When are you happiest?

This is a question I’ve been giving some thought to over the past couple of months. As I’ve been getting a business off the ground, I’ve bounced ideas around on what exactly I want to do for the next 25 years. When I graduated from college I took a position with a retail company because it gave me an opportunity to relocate to Seattle.

I’d like to say that most job changes came about because I saw a bigger opportunity or a new challenge. But that’s wouldn’t be true. With the exception of one job, I job hopped for a bigger paycheck. I’ve viewed myself as a free agent, offering my technical services to the highest bidder giving little thought to much else.

I should have learned my lesson as a missionary serving in Germany. I spent my first year trying to make others happy. I followed their rules and let them dictate what I did and when I did it. I experienced little happiness and no success until the second year when I decided to use my brain. I stopped trying to live up to the unreachable expectations of people I didn’t care for anyway, and starting being the kind of missionary that I felt comfortable being. Not surprising, this is when I began to have success.

I feel I’ve managed my career in the same manner. I’ve spent nearly 20 years trying to reach a bar set by others. Settle in to a safe and comfortable corporate job. Don’t rock the boat. Make your boss look good even if all he does is watch MSNBC all day.

What makes me happy is being able to select whom to work with. That means saying, “no” which isn’t easy when the business is young. But it’s critical.

I’ve also enjoyed pushing myself into new areas and out of my comfort zone. I’ve had to expand my network and ask for assistance instead of do everything on my own. I’ve had to build a foundation of trust with my business partner and figure out how our differing skills can best serve our clients. In a corporate environment, I’m often pitted against my peers in a race for the largest year-end bonus. I had little incentive to help my follow coworkers look good. But that has no place in a partnership and I’m consistently amazed at how much two people can accomplish when working towards the same goal.

I wish I had a home office, but I’m currently sharing one with four children, a dog and occasionally the neighbor’s Tonka trucks. There are times when I need to get away and clear my mind. Other times, I blow off work until everyone has gone to bed. I’m still figuring things out.

But last Friday, I sat in our van with my youngest son while we waited for the bus to take him to school. He was describing Scooby Doo or Dora or whatever. I only understood bits and pieces. I pulled his hoodie up over his head and adjusted his backpack.

The bus arrived and I took him by the hand and crossed the street. We walked up the bus stairs and towards the back of the bus. I picked him up and placed him in an open seat. I strapped him in and kissed him on the cheek.

I stood next to the van as I watched his bus pull away.

And I thought, this is when I’m happiest. Right now, standing in the street wearing slippers and my University of Utah hat.

Whatever my career holds next, I need to ensure that I don’t miss too many of these moments.

It was well into the afternoon. The kids were home from school, and I sat on the couch exhausted from working till 4 in the morning.

I had a project to finish, and I do my best work after midnight. I love to sit at my computer with only the glow of the monitor knowing everyone else, including the dog, is asleep upstairs. With my headphones draped over my ears, I can crank Pink Floyd and get through work at twice the pace it takes during the day.

In the background I heard Super Mario sounds coming from a Nintendo DS. My youngest son must have found the stash of games. But I was too tired to do anything about it. The worst that could happen is he deletes a game like Animal Crossing with a character one of his siblings has been nurturing for the past three years.

 

Do you ever find yourself sitting alone in a daze? My days are no longer spent in an office, but I’m no less busy than before. The clock is a drill sergeant, shouting out reminders throughout the day. The race to get the kids out of the house in the morning is followed by the race around the neighborhood to retrieve them in the afternoon.

Then there’s dance, scouts, piano and birthday parties, and before long, it’s 9 pm and the kids are supposed to be in bed, but they aren’t because the adult supervision ran out of energy and motivation hours earlier. That’s about the time I find a note from the teacher reminding all parents to make sure their children get a good night’s rest so they’ll be ready to take the statewide tests throughout the week.

Oh, and don’t forget to send snacks to school!

As I considered finding a room where I could rest, I looked out the window to see my son tossing a blue soccer ball towards the lopsided basketball hoop. Why was he using a soccer ball instead of the four basketball he could easily each in the garage?

As a parent, I’m thrilled to see my children take up an activity like basketball that I enjoyed at their age. I want my son to share a few traits and interests with me.

But not too many.

I want to give him space to explore and experiment with activities that catch his interest. Maybe even turn me on to a few I hadn’t considered.

I recall my father telling me he always wanted a son who was left-handed. He loved baseball and lefties are one step closer to first base. Although I am right-handed, I was his son who loved baseball and we still discuss games that go back nearly 25 years. Like the rocket Mike Tueller hit off the church at Ben Lomond. Or the grounder I slapped at Logan that hit a rock and took a lucky bounce over the shortstop’s head to score two runs in the top of the 7th.

There’s just something about baseball. The grass, the crack of the bat and the lack of clock give it a unique feel. It’s as if every game I played is stored on a Tivo in the back of my brain.

I’m no different than my father in that I want my sons to play baseball. I know it’s a sport that best taken up at an early age. And maybe this summer or next my son will ask if he can join a T-ball team.

I decided to head outside and show him how to play H-O-R-S-E and use the square to shoot a bank shot. The game doesn’t come naturally to him like it does to his older sister. But he works at it, takes instruction and doesn’t get frustrated easily.

Maybe by next week I’ll introduce him to a real basketball.

But until then, he’ll be shooting granny shots with a blue soccer ball. And that’s fine with me.

I pulled up a chair and began thinking of all the tasks I didn’t complete today.

I didn’t make an appointment to have our car repaired.

I didn’t take the lawnmower in for service.

 

I didn’t fold the laundry.

I didn’t fix dinner so Kim could relax on her birthday.

I thought about calling my mother. I considered fixing the fan on the kid’s computer. And I was this close to getting on the treadmill.

But I didn’t. None of it.

And then I heard a pencil hit the floor followed by a workbook. As I turned around to tell Anna Lynn to get to bed, she asked, “Can you help me with my math?”

I moved the Diet Coke off my desk to make room for her workbook full of subtraction problems.

8 minus 5.

Anna thought for a moment. A few fingers went up and then down.

“Three.”

We did a few more. Each column taking less time than the previous one. 

“Sometimes I draw my sixes backwards.”

“Let’s practice a few”, I told her.

She found the culprits, giggled and broke out an eraser. After the sixes were fixed she decided to repair some 5’s that looked like 2’s.

“I fixed them so they don’t look silly anymore.”

I agreed.

And that’s  how I spent the next fifteen minutes. Until every number that could be subtracted from another was completed. She jumped off the chair, gave me a hug, and darted upstairs.

The most important part of my day didn’t sit still long enough to make the list.

Who cares.

Google’s latest ad for Chrome. Touching.

The snow was so deep I could leap off our carport and into it without breaking a leg. Nights were the best. I’d stand with my head towards the sky which was so dark, I couldn’t follow the snowflakes until one landed on my eye, and I felt that cold tingle run through my body and into my moon boots and idiot mittens.

Makes my eyes water just thinking about it.

Snowstorms at night have a way of silencing the surroundings. If I listened closely, I could hear the snowflakes dropping from the sky. At least I thought I could when I was in fourth grade. But I was certain I could hear my heartbeat. I was alone, but I felt so alive.

Last night, I had the same feeling as I watched my son participate in the pinewood derby.

As a parent, I hope my children will overlook my many weaknesses. They are on display each day although I try to keep them hidden. Like last week when I dropped two cups full of Diet Coke in the van. Or when I stubbed my toe on a hand weight.

Conversely, I pray my children will acquire enough good traits to neutralize the bad ones. Some days, I know the negative traits are outpacing the positive.

One trait I recognized in my son last night was humility which he got from his mother. After a few races it was clear his car was doing very well. He raced against his close friend five or six times. And when he won one race by several feet, a few kids made fun of his car’s simple design.

At his age, I would have lashed out at those boys. At the very least, I would have danced around the gym after collecting my trophy.

But Lincoln just smiled.

I was proud of the work he put into the car. We spent hours working together to prepare it for the race. He sanded and painted the block of pinewood. He also asked a lot of questions. We discussed topics such as aerodynamics, balance, and friction.

Last night he acted with grace that belies his age. As the night came to a close and he placed his “Red Blaze” back in the shoebox, I thought back to those snowy nights when I was his age. When I felt so alive.

And I realized that I’d won before the race even began.

A tree straddles the property line between our driveway and my neighbor’s yard. This tree belongs to my neighbor, but a significant portion of its branches hang over our yard.

Each year about this time, I begin to notice thousands of tiny pink petals blowing around the neighborhood. Dozens of them land on my black car where they remain until a high powered spray nozzle can remove them.

For the past five years we’ve lived in this home I’ve considered this sign of spring little more than an annoyance. On more than one occasion I’ve thought about retrieving my gas blower and aiming it towards the branches to hasten the job the Seattle breeze normally takes care of.

Since my position at work ended, I’ve spent my days working on projects from home. For the past five years, I’ve spend at least two hours of my day commuting to and from work. Tomorrow morning I’ll roll out of bed, see my children off to school before I settle in at my computer and begin working. No recurring meetings. No co-workers stopping by to chat about the Mariners. No manager rubbing his back against the frame of my door like this bear.

I get more done in two hours at home than I do in eight at the office.

The best part about working from home has been the extra time I’ve spent with my kids. Getting the kids ready and off to school has always fallen to Kim, and she enjoys that time with them. I’ve zipped backpacks, toasted bagels, and helped steer one daughter away from outfits that might lead her teacher to believe she’s auditioning for the Jersey Shore.

This past week, I tossed the football with my son and kicked the soccer ball around the neighborhood with my daughters. The kids aren’t used to having me around when they return from school, and it took a few days for them to invite me into that part of their day.

I know it won’t be long before I’m back at a traditional job. I won’t be waiting when my youngest son steps off the bus from pre-school, points to his backpack and tells me he has homework.  I won’t feel the house shake  as my three oldest dash up the stairs to share what happened at school, but not before complaining how they are going to die if they don’t get a snack.

I’ll miss the noise, chatter and overall chaos of it all.

On Friday, as my son tossed, kicked and yelled at the football, I noticed those pink petals floating around us. I swatted a few away but not before a couple landed on my shoulder. But this time I felt more peace than annoyed.

I may even look forward to them next year as a reminder of the Spring I was able to peek into a slice  of my children’s lives I’m not normally part of.

And for that I feel blessed.

Hard to believe my mom allowed me to take a Rubik’s Cube to school. This was before kids were expelled for bringing tweezers to class. But every 7th grade boy had a Rubik’s Cube, and what better place to practice than during biology.

After a few months, my cousin learned how to solve the cube. Over the next couple of weeks he taught me the dozen moves required to solve it. I practiced for many hours until I could solve it in about three minutes. Occasionally the corners would line up properly, and I could finish it in just over two minutes. I was obsessed with my cube to the point where I’d take it apart, dust each piece with graphite in order to gain the slightest speed advantage.

 

Last year I picked up a Rubik’s cube and was surprised I could still solve it. I’d forgotten a few shortcuts I’d learned back in middle school, but I could solve it in four minutes.  Maybe learning to solve the Rubik’s cube is similar to riding a bike: once you learn you never forget.

Last month I found a Rubik’s cube at work and brought it home. My oldest son was the first to approach me with questions. I showed him two simple moves that allowed him to solve one side. Then I showed him a couple more moves. He practiced after school and in bed. It wasn’t long before he could solve one side plus one layer. The next layer takes some work because you must be willing to mess up the solved side in order to move closer to completion.

Life is similar. 

At times, I’ve worked to improve a part of my life. I’ll put forth the effort to get that area exactly how I want it. And once I’m there it’s easier to stay put than to risk messing it up by arranging the next area that needs fixing.

Initially, my son had a difficult time understanding the need to sacrifice a few squares in order to move forward. He made a number of mistakes. When he’d ask for assistance, I’d help him understand how he got to where he was. He seldom made the same mistake twice. Over time, he learned that making mistakes wasn’t the end of the world. He began to understand how sacrificing a few colors in one area allowed him to move closer to solving the entire cube.

Yesterday afternoon, he walked up beside me while I sat at my computer. He was getting close to to solving all six sides. I showed him the last two moves just as my older cousin showed me over 30 years ago. They are the two most difficult moves because they require one to estimate where a couple of corners will land. Neither move feels intuitive. And if you miss even a single turn, your cube becomes a jumbled mess.

I showed my son the two moves. He gave me that “I hope I don’t screw this up” look and began turning. I watched in amazement as the colors separated and then blended back together. Was he really going to solve it? A few more turns and he realized he had it. He’d solved the Rubik’s Cube for the first time.

I raised my hand, and he gave me a casual high five.

Given how soundly he beats me at Halo, I’ll be keeping a few shortcuts to myself.

—Photo by Toni Blay