I like to think that I do a good job of keeping my work at work. A 45-60 minute commute helps clear my mind before I arrive home. But occasionally work spills over into family life.

That’s exactly what happened on Friday.

What should have remained a minor misunderstanding turned into voices being raised. I had many opportunities to put an end to it. Instead I continued to fan the flames until a small issue had escalated into an argument in front of the kids. In the car. Where they could hear every single word.

I couldn’t have botched the situation any worse than I did. I could see it in Kim’s eyes. They said, “Why won’t you drop it?”

Sometimes how something is said carries more weight than what’s said. Yet I didn’t realize it at the time. I kept harping. Wouldn’t let it die. More gasoline on the fire. 

I looked straight ahead as I drove. My eyes were on the road, but my mind was elsewhere. Kim was silent. And probably stunned that I came home in such a bad mood on a Friday of all days.

As I’m about to turn around and head back home, I hear the voice of Anna, our 5-year old daughter.

“Dad, you need to talk to mom in a nice voice. If you talk in a nice voice everything will be OK. I know you can do it.”

It took the words of my daughter to jolt me back into reality. I understood how unkind I’d been to Kim in front of four little sponges before being taken to task by a little girl who sleeps with a bed full of stuffed animals.

But on this night, that little girl acted more like an adult than her dad. I’m fortunate that fatherhood provides me many opportunities to redeem myself.

I turn 42 years old today.

Don’t worry. I’m not looking to buy a Corvette, splurge on a Tommy Bahama wardrobe or hook up with an obscure Brazilian model. 

If I were a professional baseball player, color commentary guys would mention my age before each bat as if every game could be my last.

In many ways I’m not where I thought I would be at this point in my life. To say I’ve stumbled into a career in technology would be kind. I got into tech because of the money and I’ve stayed for the money. Yet it’s the money which makes it difficult to leave.

I admire people who put their heart and soul into their job, placing it above everything else. I’ve seen these employees at every company I’ve worked for. Work and life are one and the same.

Actually, I don’t admire them.

What I admire are people who found their passion in life and went after it regardless of pay or glory. I admire people like my father who worked as a teacher for 32 years because that was his passion. He’s a natural leader whom students wanted to be around. One can’t fake that.

He didn’t do it for the overtime because there wasn’t any. Nor were there annual awards waiting to be bestowed upon him. Yet he had a lasting influence for good over hundreds if not thousands of students who walked the halls and ran around the bases. 

That’s what I admire, and that’s what I was thinking about this morning as I stared at the ceiling from my bed. Before I could head downstairs to the shower, Kim plopped Kai next to me and ran off.

I’m 39 years older than Kai. I hope to be around when he’s my age. I want to see how he turns out. I wonder what he’ll think about his father when he’s my age? Will he be as proud of me as I am of my father?

But for now, he’s giving me that “don’t touch my bottle” look. I love his floppy blonde hair that strangers and family tell us is too long ensuring it will only grow longer. Kai is probably our last child. It feels strange to write that.

Finally, he finished his bottle. He inched closer to me. I could feel his cold feet rub against my legs. I remained still because he’ll seldom lay next to me for more than 15 seconds. But this morning was different. He stopped only when he couldn’t move any closer. Just as I thought, “no way will this last” he rubbed his cheek against my chin until it tickled too much and a giggle escaped. 

I went back to staring at the ceiling with a smile on my face. A few minutes passed and I assumed Kai had fallen asleep. I watched as his chest took in one deep breath after another.

His feet were no longer cold.

Yet when I turned to look at his face, I could see he was staring at the ceiling just like his father.

I’m going to pretend he gave me an early birthday present.

Kim and I went to school to meet with Luca’s teacher. She placed a manila folder on the table and walked us through the curriculum for third grade. This was our first time to meet with her since the first day of school.

We listened as she went through each subject and explained to us how Luca was progressing and made suggestions such as books she may enjoy reading. She was organized and concise. I could tell she cared about our daughter.

Luca loves school. She wants to perform well and takes pride in her work. Although I’m not certain how important letter grades are at this stage of her schooling, we encourage her to do her best and the grades will follow. Her teacher confirmed this was the case, and that made us smile.

But that’s not what made me the most proud.

I was most proud about a comment her teacher made near the end of our meeting. After we discussed the curriculum, test scores and grades. I don’t want to say it was an afterthought, but it wasn’t one of the items in the manila folder with a checkmark out to the side.

The teacher said, “I enjoy having Luca in my class because she’s kind and respectful to her classmates and teachers”.

Respect and kindness are not part of the WASL, ACT or SAT exams. And they may not determine which college she attends one day. Turn on the TV and you’ll see many examples of people who have made it to the top of their professions by being anything but respectful and kind.

But there’s nothing a teacher could say about Luca that would make me more proud than I am today.

My head felt like it was in a vice. I spent the night on the couch with an ice pack draped over my forehead. My body was drained of every last ounce of energy. Luckily, my throat was back to normal, and I felt like the worst was behind me.

Yet I could not sleep. 

But I had to get some rest because the next morning I’d signed up to chaperone a lively group of first graders on a field trip to a local farm. Doubts crept in. Maybe I should stay home and rest. This was Lincoln’s field trip. Had it been Luca’s there no way I’d miss it because she’d be crushed.

But Lincoln? His attitude is more “take it or leave it” when it comes to his parents involvement with class activities. I have no doubt he enjoys the time we visit his class. But he’s not clingy nor possesses any signs of separation anxiety. He’s always been this way at school, church or with baby sitters. He knows we’ll be back so what’s the big deal?

I staggered up to the school the next morning on two hours of sleep. I didn’t feel sick. I felt like I was sleep-walking. I arrived just in time to help the children board the bus. Several of Lincoln’s friends asked to sit next to him, and he seemed confused about how to answer. His teacher was nearby and told the kids that Lincoln would be sitting next to his father.

Lincoln curled up next to the window. The farm would be wet and muddy so I helped him change into a pair of red rain boots. He said they felt too big and they were. I pushed his Levis down into the boots hoping that would help hold them on his feet. When I was done, I zipped his jacket while he continued to look out the window.

His mind was elsewhere. Does he know I’m here? Does he care? I asked a few questions. All I got in return was a “yep” an “I dunno” and few blank stares.

At the farm, we pressed apples to make cider, fed chickens, churned butter, picked up hay with a pitchfork, and learned how to plant seeds. Lincoln was on his best behavior, but then, he always is at school. I watched how he interacted with his fellow students and teachers. He treats everyone with kindness and respect. I have a better understanding why he’s well-liked among his peers.

I loved watching him slosh around the farm in his red boots and oversized blue jacket. More than once, I removed his glasses to wipe off mud. I was the ball washer at the golf course except I washed glasses.

When the time came to return to school, the kids lined up to board the bus. Lincoln stood next to me and looked straight ahead. He’s thinking about something, but what? Is he glad I tagged along? He’s not easy to read. He appeared to enjoy himself at the farm. But I don’t know.

The yellow bus pulled into the parking lot. As we walked across the lot, one of the teachers reminded everyone to avoid the mud puddles which had the exact opposite effect on the kids. Mud puddles were made for first graders. They looked like so much fun that I jumped in a couple. Lincoln thought that was funny even if the other chaperones didn’t.

I grabbed Lincoln’s hand so he wouldn’t slip going up the stairs to the bus. He couldn’t wait to take off his boots. As we made our way down the aisle, a girl called out, “Hey Lincoln, come sit by me!”

“I’m sitting by my dad” he replied.

In his own way, I think he’s glad I showed up.

Next time I’m bringing my own pair of rain boots.

“Who wants to help pickup leaves?”

*silence*

“Who wants to help rake leaves?”

*a few grumbles*

“Who wants to JUMP in the leaves?”

*MAD STAMPEDE*

We have two huge trees that dump large colorful leaves all over our backyard. Each year we stuff about 25 Home Depot degradable bags full of leaves during October and November.

But not before they’ve been raked into giant piles and jumped in. Or stuffed down a few shirts and pants. Or tossed into the air and blown over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

Oh ya, the kids enjoy playing in the leaves too.

I sat in my car parked just outside the school. I was 20 minutes early before our two oldest children would walk through the doors towards the buses lined alongside the playground.

The sky was overcast except for a slice of sun that shined down upon a row of maple trees.  Occasionally a gust of wind whipped through the neighborhood and knocked hundred of leaves off the branches blanketing the streets. It looked like a delivery truck carrying bright yellow and red Post-It Notes had turned over setting the street ablaze with color.

I don’t often have the opportunity to pickup my kids from school. I’m sure Lincoln will tell me what he did at recess, and Luca will explain what she had for lunch. I think back to what I did in third grade, and all I remember is running home from school because my teacher slammed a ruler down on my desk. I probably deserved it.

The bell rings four times and the kids begin running in all directions. Excitement reflects off their faces. I can’t tell if the children are carrying the backpacks or vice versa. I stand just outside Lincoln’s class which doesn’t mean much because he runs out the door and right past me. “Oh, hi Dad”, he says when I catch up to him. He’s wearing a blue and gold crown he made in class.

“Did you know this crown makes me a king?” he asks.

“Oh does it? What does a king do?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. I think they sit around and wear hats”

Luca’s class exits from the back of the school. Lincoln and I stood on the sidewalk hoping she’d notice us as she walked towards the bus. A few minutes went by, and I wondered if she’d already boarded the bus. She would not be happy if I picked up Lincoln and left her on the bus.

As I was about to look for her near the school entrance, I saw a girl in a red sweater running towards us. Her blond hair bounced up and down. But it was her smile I recognized.

“Dad! Dad! I love when you come get us!”

She removed her backpack, threw her arms around my neck and gave me a cold kiss on the cheek.

I threw both backpacks over my shoulder, and took each of them by the hand.

Just in time to skip through the leaves falling in the breeze.

If I were to sum up my father in one sentence it would be this:

He’s planned out where he’ll spend Thanksgiving through the year 2017.

That tells you a lot about my father. He’s incredibly organized, and he likes to plan out his days, weeks and holidays. He flies to Seattle a few times each year, and I look forward to the phone call the night before where he shares the flight details with me. He not only tells me his arrival time and airline choice, but he shares with me his seat assignment, plane make and model, weather forecast (Salt Lake City and Seattle) and whether he’ll be served a snack or full dinner.

This level of detail and organization didn’t always translate well to the habits of a young boy. My father liked to get up early each morning and accomplish a lot of  before noon. His schedule was front loaded while mine was back loaded. There were times I wanted to mow the lawn or weed the garden later in the day when shade appeared. That didn’t always go over well with my dad.

But over the years, I’ve come to appreciate my father’s way of organizing his life, and I believe he’s able to appreciate mine. I could not keep his schedule, and he could not keep mine. That’s OK.

I’m more spontaneous. I don’t plan out as many elements of my day as my father does. I’m certain some of our differences are generational. My father spent over 30 years teaching in the same school district. I can hardly imagine spending 3 years in the same job. My father is the loyal, life-long employee and I’m the nomadic free agent.

As I help raise our children, I wonder which of my traits I will pass on to them. I also wonder which ones they’ll wish had fallen off the family tree.

One of my father’s best traits today is one I don’t remember him exercising very often for the first 20 years of my life: telling his children how much he loves them. This is something I’m trying to do more of although it comes more naturally with my daughters. I don’t know why.

Tonight, when I tucked Lincoln into bed, I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him without giving much thought to it. As I got up to leave he asked:

“Dad, why do you tell me you love me every day?”

“Because I don’t want you to forget”

He giggled a few times and, although it was dark, I could see a smile stretch across his face.

I think my dad would have been proud.