Sunrise & Spilled Coffee—where mornings are never dull, and chaos is served with a side of caffeine. Join me on this wild journey through life as a Dad navigating the teenage tornado, the preteen rollercoaster, and the exciting twist of starting over with a baby on the way. From road rage on the morning commute to the quiet (and not-so-quiet) moments of parenting, this blog is where the reality of family life meets the humor in all our daily messes—because some days, the only thing holding us together is a strong cup of coffee… or three.
There’s something profound about a name. It’s more than a combination of letters; it carries history, weight, and meaning. When we chose the name Hazel for our daughter, it wasn’t just because it sounded beautiful—it was because it belonged to a woman who had lived, fought, and endured. My mother, Hazel.
We waited. And waited. And then we waited some more.
Let me tell you—this little girl isn’t even earthside yet, and she’s already proving to be just as stubborn as her siblings. We’re three days from the due date, the 16th, but is she showing any signs of clocking out of her cozy little womb? Nope. Not even a hint of an early departure. She’s dug in, feet up, probably sipping on amniotic fluid like it’s a luxury spa retreat.
Welcome back to another thrilling episode of Dumb-Ass Drivers: Clarksville Edition, where we explore the infinite wisdom—or lack thereof—of the fine folks navigating the roads of our humble Tennessee town. Today’s topic: The Great Flashing Yellow Light Conundrum.
Well, here we are. Another year older, another year wiser—or at least that’s what they say to make you feel better about creaking knees and random body aches. I’ve officially reached that sweet spot in life where I have no clue what my kids are saying anymore (“No cap,” “Skibidi,” and “Gyat” sound like a foreign language) and a free birthday pizza feels like winning the lottery.
The days after Christmas always feels like the calm after the storm, doesn’t it? Yesterday was a whirlwind of wrapping paper explosions, cheers of excitement, and a warm cup of coffee to keep up with it all. Our 14-year-old surprised us all by being gracious and kind throughout the entire day, even declaring it a good Christmas—a rare and heartwarming moment of teenage contentment. Meanwhile, our 11-year-old tore through her gifts with a whirlwind of excitement, but her enthusiasm was matched by her gratitude. She was genuinely thrilled with everything she received, reminding us of the magic that comes with her age.
Parenting is a delicate balance of patience, love, and holding onto your sanity with a thin thread. But every now and then, that thread snaps—and last night, mine snapped hard...
Seriously, what's the purpose of a raised Dually truck? I mean, let’s break it down. You’re hauling what, exactly? A barn? A small country? It’s like someone looked at the monster truck and thought, "Yeah, let’s tone it down juuuust enough to drive it to Walmart."
It's a typical Tuesday evening. The house is calm, dinner plates are still in the sink, and the muffled sounds of online warfare seep from behind his closed door. Then, the volume crescendos—explosions, gunfire, and, inevitably, the guttural screams of a 14-year-old losing at a game he swears he’s the best at. "Bruh, oh my God," he shrieks, hammering his keyboard as if smashing 'W' and 'D' simultaneously will somehow resurrect his character. He YEETS his headset and pushes away from his disheveled landscape of snack wrappers, Dorito dust and water bottles just for the chaos to unfold. His eyes blaze with fury; his face contorts into a Picasso painting of adolescent angst. And then, in a grand finale worthy of an MMA fighter delivering the knockout blow, his foot rises, and the wall…well, the wall becomes a casualty of war..
At 39, I had it all figured out—well, at least that’s what I thought. Single dad, checking all the boxes: loving my daughter, going to work, living life. I had settled into the comfort of my own solitude, like an old, familiar sweater. Love? Yeah, I’d given up on that. Not in the bitter, heartbroken way—more in the "I’ve made peace with it" kind of way. The silence was nice, the routine soothing. I found a certain serenity in loneliness, convincing myself that maybe this was it. Peace, at last.
The day I proposed was meant to be perfect, or at least that was the plan.
It all began innocently enough. My daughter came over, the usual blend of hugs, laughter, and… congestion. I noticed the sniffles but, being a hopeful optimist or delusional parent, I thought, "Oh, it’s probably allergies. She’ll be fine." I couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried. Little did I know that slight congestion was a Trojan horse, carrying an army of germs ready to wage biological warfare on our entire household.
Sunrise & Spilled Coffee was born out of a love for the quiet moments at the start of the day, accompanied by the comforting aroma of a freshly brewed cup. Our blog is a haven for those who seek to find inspiration, share laughter, and engage in thoughtful reflections. We explore the beauty of mornings—whether it's the peace of watching the sunrise, the chaos of a spilled coffee, or the adventures that follow. Our mission is to connect with readers through authentic and relatable storytelling, celebrating the little things that make each day special. Whether you're a morning person or a night owl, we hope to bring a smile to your face and a spark to your morning routine. Join us as we navigate the twists and turns of life, one sunrise and spilled coffee at a time.
