The Whisper Down the Stairs

A Daily Reset I keep needing to remember

Most nights, the house moves like a high-volume mix of routine, dysregulation, and recalibration.

We come crashing in from a baseball game, where at least three kids couldn’t find their gloves, every parent suddenly became a strike zone expert, and I’m reminding myself (again) that helping kids have fun matters more than the fact that we’re down by nine runs.

Then it’s straight into the nightly scramble: showers, second dinners, the triage of backpacks, bruised egos, and bent routines. Somewhere in there, I’m offering moral support to one kid while co-regulating another (and myself) through a bedtime spiral.

At some point, I dish out the infamous Dad Death Stare, the silent, sharp one that makes my kid feel small and me feel worse.

We finally get everyone to bed.

I’m half-eating cold food, half-talking to my wife, half-replaying a dozen conversations I wish I’d handled better, just hoping to feel human again for two minutes.

And that’s when I hear it:

“Daddy… are you coming?”

I tell him, “In a couple minutes,” carefully calibrating my voice so he can hear me but not wake the others.

What I don’t say is that I’m secretly hoping he’ll crash before asking again.
Not because I don’t love being with him but because I’m running on fumes.
I want to finish eating. Maybe check in with my wife.
Maybe get the dishwasher started and feel like I completed one thing today.
Just a sliver of stillness.

I take a bite of whatever I scraped onto a plate.
Try to reconnect with my wife—the one person who can usually bring me back to emotional center after a long day.
The conversation starts to soften the edges…

And then:

“Daddy… are you coming now?”

Here’s the truth I keep learning:

This slightly demanding habit from my slightly demanding human — who isn’t throwing a tantrum but is asking as kindly as an annoyed three-year-old can — might actually be the best way for me to decompress.

It’s brushing my teeth while he watches from bed, big brown eyes tracking my every move.
It’s getting into pajamas while he tells me a story that somehow involves Marshall from Paw Patrol, a swimming pool, and a slice of pizza.
It’s sliding into “my” spot and launching into our nightly debate about whether it’s actually his.
It’s feeling his head nestle into my chest as I start reading — breath slowing, thoughts quieting, shoulders finally dropping.

Somehow, the sacred little moment I keep trying to delay…
is the one that clears the clutter and settles my spirit.

When I slow down long enough to reflect — or journal, or pray, or just survive the bedtime routine without snapping — I try to ask what God might be showing me in it.

Sometimes I open my Bible app.
Sometimes it connects with something I already believe or something I am working on.
Sometimes I even open ChatGPT. (You use what you’ve got.)

But this time, I landed here:

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”
— Mark 10:14

That whisper down the stairs?

It’s part bedtime stall tactic and part invitation.
To be interrupted in the best kind of way.
To slow down. To connect.
To be shaped by love that looks a lot like Jesus… even when it’s wrapped in Paw Patrol pajamas.

This Week’s Reset: Nighttime Matters Most

Here’s what I’m working on this week:

1. Fight the bedtime autopilot.
I want to get things done but connection doesn’t work well rushed. It’s a moment that slows me down so it can be shared.

2. Let the weird bedtime stories roll.
Pizza, a pool, and Marshall from Paw Patrol? I’m all in.

3. End with love, not a lecture.
Even when the day was hard end it with intention of love, softness, and grace.