“Just One More…” — What Bedtime Battles Taught Me About the Stoic Virtue of Temperance

When my son kept reaching for one more snack, one more story, one more show ( or at least the first 5 minutes to see what happens) — I realized the most loving thing I could do wasn’t saying yes, but holding the line with purpose, clarity, and care.

This is Part 4 of a four-part series on incorporating Stoic principles into my son’s and my life. Each post explores one of the core Stoic virtues, finishing with Temperance.


Temperance:

Desire always asks for more.
Temperance knows when enough is enough.


It always starts with a plea:

“Just one more…”

One more minute.
One more snack.
One more video.
One more chapter, even after we agreed it was the last.

My son says it almost without thinking.
But I hear it for what it is:
A test.
A request.
A reaching out for more —
and maybe a way to delay the next thing he doesn’t want to do.

And the truth is, sometimes I want to say yes. Because I’m tired. Because he’s cute. Because one more feels easier than a meltdown. And I don’t want some moments to end either. Sometimes I’d love to give in — to stretch bedtime a little longer, to enjoy just one more laugh or cuddle. But I’ve come to see that parenting isn’t only about the moment. It’s also about the bigger picture — about what’s healthiest and most meaningful for both of us in the long run.

And that is what Temperance asks of us.

It asks for steadiness, not surrender.
For clarity, not control.
It invites me to stay grounded — even when the easy answer is yes.

Not just for me. But also for him.


Temperance Means Holding the Line with Love

The Stoics saw Temperance not as denial, but as discipline with purpose.
It’s knowing what’s enough — and having the strength to stop there.

The nights, when I said no to a third snack, or paused the screen when the timer beeped, or held him while he cried because he didn’t get what he wanted — that was Temperance too.

Not because I was cold. But because I was clear. Because I was present. Because I wanted to teach him that limits are love, not punishment.

Because love isn’t always about saying yes — it’s about knowing when to say it’s been enough. It’s helping him feel safe in a world that doesn’t bend to every whim. It’s showing him that his needs matter more than his impulses. And that the people who care for him will guide him through disappointment, not avoid it.


A Bedtime Battle, A Bigger Lesson

Last week, he hit his limit. We were three requests past lights out. He had asked for another snack, another video, another glass of water, another everything. And when I gently said, “No more tonight, bud. It’s time to get to bed,” he broke.

Tears. Yelling. Arms crossed tight.
And then finally, climbing into my lap with his face buried in my shirt.

He didn’t need the snack.
Or the screen.
He needed me — to give him some limits and help him reset and get ready for bed.

So I held him.
Not to fix it.
Not to make it go away.
Just to let him know the boundary was still there—
and so was I.

That, too, is Temperance.


Begin With Purpose

Temperance isn’t about being strict for the sake of it.
It’s about starting the day with intention—
and ending it with care.

That means deciding throughout the day: What matters the most right now? And holding that line when things get loud, messy, and emotional.

Even when your kid says,
“Just one more…”

You breathe.
You hold the line.
You love them through it.

Because the world doesn’t need more indulgence. It needs more calm and rational moments. More clarity. More parents who are willing to begin with purpose.


Try This Tomorrow:

For You:
Pick one area where you often give in, out of exhaustion.
Decide ahead of time what “enough” looks like.
Stick to it, gently and without apology, throughout the day.

Together:
Let your child know the plan ahead of time: one show, one snack, one story.
Then offer something more lasting: a snuggle, a conversation, a moment of stillness.


Final Thought

Boundaries aren’t walls.
They’re garden fences,
built to protect what we love.

And inside those fences,
with presence and purpose,
nourishment grows.

How I’m Learning to Let Go of What I Can’t Control — One Morning at a Time

What a glass of water, an iPad, and one quiet breath taught me about fatherhood and control.

by A Mindful Dad’s Life

This is Part 1 of a 4-part series on building a Stoic morning routine with my son. Each post explores one of the core Stoic virtues — starting with Wisdom.

It starts early. The light barely breaks the edge of the blinds. He’s with me this week. I hear him rustle the blanket and quietly walk to the couch. No words. No eye contact. Just the quiet tap of his thumb on the iPad. YouTube boots up before the sun has a chance to.

I stand there, holding a glass of water. He won’t drink it. And I just watch him for a second. Wondering, is this it? Is this what single-fatherhood looks like?

It’s not judgment. It’s just an observation. He’s 8. He’s tired. He’s adapting. I am too.

But here’s what I know — in my gut: If I don’t help shape this time with him, the world will.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we begin things. Mornings. Conversations. Relationships. Transitions. And what we teach when we don’t even mean to.

I don’t want our mornings to be just something we survive. I want them to be something we build. Together. Not a schedule I enforce — a rhythm we create. A kind of practice. A shared breath before the day takes off.

And so I’ve turned to something old. Something tested. Stoicism. I’ve read about the virtues — and they feel solid. Honest. Like trail markers in fog.

And the first blazer is Wisdom.

🧠 Wisdom Means Knowing What Matters

Wisdom, in this context, isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing what matters.

Like this:

Can I control whether my son wakes up happy?
 No.

Can I control if he reaches for the iPad?
 Not always.

But I can control what I model.
 I can control the tone I use.
 I can choose presence over impatience.
 That’s Wisdom. And it’s quiet. Almost invisible. But it sets a tone.

When I rush. When I micromanage. When I start barking orders, I can feel the thread snap. We lose the morning.

But if I focus on rhythm — on showing up steady, showing up kind — something shifts. I remind him to drink water. I ask for a hug. I don’t force it.

And he notices. Even if he doesn’t say a word.

🛠 A Tool for Both of Us

So now we do this thing.

After the yawns and stretches. Before screens.

We pause.

Sometimes we light a candle.
 Sometimes we sit in silence.
 Sometimes I ask, “What do you want to be in charge of today?”

He’s 8. But he knows. He just needs room to practice.

🔁 Try This Tomorrow

  • For You: Right after you wake up, take a breath. One deep breath. Say to yourself, “Today, I will focus on what matters.”
  • Together: Once they’re up, before the rush kicks in, sit with them. Light a candle. Say one thing you can’t control today — and let it go. Then say one thing you can — and own it. End with a quiet hope for the day.

Just a minute. Maybe two. But it grounds everything.

✍️ Final Thought

Not every morning will land. Some will be messy. Some will be rushed.

But this isn’t about control. It’s about rhythm. It’s about choosing how you show up, guiding them to make good choices — and letting those choices speak for themselves.

We’re not just raising kids. We’re raising ourselves, too.

If you’ve got a rhythm that works — drop it in the comments. Maybe it helps another parent catch their breath.

Because all of this? It’s practice. And practice makes a path we can walk clearly.