official name. It is not a bicycle trailer. It is royal transportation.

Those rides became some of my favorite moments of the entire summer. JD could ride beside us. Penny could watch the world go by from the Penny Carriage. Amanda and I could share something with the kids that was genuinely fun for all of us.

For once, we were all moving in the same direction, which in our family is both a literal accomplishment and a minor miracle.

Nobody was trapped inside staring at the same walls where work, school, parenting, chores, and everything else had been fighting for space. We weren’t trying to manufacture a perfect family memory.

We were just riding.

And somehow, those ordinary rides became exactly that.

We also grew closer to another family whose kids genuinely get along with ours. That gave all of us something we had needed.

The kids had friends they were excited to see, and Amanda and I had adults we genuinely enjoyed spending time with. We weren’t just making polite parent conversation while silently wondering how early was too early to leave.

Our Fourth of July together was one of the best I can remember in a long time. The kids had an amazing time with their friends, and Amanda and I had just as much fun with ours.

For one night, I wasn’t thinking about my job, school, my personal project, Chamber responsibilities, or the twenty-seven things waiting for me at home.

I was simply there.

I was with my wife. Our children were happy. We were surrounded by people who were beginning to feel like real friends.

Life felt full in the best possible way. Not overcrowded or overwhelming. Just full.

But that was only one of the two summers we experienced.

We went to Urban Air more times than I can count. It became one of the few arrangements that worked for everyone. The kids could run, climb, jump, and burn through some of their seemingly nuclear supply of energy while I found somewhere to sit and work.

Was it an ideal office environment? No.

Did it have Wi-Fi, seating, and several large structures specifically designed to contain children? Yes.

It wasn’t peaceful, but it was a workable kind of chaos.

Until it wasn’t.

The last time we went, one of my kids came to me and said the other had hurt them and a friend. An employee had already warned my child that if it continued, we would have to leave.

When I tried to intervene, my child denied doing anything and refused to sit with me to cool down. I had to physically bring my child back to our table, and that was when everything exploded.

There was screaming, crying, kicking, and a desperate fight against being made to sit there.

I could feel the anger rising through my body. I was hot, embarrassed, and overwhelmed by the feeling that I was being completely disrespected. We were in the middle of a crowded public place. Everyone could hear what was happening, and I was trying to control a situation that had already gone completely beyond my control.

The truth is, I wasn’t calmly helping my child through an overwhelming moment. I was overwhelmed too. I was angry, humiliated, and so focused on stopping the behavior that I had very little capacity left to understand what was underneath it.

At that point, I was done. Not just with that moment or that visit. I was done trying to force a fun family outing out of something that had become miserable and unsafe for everyone involved.

We left, and I didn’t take the kids back.

That was one of the hardest patterns of the summer. We would try to do something fun, and their behavior would eventually make it impossible.

They would whine, argue, cry, or refuse to listen until someone got what they wanted or we had to leave. We would take them somewhere nice to eat, only for them to refuse the food. Then, if we gave in and got them something they wanted, they would still complain because they hadn’t gotten everything they wanted.

Nothing ever seemed to be enough.

They complained about things we bought them because they wanted more. They ignored what we said, and not in the harmless, almost funny way people mean when they say, “Kids will be kids.”

In those moments, it felt like they had stopped listening to or respecting us altogether.

They also managed to plug the bathroom sink twice this summer.

At least one incident involved Play-Doh and Scentsy oil, which felt especially disrespectful because, in addition to everything else I do, I apparently also sell the materials my children use to sabotage our plumbing.

I’m not sure what their plan was. Maybe they were trying to make the drain smell like Black Raspberry Vanilla while destroying it. Maybe they were conducting an experiment. Based on the available evidence, there probably was no plan at all.

There were funny moments hidden inside the absurdity, but after months of it, a lot of it didn’t feel funny anymore.

It felt like failure.

There were times I looked at my children, at the way they treated us, each other, and the things we gave them, and wondered what Amanda and I had done wrong.

Had we given them too much? Had we failed to hold boundaries somewhere along the way? Had we accidentally taught them that if they complained long enough, cried loudly enough, or made an outing miserable enough, they would eventually get their way?

Sometimes, in my most exhausted moments, I thought, My kids are being brats.

I know they are more than their worst behavior, just as I hope I am more than my worst reactions to it. None of us should be defined by the moments when we were overwhelmed, angry, or completely incapable of giving one another what we needed.

But loving them does not require me to lie about how this summer felt or pretend their behavior was acceptable. It also does not require me to pretend I handled every difficult moment the way I wish I had.

There were days I didn’t particularly enjoy being around my children. I’m sure there were days they didn’t particularly enjoy being around me either.

That does not mean Amanda and I have failed simply because we are looking at our family right now and realizing that something has to change.

School starting will not magically fix everything. The teachers aren’t standing outside waiting to receive my children and return them seven hours later with respect, emotional regulation, and a sincere appreciation for moderately priced family dining.

But we need a reset.

They need structure, routine, expectations, and time away from one another. Amanda and I need room to breathe long enough to decide which boundaries need to change. Then we need enough energy to hold those boundaries when the whining begins.

I will miss parts of this summer.

I’ll miss the random conversations that could only happen because we were together all day. I’ll miss the bike rides, Penny behind Amanda in the Penny Carriage, and JD riding alongside us. I’ll miss watching our children laugh with their friends while Amanda and I laughed with ours.

Most of all, I think I’ll miss the ordinary moments—the ones that didn’t feel important enough to photograph but will probably become the things I remember most.

Part of me already knows that one day I will wish I could have some of this time back. My kids will never be exactly these ages again. Someday the house will be quieter, they will need me differently, and I may even miss hearing “Dad” four hundred times before lunch.

But knowing these years are temporary does not make me any less exhausted right now.

Both things can be true. I can treasure this time with my children and admit that this summer felt incredibly long. I can know that I will miss these years someday and still need a break from the noise, conflict, questions, and constant responsibility today.

I do not want these years to disappear. I just need rest.

I need a few quiet hours when I am not working, parenting, refereeing, feeding people, cleaning up after them, or trying to regulate everyone else’s emotions while barely keeping hold of my own.

I need room to focus on one responsibility without someone standing beside me asking for a snack. I need a chance to hear myself think and possibly discover whether I still have thoughts of my own.

This summer exhausted me, but it also gave me bike rides, closer friendships, an unforgettable Fourth of July, ordinary afternoons with my children, and time with versions of them that will not exist forever.

I can miss this summer and still feel relieved that it is ending.

It was, in fact, the best of times and the worst of times.

So I will let this season end without guilt.

It is a far, far quieter time that lies ahead than the one I leave behind; and it is a far, far better rest that waits for me than I have known all summer.

At least until 3:37 p.m.