Twists and Turns Along the Journey

I find that as I get older I experience fewer peaks and valleys. Maybe I take fewer risks because I have four children and a spouse who rely on me to provide for them. That’s probably a good thing because children gravitate to people they can count on.

But fewer lows means fewer highs, and I miss the highs.

Could it be that I’m becoming more stable? More mature? Or more boring. It’s probably a combination of many factors. I turned 43 this year. I’ve now been married and out of college for nearly half my life. I know what my strengths and weaknesses are in both areas. When I was younger, I fought against those weaknesses by ignoring them. When I realized that wasn’t working I began to focus on them. But over the past few years I’ve come full circle to the point where I try to spend my time doing what I do well.

I pick fewer fights. I’ve learned that only a few topics are worth taking a strong stand on and those are usually family related. Let others battle it out over the mindless details and let karma take care of those who treat others poorly.

What I’m finally beginning to understand is that I like myself for who I am. A number of twists and turns mixed with with a few roadblocks along the journey can make a person wonder if he’s heading in the right direction. I second-guessed myself a time or two, and I shouldn’t have.

Last year at this time, Kim and I discussed cutting back in a number of areas including activities that kept our family from spending time together. That’s resulted in the kids occasionally having to choose between a school and church activity. It’s meant that Kim and I have spent fewer nights and weekends doing our own thing. When we’ve had free time, we’ve spent it together as a family. We’ve stopped feeling lazy because we participate in fewer activities than most of our family and friends.

This past summer, we spent several weeks visiting the coastal towns and beaches of Washington with Kim’s parents. We slept in a tent and fell asleep listening to the waves crash against the sand while our kids slept in sleeping bags next to us. No rushing from one exhibit to the next. Just simple living and spending more time together. Remove most of the distractions and time seems to slow down.

My father came to stay with us for a few days. We used to spend a good portion of his visit going around to the various Seattle attractions. But today he took the kids shopping. As I pushed our 3-year old in a stroller, I watched how my three oldest children laughed, hugged and basically mauled my father for a couple of hours. I don’t know who was happier to see each other. I have no doubt neither would want to be anywhere else. Sure, the kids enjoy the new clothes. But it’s the time he spends with them that can’t replicated.

I don’t know what I’ll be doing in 20 years. But after watching my father, I hope I’m doing exactly what he did today.

Icy Roads

Driving around town today, I had a chance to chat with my oldest daughter who decided to tag along. Well, I coaxed her into coming along to keep her younger brother from shoplifting every flavor of gum near the register.

The roads were covered in light snow which hid a thick layer of ice. That made for slow going, but also provided more time to listen to my daughter tell me about her favorite Christmas gifts.

“What were a few of the memorable activities you did this year?", I asked. I assumed she’d name the fancy birthday parties she attended. Or the times we took her shopping or to the movies. But I was wrong.

"I loved spending time at the beach with grandpa and grandma”

“I love when grandpa from Ogden comes to visit”

“I like when you take me to work”

“I like playing the piano with mom”

The answers she gave were not ones I would have guessed. They didn’t involve spending a lot of money or visiting exotic locations. When I reminded her of a field trip she took see how the salmon in the area spawn, she said, “That was fun, but I really liked playing games on your phone while sitting next to you on the bus”.

As good as it was to hear that from my daughter it made me contemplate how her view of what’s important doesn’t necessarily match what I thought. As a parent, I’m expect to know what’s best for my children. Or at least be in the ballpark. This was one of those times where my child’s answers surprised me.

At the very least, I should be listening to my children. And asking questions like I did today. How else will I know what’s important to them? Maybe they’d rather play a board game than go to the movies. I assumed the bigger the better. But that’s clearly not always true. Bigger doesn’t automatically mean more memorable.

Next time I won’t wait for icy roads to ask.

Raindrops Keep Falling

The routine is the same each winter morning.

I make sure my compact umbrella is inside my briefcase. I slip my black leather gloves over my cold fingers, but not before I pull on my jacket. Once zipped the gloves go on.

I used to wear a wool Northface hat. But Kim made me one that’s much softer and better looking. That’s my last line of defense against the chilly Seattle mornings.

Just the thought of standing on the platform waiting for the train sends a chill down my spine. Gusts of wind following every freight train. The sight of of my breath as I rub my hands together. The type of cold that makes each breath seem like a chore. My feet were always the first to go numb.

But tonight it warmed up to 55 degrees and began to rain. I stood off our deck and listened to the rain hit the wooden slats. I considered grabbing my jacket. Or an umbrella. Anything to act as a barrier between me and the elements. Instead, I stood there.

When is the last time you’ve stood outside in a rainstorm?

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Cryin’s not for me
‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free
Nothin’s worryin’ me

That’s one of the first songs I heard on the radio. Even as a kid, I knew all the lyrics and would sing along as it blared from the AC Delco radio in my dad’s Dodge Duster.

My shirt was now soaked. Rain dripped off my hair and onto my face and down my nose. As a kid did you ever look up at the sky and try to catch drops in your mouth until one hit you square in the eye? I stood there until I was soaked. My dog had long found dry ground inside. I felt as though I’d taken a cold shower in my clothes and considered what excuse I’d tell my kids when they asked why I was all wet.

I don’t know why I did this. Maybe to feel like a kid again having turned 43 last week. But I can tell you that it made me feel alive. Too often I instruct my kids to put on a jacket or grab an umbrella before going outside. Don’t step in the puddle because your shoes might get wet. Get all bundled up so you can play outside as if you were inside.

Forget that.

Next storm I’m going to grab my kids and run with them until we are soaked to the bone. If clothes have to be hung in the garage before we can come back in the house, I’ll know I’ve succeeded.

The Time Was 10 pm

The time was 10 pm.

By this time, teeth should be brushed, drinks of water administered and any last minute stalling by the kids should come with a reminder that Christmas is just around the corner.

Yet here I sit at the table with a semi-cold plate of chicken nuggets wondering if they were the dinosaur shaped ones I sampled at Costco. But I didn’t have to time make a determination because my two daughters decided to join me in the kitchen.

Luca pulled up a chair to one side while Anna did the same on the other. They sat on their knees and leaned as far in to the table as possible or about six inches from my ears.

And then the questions came as if I were being interrogated by the TSA.

“Dad, why are you eating so late?”

“Dad, ask us some math questions?”

“Dad, what is your worst favorite color?” (I never know how to answer this one)

“Dad, will you make us some popcorn?”

“Dad, when are you going to put up the Christmas lights?”

“Dad, can we get a real tree this year?”

“Dad, dad, dad! Tell us the story of the three guys!”

The questions come so fast and furious that it’s impossible to keep up. I can’t help but think it’s now after 10 pm and they should be in bed. It’s a school night. I should put a stop to the questions and send them to bed with a hug and kiss.

But tonight I sat at the table and listened to my daughters. Over time, the questions directed at me turned into them sharing stories about school. This doesn’t happen often. It’s not uncommon for my inquiries about school to be met with a shrug of the shoulders and a “it’s fine”.

I was surprised to hear Luca tell me how much she enjoys math. Anna also enjoys math but not as much as dancing and why should school get in the way of a little dancing?

“You’ll be 43 on your birthday which is a prime number”, said Luca.

And with that observation, these two silly and vibrant daughters of mine skipped off to bed.

Next time I’m frustrated with the level of interaction I’m having with my children, I need to remember this evening. How they approached me. On their terms and at a time that was right for them. I didn’t try to force anything. Instead I listened. I never look back and wish I’d talked more and listened less.

Next time I’ll consider making popcorn. And maybe Anna will dance for us.

Speak to Me

Most parents I know want their children to fit in. At school, at parties, at church and with friends, fitting in is important. Standing out from the crowd is OK too as long as it’s for the right reasons. One can see this in school when one student is clearly better at soccer than her classmates. Or at the talent show where a young boy plays Mozart instead of lip-syncing to the Jonas Brothers.

Every parent wants his child to feel accepted. A child’s ability to act and communicate appropriately within context plays a big part in this.

I’ve taken this part of raising children for granted. Our first three children spoke early and often. It wasn’t until the fourth child came along that I realized we were in for some challenges in this area.

Our youngest son, who will be three at the end of the month, has trouble communicating with children his age. To be honest, he has great difficulty communicating with anyone besides his mother.

He tries to speak. In his mind, his is speaking. But other than a handful of words here and there, he’s unable to string a sentence together. He speaks with inflection which tells us he is frustrated when others cannot understand him. That Kai recognizes others do not understand him provides us with hope because that’s a step in the right direction.

We’ve learned that each child develops language on his or her own timeframe. It does little good to compare our son to his three older siblings and their rate of speech development. Each one is different. But, by the age of three, he should be further along than he is today. That we know.

We’ve discussed his situation with our pediatrician. The State of Washington provide speech therapy for children of pre-school age, and we’ve been blessed to live in an area where such skillful counselors and therapist can work with our son. I know many people have his best interests in mind and are working to help him make progress so he’ll be ready for Kindergarten.

But it’s still painful to watch. Especially when his frustration mounts and he lashes out physically. This makes him stand out for the wrong reasons.

I tucked his sisters into bed tonight, and then his brother. When I came to Kai, he pointed at his bed and said a few words I could not understand. I asked him to repeat what he said, and this time I understood the last two words: “by me”. He wanted me to lay next to him like I’d done with his sisters.

So that’s what I did. He wedged himself next to me and gently touched my nose and cheeks. He stared at my face for a while without saying anything. I believe his touch is a way of communicating with me. I wish we could converse. We know he has a long road ahead of him. We pray his speech will improve. Not just so that we can converse with him but so he’ll fit in with children his age.

But for the time being, I have to look for alternative ways of communicating with my son. Like allowing him to help push the lawn mower with me. Or watching his face light up when I toss the baseball before he smacks it across the yard. This is the first time I recall him asking me to lay next to him. I stare into his eyes and wonder what he’s thinking.

“I love you, Kai” I tell him before I kiss him on the forehead and turn off the light.

Kai just looks at me and smiles before leaning over, grabbing my neck and giving me a slobbery kiss on the cheek. He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

The Many Hats

I have a difficult time keeping track of all the hats I’ve inherited.

For example, I wake up as a father, but must smoothly switch over to my manager hat at work. And then revert back to father and husband when I arrive home.

At times, I wish I could focus on one role, perfect it, before being asked to fill another. But there’s no time for that because I’m a teacher each Sunday while trying to be a friend to someone who needs that part of me, at that moment. And that doesn’t cover the times I’m supposed to be a brother. Or son-in-law, coworker or neighbor.

Too many hat and accompanying responsibilities to keep track off.

And not enough time to transition from one to another. Occasionally, I’ll catch myself trying to manage my children when I should walk through the door as their father, not their boss.

Juggling different hats isn’t easy.

Yesterday, I scheduled a day off work to accompany my daughter on a school field trip. I boarded a bus full of fourth and fifth graders and sat next to the window because Luca likes the aisle seat. The cushy vinyl covered seat grinds into my knees because this bus was not built for anyone over five feet tall. But none of that matters because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Having the opportunity to spend a few moments with my daughter without distractions is rare.

Without seatbelts to keep us attached to the bus bench, every bump in the road sends us bouncing up and down like the gopher in Caddyshack.

We eventually made our way to the riverbank where two women taught us about the life cycle of salmon. We learned about the five varieties in salmon found in the Seattle area (Coho, Chum, Pink, Sockeye, and Chinook). The kids were able to walk near the river’s edge and see a group of Sockeye swimming near the shore. The children talked in hush tones as to not frighten the fish. Even the adult chaperones were mesmerized.

Before we boarded the bus, we had lunch. Luca and I sat on a log and ate our lunch. I drank my Diet Coke and Luca munched on her salt and vinegar chips. There was so much lush scenery to take in that we didn’t say much to each other. But every so often, I heard a notification that an email had arrived.

That dang beep entices me to remove my father hat. It will be a quick switch, I tell myself. Just one email and I’ll tune back in. Luca won’t notice.

But I fought the urge and only pulled out my phone to capture the picture below from where we were sitting. Small gusts of wind sent leaves raining down from the giant maple trees. The sun began to poke through the tree trunks as we finished our lunch and walked back to the bus.

It’s not always possible to keep hats from overlapping. There are times when personal life will interfere with work and vice versa.

But yesterday was a good reminder that I’m a father first. And on those occasions when I get that right, all the other hats seem to fall into place.

Veering Off Into Unchartered Territory

When Kim pulled the van into the driveway, I could tell by her expression that something was wrong. She was returning from taking our boxer to the vet.

But her words didn’t sink in.

Until I took my oldest daughter for a drive later this evening. I waited until we’d passed through our neighborhood before saying anything. She’s old enough to know when something is wrong.

“Elka is sick”, I tell her.

“I know”, she replies.

I veer off the exit heading towards HWY 18 and into unchartered territory as a father. How do I tell my child the that only dog she’s ever owned has a brain tumor? We brought Elka home a few months before we found out we were expecting our first child. That child now wants to know what’s wrong, yet I sense she doesn’t really want to know. Because she already knows.

“How long will she live?”, she asks.

That’s the unknown. Nobody knows how long she will live. We know the tumor has grown enough that’s it’s making her right eye bulge. But that’s it. It’s like someone gave me a grenade to hold. I know it’s going off. I just don’t know when.

Elka was about 1 years old when this picture was taken with Kim.

I try to keep my composure. I take a deep breath. And then another. I know what I want to tell her but the words will not come out. And if they do, I know my emotions will drown them out. The last thing I want to do is upset my daughter. In my mind, I repeat what I want to tell her.

I’m glad it’s dark so she can’t see my face.

“I don’t know how long she will live. The vet will tell us more on Tuesday”, I say as I look straight ahead.

I don’t know what else to say. My head is spinning and my mind is numb. I understand this is part of bringing a pet into our lives. The first few years are spent training and getting acquainted. Those four to six years after that are some of the best. She knows us and we know her. She knows our routine, and there are few surprises. She’s young enough to rough-house with our young children. Of course, they adore her.

But I wasn’t prepared for this past year. Watching her avoiding going up or down steps. Stretching her stiff limbs and retreating to a quiet corner of the house when the kids get too rowdy. And then the grenade handed off to us tonight by the vet.

We find out more on Tuesday, but her prognosis does not look good. We knew that tumors hit boxers as often as any breed. We signed up for that.

When I returned from racquetball tonight, I looked up towards our living room window. Elka was there waiting to greet me. Her body shaking back and forth. Like she’s done hundreds of times.

All I ask God for is a few more.

Planes to Catch and Bills to Pay

There was no chance that life could get any more hectic.

I attended classes at the University of Utah for six hours before running off to work at a law firm for another four to six. When I wasn’t in class or at work, I had my head in a book. Or maybe I was typing away late at night on a term paper due the next morning. No way could my life get any busier.

And then I got married and took a job that required a lot of travel. The few days I had with Kim were spent celebrating my return or preparing for my next trip. We also managed a small apartment complex, and Kim worked full-time. And then church callings came and I found myself sitting in an early morning meeting every Sunday on the only day I had to sleep past 6 am. Saturday morning was out because we had to show apartments to potential tenants. Life was hectic, and I couldn’t imagine it becoming any more so.

And then we purchased a home, added a dog and had four children. What we were thinking?

I look back on those years in college and as a newlywed and they seem carefree and relaxing compared to today. There are times when it feels like there’s little room to breathe between school activities, piano practices, fund raisers and diaper changes. There’s no such thing as a commitment-free weekend anymore.

Kim and I decided years ago that we would not pack our kid’s days full of of extracurricular activities. Our children would like to join more soccer teams and take more dance or piano lessons, but we simply can’t allow that and still maintain our sanity. In addition to church and school, we’ve decided that one commitment is enough for them right now.

I can see how some fathers dive into work and never come up for air until their children are well into their teens. There’s always someone else to raise my kids. There’s always tomorrow, right?

There are days when 5 pm rolls around and I think to myself, “Should I stay later and read my favorite blogs in peace?” The choice isn’t always clear when the alternative is to leave work and join the circus at home that’s already in progress with no signs of slowing down.

My mistakes are there for my children to see. They are impossible to hide regardless of how hard I try to keep them hidden. But I believe my children would rather I was present, mistakes and all, than not around at all. Reminds of Harry Chapin’s “Cats in the Cradle”

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin’ home dad?
I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then

And yet, when such thoughts arise, something happens that reminds me how wonderful this time in our lives really is. Like last night when I put Kai to bed and he grabbed my cheeks and gave me an aggressive kiss to the nose before turning over and falling asleep. Or Luca asking me to rub her sore feet. Or Lincoln sneaking up behind my chair at the computer to proudly show me his latest math test.

Before I had children, I would have laughed at the above. They seem like small almost insignificant activities. But they are what bind us together and make the rough times more palatable. String a number of these events together and strong family ties are created.

I figure if my children can approach me today, there’s a better chance they will approach me in the future. When the topics of discussion turn from basketball to boys.

And everything in-between.

Sling Shots and Sirens

Last night I raced home from work to change my clothes and grab a snack before leaving the house to play racquetball with a group of friends. By the time I returned home, my kids were on their way to bed. That same morning I saw them for a few minutes before leaving for work.

Nothing more than a quick conversation here and there. Time didn’t allow for anything more. Not much difference in how I was raised. When I was young, my father was either coming or going. He worked so mom could be home with us.

It all makes me wonder how much influence I have with my children. Not just today but down the road. Or am I merely a blur, always on the go?

And then I think of all the people who had a hand in teaching and raising me. I’m convinced that raising children requires a mix of effort, focus and sheer luck.

I remember the cub scout leader who taught me how to sew a button on a shirt and tie a number of useful sounding knots. That was offset by the neighbor who taught me how to win a fight with Roman Candles and craft a slingshot using surgical tubing.

Or the friend who taught me how to play chess and solve a Rubik’ Cube.

Or the neighborhood punk who taught me how to play pinball at pool. He’s the same one who taught me how to spin pennies into the Gorf machine for free games. Or shake the vending machine for extra Zingers.

Looking back, I didn’t do anything too illegal or dangerous. Unless you count setting a field on fire, but that was extinguished quickly before any homes were engulfed.

And I suppose this is why I worry about my own children. I know others will have an influence in their lives, and I probably won’t know it until I hear the sirens.

But I know many of these awkward teaching opportunities will be followed by moments that have a lasting impact on their lives. Many will come from people I’ve never met.

But they will happen.

Like the time a teacher pulled me aside to explain why I should be kind to everyone in class. Or the time a coach spent his weekend working with me on my hitting stance. Or the instructor at church who encouraged me to serve a mission. Or the woman at church who told me I had a nice smile.

I’m counting on life maintaining a natural balance. May the story times outnumber the smoke bombs.

Street Ball

My first thought was, “which one of the kids took my basketball?” I normally place it in the kid’s Radio Flyer wagon, but it was nowhere to be found.

After spending a day sitting in front of a computer, I enjoy the relaxation that comes from shooting around on the hoop just outside our home. A sliver of sun shone through the clouds and my neighbors car wasn’t blocking my designated 3-point line. Just me and the sound of a swishing net.

But none of that mattered if I couldn’t find my Spalding.

As I was about to head back inside, I heard the faint sounds of a ball hitting the pavement. I peered out of the garage to see my youngest son standing under the basket with my ball. I watched as he “granny” tossed it towards the hoop. A regulation basketball tossed upwards by a 2.5 year old doesn’t quite make it to the rim. In fact, it barely goes as high as he is tall.

If he was lucky, the ball would end up a few feet away on the grass. But if the ball hit the curb, he’d give chase until it rolled onto our neighbor’s driveway or ricocheted off their car.

I thought of the endless hours my father spent teaching me how to shoot a basketball. I didn’t possess much upper body strength, and I’d tend to drop the ball down next to my chin. I can’t imagine how many times my father instructed me to keep the ball above my head where it was more difficult to block. Before mom called us inside for dinner my dad would stand under the basket and retrieve the ball as I took shots from different areas of the court in a game called “Around the World”. The number of shots over the years would easily number into the thousands. Some even found the bottom of the net.

Those were my thoughts as I left the garage and headed towards my son.

For the next twenty minutes I stood under the basket and tried to anticipate what direction the ball would bounce after leaving his small arms. We talked, and laughed and danced around the court together. If I wasn’t already clear on the issue, he told me again that the ball was his.

A few more years will pass before he’s able to get the ball anywhere near the rim. But until then, I’m happy to play the role of rebounder. Because I know how much this time meant to another young boy many years ago.