He Didn’t Ruin My Morning. He Rewrote It.

A sacred morning routine gets hijacked by a tiny critic—and transformed into something better.

Image by the author with a big assist from AI.

Mornings, to me, are a sacred space.
The peace of pre-dawn allows for reflection and meditation. The mind is fresh. The pull of distraction is lessened. There's space for focus.
It’s the perfect time for writing and editing. It’s the only time I have to write and edit my newsletter. I had just finished my first draft and glanced at a framed Hemingway quote above my desk.
“The first draft of anything is shit.”
With that in mind, I was locked in and ready to edit.
But nothing breaks ante meridiem focus like the pat pat pat of clumsy little feet on luxury vinyl flooring.
"Daddy? What you doing?"
My son enters my office in nothing but a Micky Mouse Pull-Up. He squints his eyes against the bright light of my desk lamp.
"I'm editing, buddy."
I had just printed off my first draft and started reviewing it with a red pen—a habit from my newspaper days.
"Why you coloring?" he asked, looking at the pen.
"I'm coloring the words I don't like so I can keep only the good ones."
"I want to color the words!"
I pause for a second. Two years ago, I would've resented a moment like this. I wake up at 5 a.m. to avoid distractions. It's now 5:27. I usually have the newsletter out by 6:30.
But two years ago, I was a different dad. I was used to a kid confined to a crib in the mornings who couldn't speak in complete sentences, was less curious, and was easier to distract with cheap toys. And I was more selfish—more rigid—still clinging to a life I thought I controlled.
I've grown. I've edited my philosophy and my approach.
I smiled at him, pulled out another red pen, and rolled my chair back from my desk.
Now, I was editing my newsletter and my morning routine in real-time.
My son took the pen and climbed on my lap, immediately drawing on the page in a large, red, squiggly spiral.
"You like these words?"
"I do! Good job, bud!"
As he sat there, completely locked in, tongue out, freely doodling on the second page, I realized how much he'd grown—how much we'd both grown together. Two years ago, he was an only child. He didn't know the word "why." He had no way of truly connecting to the things my wife and I did with our time when we weren't with him. Two years ago, I was still reeling from the whiplash of suddenly being a co-parent after 36 childless years.
"What's this?" he asked, turning to the third page.
"That's page three, son. That's the closing."
"Why?!"
Before I could answer, he emptied the pen all over the page, long zigzags and waves across every line, up and down, diagonals, circles, dots. He'd transformed from a diapered Ben Bradlee to a monochrome Jackson Pollack. Not a letter was safe from his ruthless red-ink napalm.
"Hey! What's wrong with those words?"
"I don't yike any of these words!" he yelled.
The adorable mispronunciation, the unchained glee in his voice—now, I was fully present. This wasn't an interruption or a distraction. This was a gift. This was a moment I would never forget. This feeling is what I dreamed of as a 30-year-old, wondering if I'd missed my chance to be a dad.
I wrapped my arms around his tiny waist and dug my fingers into his bare tummy, surprising him. He let out a squeal, kicked, and cackled.
"Why are you such a critic?" I asked with a laugh as he writhed and wiggled to the floor.
When he'd had enough, he hopped to his feet. It was 6 a.m. now, but it didn't matter. My schedule had changed. The newsletter didn't matter. Nothing mattered but having breakfast with my boy.
As we sat there, me with coffee, him with juice, and both with chocolate chip granola bars, I reflected on how many edits my parenting had gone through. Two years ago, before I learned the beauty of flow and acceptance, I couldn’t find my way past the first draft.
And as Hemingway said, “The first draft of anything is shit.”
That's why we edit. We grow, we evolve. We color the bad words and keep only the good. And on the best days, we put down the pen and live in the moment.