Photo we almost didn’t take

We were in a rush that day.

Didn’t want to be late and end up in a long queue for Disneyland.

My son was bouncing with excitement, clutching his Lightning McQueen like a VIP pass.
I, on the other hand, was mentally counting tickets, snacks, strollers, and sanity.

“Come on, we’ll miss the parade,” I said.
But my wife stopped, smiled, and said, “Wait, let’s take a photo.”

I sighed. That kind of sigh parents do when they think time is more important than memory.
Still, I stood beside them. Forced a quick smile. One click. Done.

Hours later, as the day unfolded.
The laughter. The rides. The slurpee smudges.
That photo became my favorite from the trip.

Not the castle shot. Not the fireworks.
Just that imperfect, rushed photo before the fun even began.

Because it wasn’t about the pose. It was about proof.
Proof that we were there. Together. Tired, sweaty, but happy.

We often think memories will make themselves, but they don’t.
You have to pause for them.
To freeze the moment before it moves on without you.

So next time someone says, “Wait, let’s take a photo,” don’t roll your eyes.

Don’t rush. Just take it.

Stop looking ahead

We were walking through the park one afternoon, and I was deep in my phone.

Checking messages, replying to emails, scrolling through updates I didn’t even care about.

“Daddy” he said. “You’re missing it.”
“Missing what?” I asked, still half-distracted.
He pointed to the sky.
“The clouds are shaped like trucks!”

I looked up. There they were. A pick-up truck towing a car made of cotton and sunlight.

For a moment, I laughed.
Then I felt a quiet kind of guilt.

He wasn’t just showing me clouds.
He was showing me what I’d stopped noticing.

Somewhere along the way, adults trade wonder for Wi-Fi.
We start seeing days as schedules instead of stories.
We stop looking up.

That day, I put my phone in my pocket.
We lay on the grass.
Named every cloud. Let time breathe again.

It didn’t make me more productive.
But it made me more present.

And maybe that’s the better kind of progress.

One day, I’ll remind him to look ahead.
But today, he reminded me to look up.

Buy the damn ice cream

I used to stop myself from small joys.

I’ll just buy it next time.
I don’t really need it.
It’s not practical.

Until one day, my son pointed to the freezer and said, “Daddy, let’s get the ice cream before it melts.”

Simple. Obvious. But it hit me.

Because life, much like ice cream, does melt when you wait too long.

So that day, I bought the ice cream.

We sat by the couch, messy and laughing, spoons clinking against the tub.

It wasn’t even the best flavor, but it was the best moment.

And that’s the thing: we overthink joy.
We audit it, postpone it, try to earn it.
But sometimes, happiness is just about saying yes faster.

So here’s a small reminder, from one overthinker to another: Buy the damn ice cream.

Send the message.
Take the photo.
Say “I love you” first.

Because all of it melts if you wait too long.

5 more minutes, Daddy

He talks so fluently now.

Full sentences. Clear thoughts. Even opinions.

The same boy who once pointed and babbled now negotiates bedtime like a lawyer.
“Five more minutes, Daddy. Promise, super duper last one.”
And somehow, he always wins.

The other night, he said, “Daddy, it's my turn. I can do it myself.”
Just like that.
No hesitation. No need for help.

I smiled. Then paused. Because beneath that pride was a tiny crack in my heart.

One day you’re in love with a baby.
Next, you’re talking to a little person with his own words, humor, and world.

And while I’m amazed by how fast he’s learning, a part of me wants to slow it all down.

To freeze the way he still reaches for my hand when we cross the street.

To hear the way he still mispronounces “carbonara” and calls it “cargobanara.”

To keep him in that sweet in-between. Old enough to talk, but young enough to need me.

But that’s the deal, isn’t it?
We raise them so they can eventually run ahead.
Even if every step forward is one more goodbye to the version of them we first fell in love with.

So I listen to his stories.
Record his voice.
Take too many photos.

Love them loudly. Capture them often. The rest can wait. 

Paycheck I didn't expect

Was with my son at a toy store, looking for Tomica vehicles to add to my, I mean, my son’s extensive collection.

Someone who looked to be in his late twenties approached me.
“Excuse me, Sir, did you happen to teach college back in the 2010s?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

His eyes lit up. “Sir! Long time no see!”

He told me he’s now working in a big company. Stable job, good life. He said I was one of the few teachers who made him believe he could actually make it.

That moment stopped me.

Wow. Guess I did touch someone else’s life, after all.

Sometimes, life gives you moments like that.

Reminders that your effort, though buried in attendance sheets and old lectures, quietly took root somewhere.

The salary may not build wealth, but the stories you build will outlive you.

You don’t always see the fruit of your work right away.

But when it does come back, it often finds you when you least expect it.

Maybe while you’re buying that Tomica for yourself, I mean, your kid.

Return on imagination (ROI)

"Wow. That’s a massive Duplo collection.
Why would you spend almost 3,000 USD on Legos?”

Fair question.

To some, they’re just colorful blocks.
Overpriced plastic that ends up scattered on the floor.
To us, they’re building tools for imagination.

Every brick my son stacks teaches him something.
Focus. Patience. Creativity.
How to dream. How to fail.
And how to rebuild when things fall apart.

I’ve seen him build towers taller than his arms can reach.
Laugh when it crashes, then rebuild.
Faster, better, stronger.

That’s not just play. That’s practice.
For life, for resilience, for creation.

Someday, those same hands will build something far greater.
Not out of plastic, but out of passion and purpose.

That’s the real ROI.

Board books aint boring

“Wow, massive collection of children’s board books.”

Was surprised too. Until I realized my son's little library is worth one iPhone Pro Max plus a brand-new top-of-the-line PlayStation.

PSA for incoming parents: children’s books cost as much as the self-help books for adults.
10 to 15 USD apiece, on average.

“Why need so many? Pretty sure those stories already have their iterations on YouTube.”

Maybe. But I’d still pick the books.

Because books are worth the investment.

In case you haven’t heard the cliché: A book is a portal,
A book is a teacher.
A book doesn’t just tell you something,

It transforms your child.
Quietly, privately, one page at a time.

You don’t always notice it happening.
But the version of your child who closes the book is never the same as the one who opened it.