Two Black T Shirts

Morning friend.

There is a half-packed suitcase on the bedroom floor.

An alarm is set for an time usually reserved for airport workers, burglars and people making poor life choices.

Ziggy has not left my side all evening.

He knows what a suitcase means.

The boys are upstairs trying to decide which clothes to take.

This appears to be more complicated than it should be.

Our eldest owns four almost identical black T-shirts and has been asked to choose two.

Negotiations remain ongoing.

By the time you read this, we should be away on holiday.

I’m writing to you before we leave.

I could have pretended otherwise.

I could have described the morning sun, the swimming pool and the stealth and guile of someone reserving eight sunbeds with a single towel.

But that wouldn’t be true.

The truth is that I have written this early because I want to protect the time waiting for us.

I spend a lot of my life thinking ahead.

Building.

Planning.

Solving problems.

Trying to move the next thing forward.

Most of the time, that is useful.

Often, it means I am physically in one place while my mind is somewhere else entirely.

I don’t want that to happen next week.

We are returning to the first resort we ever visited with the boys.

Back then, they were small enough to share a room with us.

For the first time, they will have one of their own.

Which means they will probably spend their evenings patrolling the resort looking for girls while Sara and I are tucked up in bed feeling guilty about how much we ate at dinner.

The last time we came here, they needed us in the room.

This time, they need us to stay out of theirs.

It feels like a small detail.

It isn’t.

We have already said that this will probably be our final all-inclusive holiday together.

Not our final family holiday.

At least I hope not.

But perhaps the final one that looks like this.

Soon, our eldest will be making decisions around pre-season and everything that comes with becoming more serious about his own path.

Our youngest may begin the process of joining the Royal Marines next year.

Future holidays will need to grow up with them.

Different places.

Different experiences.

Probably fewer wristbands and fewer arguments about whether it is acceptable to eat chocolate for breakfast.

My own future is changing too.

I have committed to rowing across the Arctic Ocean for MND next summer.

A sentence which becomes slightly more alarming every time I write it.

Life is moving.

As it should.

There is no tragedy here.

The boys are becoming young men.

They have interests, ambitions and lives beginning to stretch beyond our own.

That is what we raised them to do.

But family life changes quietly.

There is rarely an announcement.

No one tells you that this will be the final holiday where everyone piles into the same room.

The final time one of them falls asleep on your shoulder during the flight.

The final time they ask you to come into the swimming pool.

One day, the old version of your family is simply gone.

Replaced by another version which can be just as good, but will never be quite the same.

Occasionally, life gives us enough warning to notice.

This feels like one of those moments.

Perhaps that is why I wanted to finish this transmission before we left.

Not so I could feel productive.

Not so I could return with one fewer job waiting.

So that when we arrive, I can arrive properly.

Phone down.

Laptop closed.

Attention where my feet are.

I don’t know how many more holidays we will take with both boys still willing and able to come.

I only know the number is smaller than it used to be.

That does not make me sad.

Well, the tears in my eyes as I write this suggest otherwise.

Mostly, it makes me want to pay attention.

To the arguments over black T-shirts.

To the ridiculous amount of food teenage boys can consume.

To the late-night return to their room when they think we are already asleep.

To Sara and me eating too much at dinner and promising each other we will show more restraint tomorrow.

This version of our family will not last forever.

None of them do.

But it is here now.

That is enough reason to protect it.

Let’s take a moment to debrief together:

What part of your life are you treating as ordinary simply because it is familiar?

A school run.

A bedtime routine.

A weekly phone call.

A family meal.

Something you assume will happen again because it has happened so many times before.

What if it is more precious than you have allowed yourself to notice?

Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):

Protect one bit of this week with someone you love before something else claims it.

Put your phone away.

Close the laptop.

Leave the job unfinished if it can wait.

Be fully present with someone whose life is changing alongside your own.

You may not be doing it for the final time.

But one day, you will.

That’s enough for now.

More next Sunday.

Mike

Hold the Line · Do the Hard Things