The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
The day starts with the blue cup. Not the green one that looks almost the same — blue. I cut the tag out of a T-shirt because fabric can feel like a cactus at seven in the morning, and I take the longer way to school because the short way has a light that stutters. None of this is dramatic. It’s how the morning holds together. Today, Sam lets me park one space over from our usual spot and doesn’t tense. If you don’t live here, that sounds like nothing. It isn’t. That’s a win.
While I’m buttering toast no one will eat, the news is back on its favorite game. Trump tells pregnant people not to take Tylenol. The FDA adds cautious language to a label. Everyone argues like they just discovered autism yesterday. I listen long enough to hear that the strongest studies don’t show a cause-and-effect, and that vaccines still aren’t the villain. Then I turn the TV off. I’m a dad who reads the research, not a prop for anyone’s press conference. We’ve got a drop-off to make.
Before any report or meeting, I carried an invisible scoreboard most dads know by heart. First words on time. First basket. Report cards like stock prices. Nobody hands you that on purpose; it’s just in the air. My change came slowly — small, stubborn shifts. The…
