One morning, it started with scrambled eggs.
The Spark
Still half-asleep, I cracked ten eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a bit of cheese, and poured the mixture into the hot pan. High heat, fast hands — the way I’ve always made them. Learned that by trial and error.
I reached for the wooden spoon, the one we always keep in the same drawer. It stuck. That familiar resistance, something jammed inside… I pulled harder. Nothing. Clicks, clanks, the drawer refusing to move while the eggs behind me began to sizzle too fast, too hot. My chest tightened: I’m going to burn them. The baby’s bottle is still out. The floor’s a mess. I haven’t even—…
And then I snapped.
The Drop
The outburst wasn’t really about the drawer, it never is. That stuck piece of wood was just the spark; the thing that cracked open everything else I was holding in: exhaustion, fear of failing, the pressure of keeping it all together.
When the drawer jammed, it felt like the whole morning jammed with it. No release, no slack, no space to breathe. Just the reminder that even the smallest things can demand more of you when you’re already carrying too much.
The Routine
Our life right now runs on structure. One of us sleeps in the bedroom with the baby, the other in a separate room. We switch every few weeks. Our toy poodle curls up with me, usually on top of my head like a ridiculous furry hat.
The mornings begin when the baby decides, sometimes 6 a.m., sometimes later. My wife calls me on the phone to come downstairs. We cuddle as a family for ten or fifteen minutes, or thirty. Then the sprint begins: diaper change, bottle, dog walk, breakfast, cleanup.
By the time I leave for the office, it’s nearly 10. I work three or four hours, pick up groceries on the way home, and we have lunch together. Then comes the handoff: my wife steps out, and I take over with the stroller. Diaper, bottle, play, dinner, bedtime marathon. Sometimes she falls asleep quickly. Sometimes it’s an hour of tears and pacifier theatrics.
Eventually, she sleeps. We collapse onto the couch, scroll a little, maybe sit in silence. Then bed, and the cycle resets.
It’s structured. It’s beautiful. It’s fulfilling. And sometimes, it’s too much.
What It Really Means
That morning, it wasn’t the drawer that broke me. It was the weight of everything else: job, house project, baby, marriage, dog, finances, family history — all carried in one body that doesn’t always know how to rest.
The drawer just happened to be the one thing that didn’t yield when I needed something — anything — to go smoothly.
But here’s the part I try to hold on to: snapping doesn’t mean failing. It means I care enough to be stretched thin. It means I’m learning to reprogram instincts that were built long ago for survival, not for presence. It means I’m human, with all the glitches that come with trying to build something beautiful in real time.
The Takeaway
And maybe that’s the real work: not to be perfect, but to keep showing up.
My daughter won’t remember me as “the man who sometimes panicked.” She’ll remember the man who stayed. The one who kept making scrambled eggs with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
And maybe that’s the real work: not to be perfect, but to keep showing up.
To let the cracks form — and trust that they’re just where the light starts to get in.
