Tell me more

Before, my child always asked,

“What’s that?”

Every tree.
Every truck.
Every sound in the distance.

“What’s that, Daddy?”

Then it became,
“Why?”

Why is the sky blue?
Why do birds fly?
Why can’t I eat ice cream for breakfast?
Why do you go to work?
Why do grown-ups look tired?

The questions came like rain.
Relentless. Curious. Honest.

And somewhere in between answering,
I realized something.

My child is no longer just pointing at the world.

My child is trying to understand it.

Lately, something has shifted.

Now my child tells stories.

Long ones.
Detailed ones.
Sometimes dramatic ones.

My child explains what happened in school.
Who said what.
Who cried.
Who won.
Who didn’t share.

Sometimes my child pauses mid-sentence
to find the right word.

Sometimes my child looks at me
to make sure I’m still listening.

And I am.

Because one day,
the questions will slow.

One day,
the stories will get shorter.

So now, when my child starts talking,

even if I’m tired,
even if the day has been long,
even if the story loops three times before it ends,

I say,
“Tell me more.”

Not because I need more details.

But because I need more of this.

More of the innocence.
More of the small confessions.
More of the way my child trusts me
with those unfinished thoughts.

There was a time
when I was the one explaining the world to him.

Now, my child is slowly explaining the world to me.

And I don’t want to miss a single sentence.

So I listen.

Because someday,
when my child's voice deepens
and the stories grow guarded,
I hope my child still remembers
that I always wanted to hear more.

Photo we almost didn’t take

We were in a rush that day.

We did not want to be late.
We did not want to end up stuck in a long queue at Disneyland.

My child 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.

Then my wife stopped, smiled, and said,
“Wait, let’s take a photo.”

I sighed.

That sigh parents make
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 was not about the pose.
It was about proof.

Proof that we were there.
Together.
Tired.
Sweaty.
Happy.

We often think memories will make themselves.

They do not.

You have to pause for them.
You have to honor them
before they move on without you.

So the next time someone says,
“Wait, let’s take a photo,”

Do not roll your eyes.

Do not rush.

Just take it.

Before it melts

I used to deny myself small joys.

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

Until one day, my child pointed to the freezer and said,

“Daddy, let’s get the ice cream before it melts.”

Simple.
Obvious.

But it stopped me.

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

So that day, I bought it.

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

It was not even the best flavor.

But it was the best moment.

And that is the thing.

We overthink joy.
We audit it.
Postpone it.
Try to earn it.

We treat happiness like something
that must be scheduled, justified, and approved.

But sometimes,
it is just about saying yes sooner.

So here is a small reminder,
from one overthinker to another:

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

Because all of it melts
if you wait too long.

Look up

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

Checking messages.
Replying to emails.
Scrolling through updates I did not even care about.

“Daddy,” my child 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 pickup truck towing a car,
made of cotton and sunlight.

I laughed.

Then I felt a quiet kind of guilt.

Because he was not just showing me clouds.
He was showing me what I had stopped noticing.

Somewhere along the way,
adults trade wonder for Wi-Fi.

We start seeing days as schedules, not stories.
We stop looking up.

That day, I slipped my phone into my pocket.

We lay on the grass.
Named every cloud.
Let time breathe again.

It did not make me more productive.

But it made me more present.

And maybe that
is the better kind of progress.

One day, I will teach him to look ahead.

But today,
he taught me to look up.

5 more minutes

My child speaks in full sentences now.

Clear thoughts.
Strong opinions.
Confident negotiations.

The same little one who once pointed and babbled
now bargains for bedtime like a seasoned 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 the pride
was the smallest crack in my heart.

One day, you are cradling a baby.
The next, you are having conversations
with a little person
who has humor, preferences, and a growing world of his own.

I am amazed at how quickly he is learning.

And yet 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 replay the way he says “carbonara”
as “cargobanara.”

To hold on to this sweet in-between.
Old enough to talk.
Young enough to need me.

But that is the deal, isn’t it?

We raise them
so they can eventually run ahead.

Even if every step forward
is a quiet goodbye
to the version of them
we first fell in love with.

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

Love him loudly.
Capture him often.

The rest can wait.

Curating a childhood

“Wow, that’s a massive library of board books.”

I was surprised too.

Until I realized my child’s collection
costs about the same as one iPhone Pro Max
and a top-tier gaming console combined.

Public service announcement for new parents:
children’s books are not cheap.
USD 10 to 20 each adds up quickly.

“Why so many?
Aren’t those stories already on YouTube?”

Some are.

But I still choose books.

Because books are not just content.
They are experiences.

They teach rhythm through Goodnight Moon.
Curiosity through The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Pattern and memory through Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
Tenderness through Guess How Much I Love You.

Each page trains attention.
Each story builds emotional vocabulary.
Each rereading strengthens imagination.

This is not passive entertainment.
This is quiet formation.

A book does not demand instant reaction.
It teaches patience.

It does not flood the senses.
It invites focus.

It does not rush.
It develops depth.

And don’t even get me started on customized board books.

The ones where your child becomes the hero.
Where his name lives inside the story.
Where he is not just reading, but belonging.

Books like The Little Boy Who Lost His Name
do something screens never will.

They tell a child, subtly:

You matter enough to be written into a story.

Suddenly, reading is no longer abstract.
It is personal.
It is intimate.
It is identity-building.

When he sees his name on the cover,
his confidence rises quietly.

When he recognizes himself in the pages,
his imagination expands naturally.

That is not indulgence.

That is investment.

In self-worth.
In curiosity.
In voice.

So yes, they cost more.
They take time to order.
They require thought.

Exactly why they matter.

You rarely see the change happening.

But the child who closes a book
is never quite the same
as the one who opened it.

That is why I invest in shelves, not screens.

Because taste is formed early.
And so is character.

ROI

“Wow, that’s a massive Duplo collection.

Why would you spend over USD 3,000 on LEGO?”

Fair question.

For some, they are just colorful blocks.

Overpriced plastic scattered on the floor.

To us, they are tools for imagination.

Every brick my child stacks teaches something.

Focus.

Patience.

Creativity.

How to dream.

How to fail.

How to rebuild when things fall apart.

I have seen my son build towers

taller than his little arms can reach.

Laugh when they crash.

Then rebuild.

Faster.

Better.

Stronger.

That is not just play.

That is 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 is the real ROI.

Return on Imagination.

Paycheck I didn't expect

I was at a toy store with my child,
looking for Tomicas to add to our growing garage.

A young man, probably in his late twenties, approached me.

“Excuse me, Sir… did you happen to teach college back in the 2010s?”

I smiled. “Yes, I did.”

His face lit up.

“Sir! Long time no see!”

He told me he now works at a large company.
Stable career. Doing well.
Building a good life.

Then he said something that stopped me.

“You were one of the few teachers who made me believe I could actually make it.”

For a second, the toy shelves disappeared.

Wow.

So something I said back then,
in between attendance sheets, deadlines, and lectures,
took root.

Sometimes life gives you moments like that.

Reminders that the work you once thought was ordinary
was quietly shaping someone else’s trajectory.

The salary may not have built wealth.
But the influence built something far more enduring.

You do not always see the fruit of your effort right away.

Sometimes it grows out of sight.
Sometimes it walks up to you years later
and says thank you.

And sometimes, it finds you
while you are buying Tomicas for yourself.

I mean… for your child.