I don’t keep very many routines. I don’t think this is a surprise to anyone who knows me, but there aren’t too many things that I do on a regular basis with any consistency. Chalk it up to my wanderlust, my boredom or an undiagnosed learning disability, but I struggle to maintain any semblance of a habit. This comes with its drawbacks—unfinished projects, unused memberships, dozens of skills half-learned. Nevertheless, I can’t complain. In fact, all indicators point to this being by my own design.

Lately, the closest thing I have to a recurring ritual is Saturday morning.

A good Saturday morning starts with waking up at the crack of dawn (often before) and skulking around as quietly as I can through the house. The girls are still sleeping and I don’t want to incur the wrath that comes with waking them. I make a cup of coffee and load up a big bottle with cold water. Then, I make the drive to the weekly pick-up basketball game. Our spot is at a nearby middle school, in the shelter of an outdoor covered court. I brush up on post-up turnaround fadeaways and 90’s era hand-checking. Somewhere in between, from the other guys, I get to glean tiny vignettes of adulthood, life in christian community and being a sports dad. The struggle of waking up stupid-early evaporates as the sun literally comes out and chases the early morning haze away. Then, we’re just hooping.

If I indulge in too much basketball (if I lost too many games, I’m usually chasing a win), it means I need to speed back home. This week, a fog descended down around the neighborhood surrounding South Lake and the rows of cookie cutter suburban houses were unusually cloaked in mystery and wonder. I didn’t have time to admire it all, because I was racing back to start the main event of the day.

When I walk through the house upon my return, the silence I left it in is broken. Usually, it‘s the sound of Shelby watching her iPad, eating breakfast and dressed in her uniform for the day, a frilly pastel pink tutu. Saturday is Princess Ballet day, and it’s time to get going.

We load back up in the car and head towards the community center for Princess Ballet class. Usually, we try to pull up to the community center’s dance studio a couple of minutes early. That way, Shelby can get settled before the hustle and bustle of class. In those quiet moments, I can help her switch from her usual sneakers to her little ballet flats and start talking her up on what to expect for the class. It’s quiet inside, usually with just a staffer sitting behind the desk, playing lofi through the tinny PA speaker system. Eventually, as time approaches, the dancers start to pile in.

About a dozen little girls, aged three to six, clad in similar pink and black tutus, begin to prance their way into the waiting area outside of the dance studio. The class gets underway pretty quickly after that. They do little stretches, practiced moves and silly games with lava-laden floors. The girls seem to have fun, and maybe somewhere in the middle of all of that, they learn a little bit of ballet.

Shelby… she’s getting there. It’s been a bit of a process. She’s always been a little bit slower to warm up to new people and situations and ballet is no exception. I remember her first class, she couldn’t go into the studio alone without crying. We’ve since made headway. First, if she were in the studio without us, she’d cry. Then she would go in but sit at the edge of the room on the floor. Then she would sit next to the instructor, but refuse to participate. If they stood, she sat. If they sat, she lied down. We’re trying to approach it by being patient—allowing her to progress slowly and not pressuring her so much that she hates it. This week, she was reluctant to go along when it was dancing time. Then, she ran to sit in the front row once a book was brought out for story time. I count that as a win, and how could I be mad that she loves books. In the end, anytime I see her having a good time, I’m so proud and happy, I could explode.

Afterwards, we head outside to the playground, where for the next fifteen minutes or so, the swings, slides and sandpit are littered with little girls in tutus. Any sense of inhibition Shelby might have had during the class washes away and she runs full tilt towards the swings. There, she’ll do the usual swinging, then drape over it on her stomach and spin. Next, it’s always the seesaw and then the rock climbing installation. Each week, I can feel her getting a little braver and a little bolder. She’ll swing a little higher on the swings. Climb a little faster on the rock formation.

Eventually, we pry her from the playground and head to our routine breakfast spot. A hawaiian joint nearby with a good breakfast deal. We sit in a booth by the door, and I order at the counter. I battle with myself, because it hurts me to order the same thing, but in the end, I stick to the script because I can’t help but try to optimize the order for what everyone likes. Still, despite ordering the same thing every week, the woman at the counter asks me the routine questions like she’s never seen me before. Two egg breakfast, what protein? Corned beef hash and spam. How do you want your eggs? Scrambled. What side? Fried rice.

Whether it’s the three of us, or just me and the baby, we all share it. I enjoy a slow cup of coffee as I wait for them to finish and eat their leftovers. And I don’t think it’s just the coffee because for those quiet moments, I can’t help but be stupidly happy. I never thought I’d be able to derive this much joy from a simple weekly ritual. Honestly, I never knew if I’d keep one, let alone enjoy one. Now, every week, the same places, the same times, the same scrambled eggs and I’m smiling ear to ear looking over her shoulder at the Mandarin version of Bluey.

I mean, I still feel the itch. Do we want to do something different this week? Do we want to pack it all up and hit the road? But, the road doesn’t call to me the same way. I mean, I turned 35 recently— the age my dad was when I was born. I’ve always been the person who loves change for change’s sake, who has a deep compulsion to do things differently, who is helpless against his own chaotic nature, but for the first time in my life, I desperately want things to slow down. To stay the same for as long as they can.

Because the truth is that our little rhythm is fleeting. Princess Ballet will wrap on the semester soon and the days of sitting with her in an empty community center, putting her shoes on will be behind us. She’ll age out of this class and be off to the next one and outgrow that too.

Every day she’s getting a little more independent, a little more prepared for a life where she’s not holding my hand crossing the street or jumping on me for a piggy back ride from her room to the couch in the morning. The reality is that we are hurtling down this track and everything is changing, never to be the same again. 

Soon, I will have be having new experiences with the kiddo, and finding new ways to be a part of her life, and new things to be shamelessly proud of her about. But right now, we have our little rhythms. We have little respites, little gifts, for just a moment, insulated from the unyielding current of time. Soon—too soon— the change I always seek will be here. But right now, I’m glad I’m stuck in a routine. I’m glad we get to pause in a season of pink tutus, spam breakfast, Princess Ballet and the Saturday morning routine.