Liam,

I cannot believe that you are seven years old. I’ve been there the entire time so it makes sense, but it feels like it is going by ridiculously fast. In a couple of months, you will be finished with 1st grade and deeply ensconced in elementary school. I can still remember meeting you in that operating room. Your eyes would barely open under the bright lights.

There is something in those first moments that is difficult to describe. You meet a lot of people in your life. We all have stories—some good and some not so good—that we carry around. You hear the stories in their voices, see it in their face, and the way that they hold their body. But in those first moments with you, you were nothing but possibility; limitless potential energy. When I encountered that with you and your brother, it felt a little like I was being born also.

That potential energy has transformed into a kiloton of kinetic energy. You crackle with it. You run and hop and skip from place to place. You love to go and explore the outside world even if it is just a walk to our mailbox. You are always moving ahead of your mom and I. Your mind moves at the same rapid pace. I love to listen to you talk when you get on a roll. You tell stories like a bouncing ball bounding down a steep staircase. Your voice swings and sways in a singsong like way.

It’s a weird time. We all know that, but I think it’s important to periodically name that reality. Schools have closed down for weeks on end. Theaters are closing. Restaurants are only allowing to-go orders. Every sports league has blown the whistle on their respective seasons. It is a March with a madness unlike any that we have ever experienced.

That is an important thing for us to remember: None of us have ever experienced anything like this. We are all in unchartered territory. None of us know what the next few weeks or months is going to hold. We could start seeing daylight in April or this could be a long haul. It is a strange, limbo-like state to be in.

Which is exactly why we need to extend grace to each other. Be kind. Nobody knew the term “social distancing” two weeks ago. Now it is our banner and creed. And, listen, we do need to do everything we can flatten the curve. We need to listen to our medical experts so that we do not let this thing spread and endanger our most vulnerable brothers and sisters. But we can encourage others to do that without shaming, guilting, or snarking other people.

It was not a great day. It wasn’t “The worst day of my life” as one child oh so dramatically put it from his personal perspective. But it sure wasn’t the day that I would have planned. Between the car dying and publicly parenting two distraught children who thought that we would be trapped at a CFA drive-thru forever and the 3-4 hour wait for a tow, it was not a great day. And I could feel my attitude beginning to curdle; especially after EA rescued the boys and I was no longer in charge of anyone’s morale but my own.

Instead of waiting in the car I walked a few blocks to a coffeeshop, found it closed, and grumbled as I backtracked then walked a few more blocks to another one. I tried to reframe things. It was not a great day, but we were okay. To be sure, a day after tornadoes had devastated Nashville and middle Tennessee, I was pretty darn fortunate. I had my health, my home, and the people I loved were fine. Many people were not. It dawned on me that dichotomy was true everyday and not just when the disaster touched down and hit close to home. Local devastation or not, I did not have any license to be ungrateful, to grouse, and let the dark nip at my mood.

I sat on that porch of the coffeeshop with my bottle of water because I don't drink coffee. I pulled out my computer and tried to push out the frustration with work. And when I found that the grumbling was still getting through, I made an effort to hone in on what was good about that day.

I cannot tell a lie, I do not have any new Presidents Day Pseudo Facts for the year (work and being a parent will do that). However, let me offer up the Greatest Hits of over half a decade of nuggets about our presidents that could maybe, kind of, possibly, sort of be true.

Every time I stand under a clear night sky, I’m reminded of when Obie was a puppy. He was a rescue that we adopted when he was a few weeks old; beagle and golden retriever mix according the woman we met up in Blacksburg. Before we even set eyes on him, his name was always going to be Obadiah. The joke was that EA would not let me name any of our kids after minor Old Testament prophets so I would at least get to name our pets things like Obadiah and Haggai.

We were living in my grandparents’ basement apartment at the time. While Grandma was fine with it, I am still kind of surprised that my Granddad consented to us bringing a puppy into the house. Looking back, it’s one of those thousand understated ways in which he has told me he loves me.

But back to the night sky. When Obie was a puppy, we had to house train him. Many a night, I would be awakened by the sound of his little puppy whimpering. I would throw on a hoodie and take him into the backyard to wait for him to use the bathroom. Sometimes it would take him a long time. I can still see what now seems like his impossibly tiny puppy form sniffing around in the moonlight, digging in the sandbox, and barking at the neighbor dogs. I would sing hymns and pray out loud to pass the time. As much of a pain as it was to get out of bed to take a dog out to poop and pee, I really came to appreciate our late nights together.