As I stepped into the log that would transport us up Splash Mountain, a cast member (that’s what Disneyland calls their employees) told me to sit at the back of the log so I could watch my three oldest kids sitting in front of me. We were the only four people in log as we made our way though the twisty path and higher up the mountain.  Each child flipped their head around to see if I was still there as we inched closer to that final descent.

Yet that final plunge can’t take more than 5 seconds. Floating around for a few minutes before that plunge was the best part of the ride for me. My kids asked me questions such like, “Is the water cold?” and we laughed and giggled and did stuff we do when mom isn’t around. I felt like I was seeing the ride through their eyes although I was the only one not hugging the life out of the seat ahead of me.

 
Taking a break at the ice cream parlor at Disneyland

The Splash Mountain ride was a microcosm of our time at Disneyland this past week. We spent a lot of time waiting in lines. We certainly didn’t set any records for going on the most rides. Moving three young kids and a baby around the park takes patience and aggressive driving skills . I stopped counting the number of feet belonging to strangers I ran over with the stroller. But the time we spent together as a family between rides ended up providing a lot of fun memories.

Nobody threw up. No tantrums were thrown. Not even by the kids. Nobody fell off a ride, nor did any rides have to make an emergency stop due to the actions of our children. We managed to return home with all 4 kids too. By those standards our trip was a success.

And the only person who lost anything was me. On that last trip up Splash Mountain, my Seattle Seahawks hat flew off as we picked up speed going down the final hill.

“Dad, your hair looks all squishy”

I spent the evening at the home of my boss who own a gorgeous home out in the country. Not only is his home gorgeous, it’s a large home on 25 acres and includes a barn, guest home and lots of pasture for his three horses. As I stood on the porch, I watched 3 deer walk across the grass  It’s such a peaceful setting.

As he gave me a tour of his home, I thought to myself, “I’d be a lot happier if I had a home this big”. 

After a few hours, I left his house and drove through a maze of twisty, dimly lit roads to my much smaller home that’s probably not much bigger than his barn. Our home is not decorated as well nor does it have fancy landscaping, exotic stones or many deer passing through the yard. The grass is a little longer than it should be and there are toys scattered throughout the backyard.

It certainly isn’t on par with the house I just visited.

And then I started thinking.

If I had a bigger home I wouldn’t see my kids as much.

If I had a bigger home I wouldn’t be able to hear my kids laugh themselves silly.

If I had a bigger home I wouldn’t overhear the funny stories they tell each other.

Then then I realized that a bigger home wouldn’t make me any happier because I’m already as happy as a father can be.

A funny thing happened when my dad bought a new computer this year with a much larger monitor: my mom started spending more time on the internet. She’ll search Google for topics she finds of interest and looks at the pictures and news posted to our family website.

She also started reading my blog.

Although I’ve kept a blog for many years I’ve never given much thought to my mom or dad coming across it till this year. It’s not that I’ve written anything I’d worry about them reading but I didn’t give much thought how it might influence or affect them.

A few months ago my mom read a post I wrote about my divorce and another about leaving a miserable job. I happened to speak with her on the phone that next weekend and I was surprised to hear that she was interested in what I’d written because it provided details she’d not heard before. Which makes sense because I didn’t live close to my family during these two difficult times in my life.

I told my mom during our conversations that “my blog is like a journal” to me and that I hope it lasted long enough for my kids to one day read. I asked my mom if she’d let me read parts of her journal, and I was shocked when she said yes. When my father flew up to visit us a few weeks ago he brought with him a handful of pages from her journal comprising the year 1987. This is the year after I graduated high school and began serving my mission in Germany.

My mom has the most gorgeous penmanship which was not handed down by gene or otherwise. She wrote mostly in dark ink on lined 3-ring binder paper but occasionally tossed in a colored marker to keep things interesting. I began reading her journal that afternoon and couldn’t put it down. I stayed up till 2 am until I’d finished reading every word. It was fascinating, encouraging and humbling. I learned a lot about my mom and our family. My mom is a kind person with a strong will and quick wit and that comes through in her writing style. We also have at least one more trait in common: we both enjoy writing.

Tonight I sealed her journal in a manilla envelope and will mail it back to her tomorrow. My hope is that she’ll continue to send me pages to read. I am not going pressure her, but I’ll be grateful for whatever she’s willing to send me. She’ll continue to read my blog and learn more about her son and I hope I’ll continue to learn more about her life and what it was like raising 5 kids on a teacher’s salary.

My mom is an amazing woman.

In the B.K. (before kids) era I convinced Kim that we should have a dog. It didn’t take much convincing because she grew up with a beagle and a shar pei. Most of her memories of these dogs were positive except the time the shar pei ate a litter of kittens.

We  spent weekends at the bookstore researching breeds and asking many owners how they felt about the breed they owned. After a lot of research we decided to get a boxer. Having a boxer puppy around the house was a lot of fun mixed with moments of frustration. She bonded with me during the first few years. I attended the puppy pre-school classes with her and she learned to obey me a little better than she did Kim. Maybe it had something to do with Kim not allowing her to sleep on the couch or beds.

But over the past few years she’s become very attached to Kim. Elka has a puffy bed I place between my computer and Kim’s yet Elka would rather lay on the hard carpet next to Kim’s feet. She’s excited when I come home from work but she prefers to follow Kim around the house watching her every move.

Our children adore Elka and she loves them back with lots of wet kisses. We feel safest when Elka is keeping watch over our kids as they play in our backyard, and Kim likes having a big dog in the house when I’m out of town.

When we picked her up from the breeder just over eight years ago, he told us that if we took care of her properly, we’d receive 10 times the love and companionship in return. I laughed it off at the time, but he he was right.

Except he was off by a factor of 10. 

As I was putting the kids to bed…well, let me rephrase that…as I tried in vain to herd my two daughters into their room while Kim held an ice pack to Lincoln’s bare butt (don’t ask) I noticed this job list on on Lincoln’s night stand. Kim must have written it yesterday in preparation for my dad’s visit to Seattle.

I read through the job list twice and was surprised I didn’t receive a single task which is curious since I took the day off work. At the very least I could have cleaned under my bed.

I did spend about 45 minutes cleaning my bathroom. I am amazed that Kim can read 4 books for every book I read and I believe that ratio holds true when it comes to chores around the house. While I cleaned one small bathroom she cleaned the entire upstairs of our home.

Next time a list like this gets made I’m calling dibs on lint roller duty.

The strawberries are so delicious this time of year that we’ve been buying a large container full of them each week. Sometimes two. Tonight I started to wash and cut up a few when Lincoln pulled up a chair to watch me. The kids love them and their favorite way to eat them is to dip them in whipped cream. But this is the parents least favorite way to serve them because the table, floor and their faces end up looking like someone threw cream pies around the kitchen. I swear more whipped cream ends up in their hair and ears than in their mouths.

Lincoln watched me cut up a number of strawberries without saying a word. I washed, cut and placed them in my bowl. Once my bowl was full I’d pour cream over them and enjoy. He watched until he couldn’t possibly keep quiet anymore.

“Dad, those look really really good”

“Yep, I’ll bet they are"

“Your bowl is almost full”

“Yes, but not quite”

(pause)

“Dad, will there be any strawberries left over?”

“Probably”

(big smile)

“When I’m the dad I’m gonna make them just like you”

I took a small blue bowl (his favorite color) and cut up a few for him. We sat at the table together eating our strawberries and cream. He explained to me that cream is “like milk but even better”. He slowly scooped out each strawberry until he was left with a bowl of cream which he lifted to his mouth and drank till it was gone. Only a small cream mustache remained as evidence of our afternoon snack.