Mr. Mom

 

Mr. Mom

Over the past year, I have become a better person. Which sounds very noble until you realize it mostly happened because life bulldozed me into a corner and said: Evolve or implode. When life throws you a curveball, a slider, and a fastball all at the same time, you either become the best or worst version of yourself. I’m relieved to report- ask my wife and kids if you need receipts- that I’m becoming the best, or at least the most authentic version.

And somehow, authenticity looks a lot like Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom. Except this is the 2025 reboot. And spoiler alert: it’s much less glamorous than the movies and involves way more laundry detergent.

I have become a professional dog-walker. A barista on retainer for Erin. A breakfast chef who can flip pancakes without breaking a sweat (or a pan). I vacuum like a ninja, fold laundry like a Jedi, and clean dishes like a man auditioning for sainthood. Honestly, I should have my own YouTube channel at this point: Zen and the Art of Folding Towels.

The irony is this- Old Mike broke everything he touched. Ask anyone. Old Mike couldn’t change a lightbulb without starting a small electrical fire. Old Mike tried to fix a wobbly chair once and ended up with firewood.

But Mr. Mom? Mr. Mom has now fixed plumbing, unclogged sinks, repaired attic stairs, and even rearranged the garage like a suburban Marie Kondo. All while buying supplies at the Dollar Store, because inflation is real, my friends.

At first, though, I fought it. Hard. I cycled through the five stages of grief just trying to load a washing machine:

• Denial: “These socks will probably wash themselves.”

• Anger: “Who the hell invented glitter leggings?”

• Bargaining: “If I fold one more fitted sheet, please let a job offer magically appear.”

• Depression: “I live here now, surrounded by laundry piles. This is my tomb.”

• Acceptance: “Fine. I am Mr. Mom. Hand me the Swiffer.”

And you know what? Once I accepted it, I started to notice things. Small things. Sacred things. Like how the light hits the kitchen at 7:02 a.m. when I pour Erin’s coffee. How Abbey hums a little off-key when she’s putting on her sneakers. How Sadie dances while brushing her teeth. How Olivia, when she is home still calls “Dad?” like I might actually know the answer.

Did I ever think I’d be unemployed this long after everything? Not a chance. Did I ever think I’d measure my days by laundry loads and school drop-offs? Nope. Did I ever think I’d be proud of it? Absolutely not.

But guess what- I am.

Because maybe this season isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s preparation. Maybe it’s God whispering to me: Slow down. Pay attention. Practice hope in the ordinary.

So yes, I’m still applying for many jobs every day. Still facing rejection. Still hoping for the next chapter. But until it comes, I’ll be right here: vacuum in one hand, coffee in the other, holding the sacred ground of ordinary life.

And maybe that’s the holiest work I’ve ever done.

"Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin."

       -Zechariah 4:10