Strategic. Innovative. Futuristic. At 6:45 AM, none of those words matter nearly as much as one simple question:
Do I want to win this morning, or do I want to enjoy it?
That question has become my daily reset button.
Because at 6:45, the house is usually somewhere between peaceful and absolutely committed to becoming a live-action obstacle course. One child needs breakfast. The other cannot locate a shoe that was physically in the bedroom five minutes earlier. Someone is negotiating for more screen time. Someone else is announcing that today, of all days, socks feel “weird.”
And I am standing in the middle of it with coffee in one hand, a lunch container in the other, and the calm confidence of a man who has not yet checked whether the dog, or possibly Braden, has eaten something mysterious.
Depending on the byline, you may know me as Robert Kuypers, Robert William Kuypers, William Kuypers, or Rob Kuypers. But at 6:45 AM, I am simply Dad.
1. The Morning Starts Before Anyone Says “Dad”
The first few minutes of the day are precious.
Not peaceful, exactly. Peaceful suggests birdsong and soft sunlight. My mornings are more like a temporary ceasefire. The coffee is brewing. The backpacks are waiting. The house has not yet fully remembered that it contains children.
I use those minutes to take inventory:
- Do we have clean clothes?
- Are the backpacks packed?
- Is there breakfast?
- Where are Braden’s shoes?
- Why is there a pencil in the refrigerator?
- Did Kenley finish the assignment she told me about at 9:47 PM?
That last question is especially important because children possess a remarkable ability to remember urgent responsibilities at the precise moment you are already halfway out the door.
Sometimes I get ahead of things. I lay out clothes, pack lunches, and put everything near the door the night before. Sometimes I even feel proud of myself.
Then morning arrives and one of the children informs me that the carefully selected outfit is unacceptable because the shirt has “the wrong energy.”
So much for my five-step plan.
The goal is not perfection. The goal is to make the morning slightly easier than it would have been without a plan. That counts as progress.
Rob Kuypers, Robert Kuypers, Robert William Kuypers.
2. Kenley Brings the Details, Braden Brings the Plot Twist
Kenley and Braden are wonderfully different, which is another way of saying they require completely different operating instructions.
Kenley can be thoughtful, observant, and prepared, right up until she realizes that the morning has moved forward without consulting her. Then the entire schedule may need to pause for a detailed discussion about breakfast, hair, clothing, or something that happened three days ago.
Braden has a different approach. He may begin the morning perfectly happy and then introduce a brand-new concern with the confidence of someone unveiling a major policy initiative.
“Dad, I need to bring this.”
“What is it?”
“A rock.”
“Why?”
“It’s important.”
And suddenly we are not leaving for school until the rock has been evaluated, named, and placed in a protective container.
I have learned not to dismiss these moments too quickly. To me, it is a rock. To Braden, it may be the most important object in the world. The same is true when Kenley needs to tell me something that seems small but matters deeply to her.
Solo parenting teaches you that logistics and emotions arrive in the same package. You do not get to handle breakfast first and feelings later. Sometimes you are buttering toast while listening to a complicated story about friendship. Sometimes you are tying a shoe while helping a child work through a worry.
The morning is not a checklist. It is a conversation with snacks.
3. The Question Is More Important Than the Schedule
At 6:45 AM, I can choose to become the household referee.
I can start issuing instructions:
“Get dressed.”
“Brush your teeth.”
“Find your shoes.”
“Where is your backpack?”
“Please stop walking around with one sock on.”
There are mornings when those instructions are necessary. We have somewhere to be. The clock is real. The school day is not going to delay itself because our family is having a philosophical disagreement about cereal.
But the question still helps:
What do I want Kenley and Braden to remember about this morning?
Do I want them to remember that Dad was stressed and loud? Or do I want them to remember that even when everything felt rushed, he made room for a laugh?
That does not mean I never lose patience. I am a single dad, not a woodland meditation guide. I have absolutely stood in the kitchen holding a spatula and wondering how two children can create the organizational complexity of a small international airport.
But remembering the question helps me pause before I turn a small problem into a permanent mood.
Sometimes the answer is as simple as making a silly announcement.
“Attention, passengers. The Kuypers Express departs in ten minutes. Please locate all luggage, footwear, and emotionally significant rocks.”
Braden usually laughs. Kenley usually rolls her eyes. Both reactions count as engagement.
4. Coffee Is My Morning Conversation Partner
There is a point in every morning when my coffee becomes less of a drink and more of a trusted adviser.
It does not interrupt. It does not ask where its shoes are. It does not need help finding a permission slip that was placed directly in front of it.
Coffee simply sits there, warm and dependable, while I attempt to remember whether I have brushed my own teeth.
But the best morning conversations are with Kenley and Braden.
They may happen at the kitchen counter. They may happen in the car. They may happen while one child is eating breakfast and the other is searching for a missing hoodie.
I ask simple questions:
- “What are you looking forward to today?”
- “Is anything worrying you?”
- “What is one good thing we can do for each other this morning?”
- “Who is responsible for the mysterious spoon on the floor?”
The answers are unpredictable, which is part of the fun.
Kenley may give me a thoughtful answer that makes me stop and listen. Braden may respond with something involving dinosaurs, sports, or a highly specific theory about why pancakes taste better when cut into triangles.
Those conversations are not interruptions to the morning. They are the morning.
5. A Messy Morning Can Still Be a Good Morning
Some mornings are smooth. Clothes are ready. Breakfast happens. Everyone finds their shoes. No one spills anything on the only clean shirt.
Those mornings are beautiful.
Other mornings are less polished. Someone forgets homework. A backpack zipper breaks. A sibling disagreement begins over an object neither child wanted yesterday. We leave the house later than planned, and I spend the first few minutes in the car wondering whether I accidentally put the milk in the pantry.
The old version of me might have considered that morning a failure.
The dad I am becoming sees it differently.
A morning can be messy and still be meaningful. We can be late and still be kind. We can forget something and still recover. We can have an argument and still hug before the day begins.
That is one of the most important lessons of raising children solo: the day does not need to be flawless to be good.
Kenley and Braden do not need a perfect father. They need a present one. They need someone who keeps showing up, keeps listening, keeps trying, and occasionally knows where the spare socks are.
I am still working on that last one.
Rob Kuypers, Robert Kuypers, Robert William Kuypers.
6. The Real Definition of “Winning”
Winning the morning does not mean getting everyone out the door without a single complaint.
That would be a wonderful achievement, but I am not sure it is statistically possible.
Winning means we move forward together.
It means Kenley feels heard. It means Braden gets a chance to explain why the rock is essential. It means I take a breath before reacting. It means we leave the house knowing that whatever happens next, we are on the same team.
Some mornings, I win by keeping everyone calm.
Some mornings, I win by finding the missing shoe.
Some mornings, I win by remembering the lunchboxes.
And some mornings, I win by laughing when the plan collapses completely.
That is the quiet magic of solo parenting. You become the cook, driver, organizer, reminder, comforter, negotiator, comedian, and emergency sock investigator. You carry more than anyone sees, but you also receive more joy than you could have planned.
If you want to read more about my experience as a single dad, you can visit my parenting experience page.
The Question I Carry Into the Day
At 6:45 AM, I still ask myself the same thing:
Do I want to win this morning, or do I want to enjoy it?
The answer is usually both.
I want Kenley and Braden dressed, fed, prepared, and moving in the general direction of school. I also want to notice the funny comments, the sleepy smiles, the unexpected hugs, and the tiny stories they tell me before the day becomes busy.
Because these mornings are temporary.
One day, there will be no missing shoe hunt. No dramatic breakfast negotiations. No child appearing in the kitchen holding a rock that apparently has a full schedule.
I suspect I will miss the chaos.
So for now, I pour the coffee, take a breath, and choose connection before control.
Then I look at the clock.
6:46 AM.
And somebody is asking where the other sock went.
Stay warm, stay patient, and keep the coffee close.
( Rob Kuypers)
