My youngest is deep into karate. He’ll likely earn his junior black belt around the time he turns twelve.
He trains hard—five to ten classes a week. Some he takes, some he helps teach.
It’s a lot of hours. A lot of waiting.
But I’m always there.
Sometimes there’s a break between classes. Just 30 or 40 minutes—too short to go home, too long to just sit in the lobby.
So we get in the car.
We watch part of an episode of Master Chef on my phone. Eat a snack. Talk, or don’t.
It’s not dramatic. Not a “bonding moment” with music playing in the background.
It’s just time. Shared.
I think those small pockets matter.
He trains. I wait. We snack. We watch people cook impossible food.
Then we go back in and do it again.
Presence isn’t always about doing something big. Sometimes it’s just being parked next to a karate studio, in the car, with a banana and Gordon Ramsay on low volume.
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