I would have seen the Lego had I turned on the lights. But I know the route from our downstairs bathroom to my bed by heart. Only seven steps in the dark and I’m at the stairs. From there I guide my hand along the railing and wall to our bedroom where I’m ready to crash.

But on this night, a red Lego was waiting for me on step number three.

My calf is already sore from a racquetball accident. It would have healed by now, but I refuse to stay off the basketball court long enough for it to properly heal.

“Why can’t the kids pickup their toys?” is the first thought through my mind. Had I not been the only one awake I would have yelled loud enough for them to hear.

My ankle is fine. I’m just tired from reminding the kids to pickup their toys before heading to bed.

The next morning nobody admits to leaving out the Lego when I describe my adventure from the night before. Could be any of them. Yet I know that pinning the blame on one of them won’t make my foot feel better.

I let it go.

My afternoon was spent in downtown Seattle. Oh, how I miss working in the city. The sounds and scents make the area feel so alive. I walked through the neighborhoods, and it felt as though it were 1994 and I’d just moved to the Emerald City all over again. Many of the same florists, bakeries and second-hand stores are still in business. The coffee shops were packed on this crisp March afternoon, and the wind blew the roasted evidence through the streets.

Kim picked me up from the train station tonight. Once home, I plopped on the couch and tried to rest my mind with Sponge Bob blaring in the background. All that walking had caught up to me.

And that’s when I noticed our two year old son running to the top of the stairs. His momentum nearly took him down the first set of steps, but he clung to the wall  just enough to gather himself. From behind his back appeared a Lego that he promptly tossed down to the landing. He giggled before he ran off in search of more.

Now it began to make sense.

I watched Kai search. Then run, toss and giggle. Over and over until the landing was covered in Legos and other toys.

That’s my son, I thought. He’s so happy. So carefree. Maybe I should stop him but I don’t. I know I would have done the same thing. If he enjoys tossing Legos today does that mean he’ll toss around a baseball in the front yard with his father one day?

Tonight, Kim placed an exhausted little boy in my arms as we watched the Office.  He was so tired he allowed me to finger comb his floppy blonde hair without pushing my hand away. I looked at his face and wondered aloud if he looks more like Kim or me. I don’t recall his three siblings being so active or demanding at this age. Maybe they were, and my memory is fading with age. 

But these few minutes with Kai beat the Office. Even the one hour episodes. Moments like this don’t last long. Eventually he awakes and scampers away. There are endless Legos to throw.

And if I go to bed with another sore foot tonight, it will have been worth it.

Years ago I complained to my father about how a certain coach motivated his players. My father replied that coaches can’t be expected to tailor their personality and approach to dozens of athletes. Coaches expect players to adapt to their style.

That makes sense when managing large teams.

But it doesn’t make a lot of sense when managing children. Yet that’s what I spent the first few years as a father doing. I wanted to be fair. So I approached each of them in the same manner, assuming the same methods would work for all four children.

For the past several weeks we’ve been taking our kids to a local swimming pool. None of our children have been around water much, and each of them is just beginning to learn to swim. Lincoln likes to play tag in the pool. He learns by swimming around the pool in all directions trying anything to avoid being tagged.

Anna is comfortable diving under the water. She prefers to tell me what she’s going to do and asking me to watch her. She pushes herself to improve and is thrilled when Kim or I watch her learn something new.

Last week, I felt that Luca wasn’t making as much progress as the others. I asked if she wanted to play tag. Nope. I asked if she wanted to jump off the side of the pool. Nope. Nothing I suggested was of interest to her.

She didn’t want to swim to the deeper end of the pool either and clung to her mother when I asked. I left her alone for a few minutes. Eventually she came to me and asked if she could swim to me. It was her idea, not mine. She’d cling to the side of the pool until I moved twenty feet away. She’d then let go and swim to me. She did this over and over until she made good progress. She’s had to work harder at this than her siblings, but she’s coming along well.

I’m beginning to understand that each of my children have unique personalities although we are part of the same family. I can’t act like the coach of a large team and expect each of them react the same way to my way of helping or motivating.

It would be a lot easier to treat them all the same. But I wouldn’t get to know them as well.

The assignment was simple: write two pages about an activity you enjoy. I sat near the back of the class next to my best friend’s girlfriend.

My friend was in Portugal for two years, and I was supposed to keep an eye on his girl. I failed miserably, but that’s another story.

As I left class and walked across Harrison Blvd to my home, I thought about topics I could write about. I’d written very few papers in high school, and didn’t enjoy the process at all. I didn’t feel as though I had any talent as a writer. Writing skills belonged to the students taking AP English.

I knew I’d have to improve now that I was taking college courses at Weber State College.

I considered writing about sports. Maybe the Utah Jazz. But I felt it would take too much research. And what could I say that had any feeling or personality?

I searched for a topic on which I could tell a story: one I felt passionate about. Finally, I decided to write about music. I probably spent three hours writing two pages. In a simple vocabulary, I wrote how I enjoy listening to music in the car.

A friend had recently introduced me to Pink Floyd. I immediately fell in love with Dark Side of the Moon so much that I wore out two cassettes in less than a year. I captured how I listened to this album as I drove up curvy Ogden canyon to see the leaves change colors. It was nothing special, but it was personal.

I asked my mother to proofread it, and she gave me a few suggestions which improved the paper’s clarity. She enjoyed what I’d written. But aren’t all mothers supposed to like what their children create? I wasn’t convinced it was any good and was nervous to hand it in that Friday.

That next Monday I showed up for class and sat in the last row. The professor walked through the door and plopped a stack of papers on his desk. He stared at us for a while. His expression told us he wasn’t in a good mood.

When he finally spoke, he explained how disappointed he was with the effort we’d given the assignment. He felt we could do better. He didn’t mince words. I was glad I’d decided to sit in the back. He explained that we had two days to rewrite our papers before he began returning them.

I waited for my name to be called.

And waited.

There were maybe 35 students in the class.

I was worried my paper was lost. Why wasn’t he calling my name?

The professor finished handing back the papers until he had one in his hand. He said, “I’m going to read to you the only paper I will accept.”

He began reading my paper. I was stunned. This can’t be happening. My friend nudged me, “Is that yours?”

The reason I decided to write about this experience is because this is the only instance I recall where a professor complimented my writing. I still had nearly four years of college ahead of me at the time.

But that didn’t matter.

All it took was this one professor. He saw potential in me and was willing to share it. That gave me confidence at an early stage of my college experience that carried through the next four years.

I still have that paper. Probably packed away in the garage under junk I don’t need.

I’ll bet the B+ grade written in red ink is still visible in the upper right corner too.

“What are all those pictures on the wall for?” Lincoln asked as we sat on a wooden bench waiting for the next available stylist to cut his hair.

“Those are pictures of people with different hair styles”, I replied. “Do you see one you like?”

“They all look weird”, he said.

Lincoln sat close to me on the bench but not too close. His legs dangled off the edge. He scanned the walls looking at all the pictures of people with hair in various stages of disarray.

“How come the guys don’t wear shirts?” he asked.

I explained that he could look around until he found one he liked, and when the stylist asked how he’d like his hair cut, he could point to that picture.

He continued to scan the picture covered walls. I wondered what he was thinking given the models were at least three times his age.

It wasn’t long before Lincoln’s name was called.

He jumped off the bench and climbed into the black barber’s chair. A young women wrapped a black apron around his neck before tapping her foot to raise the chair.

Lincoln stared at himself in the mirror while the woman ran her fingers through his hair before asking, “How would you like your hair cut?”

He looked around the room one more time.

“Can you cut it like my dad’s?”

Good things happen when I keep my shirt on.

Kim and the kids were downstairs decorating Valentine’s Day cards. I decided to slip upstairs and relax. 

How often do you sit back and think? No music or TV blaring in the background. Phone turned off. No distractions or interruptions.

I don’t do this very often. Or when I do, I allow my mind to wander to an email I should send or wonder how tonight’s rose ceremony on the Bachelor will go down.

But tonight was different.

I sat there on a couch a friend gave us a few years back. It doesn’t match the room, and only the dog considers it comfortable. We’ve talked for four years about replacing it. We’ll probably still be discussing its replacement in another four years.

When I sat down on it tonight, I was pleased to find it was missing only one cushion. I turned my body to the side and eventually found a comfortable position with a blanket wedged under my head because I didn’t feel like tracking down a pillow.

And there I sat for a while thinking about nothing. I could hear the rain coming down on the back porch, and occasionally I’d hear one of the kids laugh from the basement. But it’s been a while since I carved out some time to just think.

As I was about to head downstairs to see how the Valentines were coming along, Luca tip-toed up the stairs and curled up next to me. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t try to tickle me or beg for gum or root beer.

We talked for a while. We laughed a lot. She asked me dozens of questions, many of which I couldn’t answer such as, “What is your worst favorite color?” (Pink is her answer)

She whips through topics so fast I can barely keep up. She tells me about a film she watched at school followed by something funny one of her classmates did at recess before explaining why she should be able to stay up late to watch Men in Black 2.

And like that, she was off to check on her Valentines.

I went back to staring at the wall.

But this time the first thought that popped into my mind was this: Everyone should be so lucky to have a daughter who doesn’t care if the couch is uncomfortable and missing cushions.

Luca reached her arms towards me like she does each night. She’s our oldest child but the only one who will not go down unless mom and dad tuck her into bed each evening.

Just a few feet below Luca on the bottom bunk was Anna. She doesn’t have the same bedtime demands. In fact, I wouldn’t have known she was there had I not kneeled down next to her.

I noticed her body faced the wall. Arms at her side. Not a “goodnight” to be heard.

Was she still awake? Was she so tired she jumped in bed on her own? Did she want to be left alone?

Kim sat on the hallway floor reading a book aloud. That way both the girls and Lincoln could hear the story. I decided to lay down next to Anna.

I put my head on the same pillow. Although we had little light, it only took a few seconds of looking into her eyes that I could tell something was wrong.

Could it have been the time at church today when I asked her to sit at the end of the bench? Was it the time Lincoln and Luca yelled at her because she wasn’t able to save them in a game of Super Mario Brothers? Did she feel left out of the conversation on tonight’s drive around town?

I don’t know the reason. But my instincts tell me something is not right with my daughter.

I couldn’t think of what say. I’ve learned that it’s best to keep quiet during these times instead of forcing meaningless small talk.

I brushed the hair out of Anna’s eyes and tickled her back. Still no reaction. At least she knows I’m here, I told myself.

As I was about to kiss her goodnight, Lincoln yelled out, “I have a wedgie!” to which mom replied, “Well, I’m not getting it out”.

Anna giggled for a bit before returning her head to the same spot on the pillow.

Yes, at least she knows I’m here.

Luca invited me to spend the afternoon with her class on a field trip to the White River Valley Museum this afternoon.

The two 3rd grade classes broke up into four groups, and we made our way around the exhibits with the help of volunteers. We listened to many stories about the Native American tribe that lives in our area: The Muckleshoot Tribe.

Our volunteer explained to the children how the tribe used cedar in nearly everything they created. Not only is cedar strong but it’s waterproof. I didn’t realize they often wore clothing made of cedar like this women who is searching for clams.

We watched a short film of a father and son removing strips of cedar from a very large tree. The father mentioned how he wanted to pass on this tribal tradition to his son while he was still alive. The son carefully followed his father’s instructions. Their mutual respect was apparent.

The filmmaker cut to the father who explain he had other children, but had taken the time to only show this son how to harvest cedar in this manner.

And then he said something that’s stuck with me all day.

I do not plan to teach each of my children all the traditions of the tribe. I will teach one or two traditions to each. If I taught all of them everything, they would not learn to rely on each other. When I’m gone, I want them to bond and work together.

At first this sounded strange. But I like it the more I think about it.

I tend to teach my kids the same skills. Sure, one may gravitate towards music while another spends more time playing soccer. But we tend to raise generalists who are self-sufficient. We expect our children to eventually go their own way. The idea of relying on a sibling for a basic need does not fit into our culture.

I’ve wondered how this might translate into teams at work. I’ve worked in groups where everyone has similar skills and others where each person possessed a specialized set of skills. The group I currently manage trends towards the former.

Even though it may go against the grain, I believe this wise father is on to something.