I caught the tail end of the science fair at the kid’s school last night. I wasn’t in the mood to go out in the rain on a Friday evening, but I’m glad I did because I ran into a friend who was there supporting his son’s project.

We began talking about work because that’s what men talk about. But the conversation quickly diverted to other topics I’m seldom prepared to discuss outside of technology. Yet that’s why I intentionally seek out this person because our discussions are never boring, and he pushes me in directions that are occasionally uncomfortable. And it’s on those edges of discomfort where I tend to learn the most.

At one point in our conversation I explained how I don’t like to stay in the same area for more than a few years. In less than a year we moved from Seattle to Ogden to St. George and back to Seattle where we’ve stayed put for the past five years.

That’s when my friend said, “I know the feeling. Yet everything is working here right now.”

I left the science fair with my son. He held my hand as we walked across the now dark parking lot. I felt as though I was dragging him and turned to give him a “let’s get moving” tug, when I noticed he’d tilted his head towards the sky and was attempting to catch raindrops with his tongue.

As I drove home I thought about his words: everything is working here now. I was not expecting to hear them. They certainly couldn’t apply to me.

Or could they?

One reason I have a difficult time believing this is the area where we’re supposed to be is because so little thought and research was given to our initial decision to move here. When people ask how we ended up in Auburn I tell them I worked in Seattle at the time we were looking for a home, and liked the idea of being able to commute into town by train.

That’s it. The job in Seattle and easy commute lasted two years.

It’s easy to be swayed by real estate agents preaching the value of school scores, crime statistics and all sorts of various metrics used to help support your decision to live in one neighborhood versus another. There have been times when I thought, “If I could live in (whatever city) I’d be happy.”

We’ve lived in enough cities to know that’s seldom true.

I wish our backyard and driveway were not built on an incline. I wish our neighborhood were home to more families, and I don’t love living on a hill where frequent late-night helicopter drills are performed.

But I love the twisty road that winds up the hill to our home and how my car devours it in 3rd gear. I like living at the end of a cul-de-sac where my children can safely create art with sidewalk chalk, and where I can play basketball without interruption from passing cars.

What I enjoy most about the area are the friendships I’ve made. From the friend who brings us BBQ and fresh cinnamon rolls to the neighbor who wakes me at 5:45 am to play basketball. Or the neighbor who filled up our van today after borrowing and driving it less than five miles when his car broke down leaving his wife stranded.

And, of course, the friend I met up with last night who is a middle school principal. Despite our contrasting backgrounds, we’ve become good friends. He’s introduced me to a number of books and movies along with some music that I’ve enjoyed. Given my background in technology, I assumed we had little in common. I’m glad I turned out to be wrong.

I doubt I’ll ever feel entirely settled. The idea of remaining in one area working at the same job does not sound appealing to me in the least. But right now, it feels like the right decision to embrace a modicum of stability and familiarity. I imagine that will benefit not only me but my children as well.

Given that my job runs out in less than two months, I expect to feel anything but secure. As strange as it feels to write these words, I do feel secure, although I can’t explain why. But I believe it has something to do with the the neighbors, friends and family who’ve provided words of encouragement over the last couple of difficult months.

Maybe not everything, but a lot is working right now.

And that could be enough keep us around. Raindrops and all.

While killing time at Fred Meyer waiting for my son to finish scouts, I walked down the sporting goods aisle looking for a youth sized football. I have an old rubber football, but it’s too large for his hands and it’s difficult to grip.

I found a shelf full of footballs of various sizes and decided to buy one that fit his 8-year old hands. It’s shiny black. I can’t tell if it’s rubber or cheap leather. And at eight bucks, a steal.

Yesterday afternoon as I pulled into the driveway, guess who was standing on the steps to greet me with his football in hand? It had been raining all day. The driveway and grass were soaked.

Immediately, I thought of our newly cleaned carpets. Then siblings and neighbors showing up to join in the action. All that mud and grass that finds its way onto children’s feet, faces and hands. I imagined muddy footsteps painting designs on the light colored carpets.

When I purchased the football, I pictured a casual game of catch with my son on a warm sunny day. I’d stand behind my son and show him how to release the football in order to make it spiral. Isn’t that the goal of anyone who picks up a football? The ball doesn’t have to hit its intended target. But it must spiral.

My son’s excitement got to me and I told him I’d change my shoes and return.

I stood in the street and had Lincoln stand on the grass. Even though the grass was wet, the incline would help him get the ball to me. We tossed the football back and forth. Occasionally one of us would miss and the ball would roll into the gutter where water was waiting.

I thought back to the times my father threw the football with me on our front lawn. He could make the ball spiral on every throw. I so badly wanted to be able to throw like he did. My father would stand behind me and show me the proper arm mechanics and ball grip.

As I showed my son the same techniques my father taught me, it brought back a flood of good memories and made me wish he could see my son more often.

“Are you ready to go inside yet. It’s getting cold”, I told him.

“Not until I throw a spiral”, he replied.

So we tossed the ball back and forth for a while longer. As much as I wanted the ball to spiral for him, I didn’t mind that we had more time to spend with each other.

As it was getting late, I took the football and dried it off on my shirt before handing it back.

“We’ll practice tomorrow”, I told him.

As much as I’d like to believe that I’m not botching my responsibilities as a parent, doubts creep in and become frequent if uninvited guests. It’s not I’m intentionally doing a poor job. But often the evidence that the kids are heading in the right direction is elusive. I’m constantly looking for clues that I’m doing more good than harm. The days I could use some reassurance tend to coincide with those times our children act up or I exhibit less patience than I should.

Unlike my job where I’m given a biannual performance review and can make subtle repairs and minor fixes to projects I’m responsible for, parenting often feels like a series of pop quizzes that are collected, recorded but final grades won’t be posted for another sixteen years.

I’m left to decide on my own how I’m progressing as a father. By the time our third child arrived I decided I can’t be everywhere at once. Attempting to attend every school, sporting, or church activity resulted in a feeling of being everywhere yet nowhere.

A few years back, I tried to squeeze in a field trip with my daughter’s class between a full days worth of work and church commitments. I had the day planned down to the minute. I’d meet me daughter in Seattle, jump on the boat tour, and race back to work. I could say I made the effort, but day was a blur.

And I missed my favorite part of the day: sitting next to my daughter on the bus ride to and from the city. We chat and we laugh. And Luca enjoys using my iPhone to take pictures of us making goofy faces.

Nowadays, I’m selective but present. Even if that means taking the day off work, turning off my phone or catching up on email once the kids are in bed.

This weekend I took my oldest and youngest children to the barber shop. While I sat in a black leather barber chair, I watched in the mirror how Luca interacted with her brother, Kai, who can be wiggly and generally difficult to contain.

But I was impressed with what I saw.

Luca showed Kai the weather on her iPod Touch. She played games with him. She talked to him, held him close and gently nudged him back on the bench when he was preparing to make a dash for the exit. At one point she held her hand up to his hand while they compared the size difference. Kai laughed and smiled and was captivated by his sister.

But what I realized above all is the love my oldest daughter and youngest son have for each other. And watching them, if only for a moment, gave me hope that my efforts as their father are doing more good than harm.

The last thing I wanted to do was find the bin of Rollerblades buried deep in the garage. If I found it, I’d be on the hook to fasten their hand, elbow and knee pads. That’s six uncooperative strips of Velcro times three wiggly bodies. Just thinking about it wore me out.

I didn’t hide the bin well enough because I hadn’t been pretending to look for it for more than a few minutes when Anna Lynn shoved a pair of pink Rollerblades in my face and begged me to untie the laces. 

There goes my quiet evening.

I’d planned to throw a movie in the Xbox and retreat to my computer. I hadn’t planned on an evening of Rollerblading in January. The kids act like we still live in St. George.

As I helped Anna with her knee pads, the others decided I was moving too slowly and took matters into their own hands. Luca took to the street with her elbow pads barely covering her kneecaps while Lincoln had his helmet on backwards. After a few minutes we straightened out the equipment, and the kids began circling our cul-de-sac.

It took me weeks before I began to get the hang of Rollerblading. Yet the kids speed around the streets so confidently one would think they were born with wheels attached to their feet.

“You might want to grab a lawn chair like mom does because we could be a while”, Lincoln told me.

I pulled an old chair from the garage, placed it just off the road, and watched Kai chase the Rollerbladers in his Kettcar. We had less than 15 minutes of sun left on an already cool evening. I figured they’d last no more than 10.  How fun can Rollerblading around in circles be?

I lost count of how many times someone called out, “Dad! Look!”

And look I did, but it was getting dark and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking at. But I did see four giggly, smiley children.  When one would fall, another was there to provide help. I saw how much they enjoy each other’s company. I saw Lincoln lean over just enough that his little brother could catch him and wrap his arms around his big brother’s neck.

Maybe it was January and the weather wasn’t ideal. Maybe it took more time to get the kids outfitted for the impromptu outing than the outing itself. I’m certain my neighbor who parks his car in front of our home each day wouldn’t have enjoyed how my kids used his car the same way a hockey player uses the boards behind the goalie.

But tonight I looked, and I liked what I saw.

My 7th grade English teacher called my name. My heart was pounding as I made my way to the front of the class to speak with him. He slid a yellow paper across the desk toward me. It included my mid-term grade, and I had to return it the next day with my parents signature.

I heard him repeat the part about the signature, but all I could focus on was the letter grade written in black marker to the right of my name.

Grade: D

Tonight I reflected back on that English class as I walked up the stairs to apologize to my son. One might assume that after raising children for ten years, I’d have the whole “proper level of reaction” thing down pat.

Yet, I still struggle with it.

When Kai climbed on a chair to grab Kim’s iPhone before dropping it, I lost it. The phone was OK, but my reaction to the situation was embarrassing. Making matters worse was the fact that Kai wouldn’t hand me the phone, I got upset to the point that my daughter left the room. If my performance as a father were being graded tonight, a D would be generously high.

The kids shuffled upstairs to get ready for bed and I ended up back on my computer wondering why something so small upset me so much. And then I realized that had I been watching Kai more carefully he probably would not have gone looking for Kim’s phone.

I helped Kai into his pajamas and sat on the bed next to him. He grabbed Goldilocks and the Three Bears off the shelf, thrust it towards me and said, “Read. Me. Daddy”. His eyes were still red from the tears I’d caused earlier. But he seemed ready to forgive me. The other kids joined us on the bed for the story they’ve heard so many times that both the front and back cover of the book are missing.

When I finished the book, I picked up Kai and hugged him and told him I was sorry. I wondered what must be going through the mind of a mischievous 3-year old boy. He hugged me back and kissed my cheek. By the time I turned off his light, I felt a little better.

My parents weren’t thrilled with my mid-term grade. But it was a wake-up call, and I had enough time to get my act together and pull B grade from the class by the end of the quarter.

I’m hoping for the same type of improvement as a father.

Huge snowflakes fell from the sky tonight. The much hyped storm hit us later than expected, but it hit with force and blanketed everything in its path. So I wasn’t surprised to see our kids enjoying themselves in the snow as I pulled up to our home just before 9 pm.

Maybe the kids should have been in bed, but I’m glad they weren’t because snow is a rarity in Seattle and watching them toss snowballs and making snow angels reminds me when my parents would allow me do the same when a late evening storm hit Utah.

I was returning from playing racquetball and still wearing shorts. As cold as my legs were I couldn’t take my eyes off the kids. The kids get along for the most part and tonight was no exception until Luca hit Lincoln in the face with a slush ball. I wiped off Lincoln’s glasses with my sweatshirt and sent him back to the battle. That’s when I noticed the smile on Anna Lynn’s face. She stood on a rock in her new coat and gloves and stared at me until I noticed her.

I didn’t think anything of it at first. But something was different. Anna tends to pull back around groups of children. It’s not uncommon to find the other three playing together while Anna stands off to the side doing her own thing. But tonight she was in the middle of the action. She laughed and ran around the yard like I remember her doing as a toddler.

We’ve been looking for an activity Anna would enjoy and feel engaged. Something outside of school that would encourage her natural desire to move around and create.  Something she could feel proud about that was HER activity. If it helped increase her confidence then even better.

After much discussion, we decided to enroll Anna in a ballroom dance class. I didn’t know anything like this existed for small children. But after hearing positive recommendations from friends , we figured it would be the ideal for Anna. So Kim enrolled her in her first ballroom dance class tonight.

Could attending one ballroom dance class have such an immediate effect on her self-esteem? I wondered this out loud as we made our way inside. The kids eventually changed from wet clothing into pajama’s, and that’s when Anna propped her head on my lap while I sat on the couch. That smile was still stretched across her face, and she wasn’t asking me for a late night snack. That’s odd.

“How was your first day at dance class?” I asked.

She giggled and grinned. I could tell she wanted to tell me something. So I waited.

“Someone told me I’m a good dancer. And it was a boy!”

I can’t begin to express how it feels as a father to hear those words from my daughter. I saw a spark in her eye that I haven’t seen in a while. This is exactly what Anna needed after seeing her grandfather off at the airport yesterday through buckets of tears.

I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of Anna’s smile.

The details are fuzzy, but I remember the feeling I had as I sat in the back seat of my dad’s Plymouth Duster. I’d recently turned 8-years old, and today was the day my father would baptize me. But it was a cold and snowy January day in Ogden, Utah and I was convinced I’d miss the big day because my father was lollygagging the afternoon away running errands.

Of course, I was wrong. We made it to the church in plenty of time.

I sat on a chair next to my father watching several kids step into the baptismal font ahead of me and wishing my last name began with a letter closer to the beginning of the alphabet.

Those were the thoughts that ran through my mind as I sat next to my son who turned 8-years old the day after Christmas. Today would be his turn to be baptized.

Earlier this morning I ironed a crease in his new dark blue pants that he’d selected to wear with this white long-sleeved shirt. He looked sharp.

The only item he needed help with was his tie. I began to wonder if a clip-on model would have been a better choice after several failed attempts at a half Windsor. I removed the tie from my son’s collar and tied it around my neck before carefully loosening it enough to remove and place back on my son’s shoulders where I could cinch the knot. I know that’s cheating.

My son is becoming a young man in front of my eyes. The many small and subtle changes don’t scream out for attention. But they are there. Like remembering to comb his hair before school. Or how he shows patience for an active and sometimes moody little brother. Even his growing vocabulary is a reminder that he’s learning to express himself in ways that no longer sound like an episode of Blues Clues.

When it was his turn, I took Lincoln’s hand and walked into the font. With his siblings, mother and grandfather looking on, he was baptized.

Each year there are a few days I wish would last 48 hours. Today was one of them.