Searching For Evidence

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.

iPhone Comparison Chart

One can’t visit a tech blog these days without the obligatory iPhone comparison chart pitting the Verizon iPhone vs. the AT&T iPhone. I decided to create a chart for those who are still on the fence.

I’m one of those AT&T customers who foolishly believed I was purchasing a phone. In reality, I bought ultra-portable computer that plays Angry Birds and fart sounds for about a hundred bucks a month.

I’ve owned an iPhone on the AT&T network for nearly three years and, just this week, I was moments away from completing a phone call in the remote, out-in-the-boonies village called Seattle. After four straight dropped calls, I got tired of speaking to myself and drove to my friend’s home to speak with him face to face. If you’re in the same boat, I suggest creating a personalized voicemail greeting that starts with, “I’m sorry. I’m an AT&T customer and voice calls are not part of my current plan. Please leave me your email and I’ll be in touch as soon as I find a WIFI hotspot”.

For those of you who have yet to select a carrier for your mobile Facebook status updater, consider the the following chart in making your selection.

The Two Best Years?

The question is coming.

I don’t know exactly when. I just know eventually I’ll have to answer it, and that’s the problem. I don’t know how to answer questions about the two years I served as a missionary in Germany.

When people ask me about my mission they expect a cliché for an answer – “it was the best two years of my life”, “my mission president became like a father to me”, or “it made me who I am today”. Take your pick. Any rehearsed answer will do because that’s how most former missionaries will respond.

And I don’t blame them. It’s the quickest way to satisfy the question without saying much of anything. Only those young men and women who served under the same president know what happened. It’s been over 20 years since I returned and I’ve only spoken about what I witnessed with a handful of people. It’s futile trying to explain it to most.

Yet I can’t imagine giving my son, who recently turned 8 years old, a non-answer.

Every mission is unique. I have friends who respect their president who typically resides a few hundred missionaries at a time. My brother attributes his initial interest and eventual career in software to the president he served under in Dusseldorf, Germany. I tend to believe his experience was the norm while mine was the exception.

When I listen to my brother describe his president, I wish I could say the same about the man I served under.

My father did not serve a mission, so I didn’t grow up listening to stories of the people he met who helped mold him into the person I admired. Although I left Germany with many of those experiences (from the German friends I made) they had nothing to do with my mission president who was an awful human being. I will not go into details here because his tenure is long over. Unfortunately, he caused a staggering amount of damage to hundreds of young men and women. Some never recovered and left the faith.

That brings me back to how I will answer questions my son asks about my experiences as a missionary.

I don’t know what I will say, but I will not sugar-coat how I felt as a 19-year old young man walking (and biking) the streets of a foreign country. I don’t want to scare him, and I’ll certainly encourage to serve a mission if he choses to do so. My father did not coerce me to serve, and I will follow his example with my children.

Knowing my son he’ll be full of questions. I’ll take peace in knowing I made it through OK. I have no doubt he’ll do the same.

What I Saw

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.

Calling Apple Technical Support

My son handed me his iPod Touch, and I could tell by his expression that something was wrong. He couldn’t get it to turn on and neither could I. I figured the battery was dead so I plugged it into my computer and waited. But no luck. It still refused to turn on 30 minutes later.

Although I’ve owned a number of Apple products, I’ve never called their technical support. I avoid calling support unless I’m down to my last option given past experiences. A while back I called Dell’s technical support line. It took 25 minutes before I spoke with an agent, and when I finally did he tried to sell me additional services instead of helping solve my problem. It took another three or four calls before I finally reached someone who could help solve my problem. I wasted several hours and the entire process soured my feelings towards Dell.

That incident was on my mind as I navigated to Apple’s website. I quickly found a link called Apple Support Express Lane. I selected support for the iPod touch and typed my serial number. I was then presented with a few options, one of which was for an Apple rep to call my home. Under this option were the words, “Wait time less than 1 minute”. That can’t be right. What company would provide assistance almost immediately on a Sunday evening?

I decided to give it a try. I typed my phone number and the phone rang 30 seconds later. Apple must employ an auto-dialer? But no, it was a support engineer on the line and I could understand every word he said. He jumped right into helping me fix the the problem. He didn’t try to sell me anything. He didn’t pass me off to another tier of support. He didn’t even make me recite my serial number.

Within two minutes my son’s iPod Touch was back to normal. The entire process was smooth and unlike any other support call I’ve made. Based on this experience, I’m lead to believe that part of the premium I pay as an Apple customer goes into providing top-notch technical support.

Mid-Term Grade

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.

Searching For My First Real Job

This time of year I spend a good part of my day interviewing young men and women for full time technical positions within my group. Many have recently finished college, and this is their first real job with benefits. This is one of my favorite parts of the job.

I try to remember how I felt as a newly minted college graduate walking around Salt Lake City searching for someone who would recognize my potential. Looking back, I wasn’t prepared for the realities of post-college life. I’d spent a lot of money on books and tuition not to mention the Addams Family and Fun House pinball machines.

One afternoon I was browsing the job boards at the University of Utah and noticed a job posting seeking graduates of all disciplines. It wasn’t uncommon for recruiters to narrow their search to graduates with majors in marketing, finance or economics. Although I’d taken courses through the business school, I majored in German which locked me out from interviewing for a number of positions.

I saved up enough money to purchase a blue blazer to go with some dress slacks I already owned. The position was for an editor with a major publishing company with offices in downtown Salt Lake. Although I knew the downtown area well, I arrived an hour early for my interview.

When it was time, I met with the HR manager. She asked me the same basic questions I’d heard from dozen of campus recruiters. One fringe benefit of making it through college was that I became a professional interviewer. I got to the point where I could predict the questions. Interviewing became second nature.

I interviewed with two women and one gentleman that day. Each of them seemed genuine, and I enjoyed discussing the position and asking questions of them. I felt good about the job and company when I left. I returned home feeling optimistic. A few days later HR called and invited me back. This time I would meet the managing editor who would put me through a quiz of sorts.

I met the editor who had little to say. She handed me a newsletter and a red pencil and said, “You have 20 minutes to find the mistakes and circle them.”

Seemed simple enough. I went to work finding and circling misspelled words and awkward grammar. It wasn’t long before the editor returned and yelled, “STOP!”

I put my pencil on the table, looked up and handed her my work. She glanced over the first page, her eyes moving from side to side. I was anxious but confident. She moved on to the second, third and forth pages. So far so good.

Until she come to the fifth page. That’s when she grabbed the red pencil and drew a large “X” through the page.

In past blog posts, I’ve written that I’m not a fast reader. I comprehend well. But I don’t zip through books like Kim or my mother. That’s how I’ve always been, and it’s not due to lack of reading. I’m just a slower than normal reader but not to the point where I’d consider it a disability.

“You’re accurate but slow.”

Of course, I already knew that. But it stung coming from the woman who would decide if I’d get the job. As you can probably guess but now, I did not receive a job offer.

It’s been nearly 17 years since I put on my blue blazer and didn’t make it to page 5. But I’ve not forgotten how I felt as I watched the giant “X” was scrawled across the page. When I interview people today, I never want them to leave with the same feeling I left with that day no matter how their skills fit the position.

Life Saving Device

When I purchase a product like the AeroBed, I know it’s going to include an unintentionally funny warning tag. Such tags read like a Who’s Who from the Darwin Awards, full of delightful clues into how owners used the product incorrectly leading to a visit to the emergency room or death.

Last night the kids begged me to retrieve the AeroBed from the garage and set it up in the living room where they could watch a movie for 20 minutes before falling asleep. When I began to inflate the bed, I noticed this warning.

My favorite line is This is not a life saving device. But I’m not sure what to make of it. Does AeroBed mean their inflatable mattress should not be used as a floatation device? One of my goals is to use a product so inappropriately that my actions result in a revision to the warning tag.

All I know is that the AeroBed is a life saving device when Kim and I want to watch a movie on a Friday night and the kids won’t stay in their own beds. Within minutes of inflation the kids are watching “Cars” for the 300th time and on the verge of sleep.

If that’s not life saving for the parents I don’t know what is.

Committing to Less

“Yes” is a dangerous word. It sounds polite and helpful on the surface, and in many instances it is. But it can also lead one down the road to over-commitment and exhaustion.

It’s difficult to say “no” once you’re expected to say “yes” to every request, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time.

Over the past few years and especially since we started a family, life has become more complex to the point where it’s difficult to keep track of responsibilities, commitments and schedules for six people. Kim and I discuss our coming week’s schedule on Sunday evening. And yet by Monday night I’m asking, “Now, what do we have going on tomorrow?”

This past year something changed.

Kim picking blueberries in Auburn, WA

In an attempt to gain a modicum of control of my schedule and maintain my sanity, I began turning down requests for my time. This has not been an easy adjustment. I seldom remember my father saying no. He’d run from one assignment to the next. I have friends that are able to function with this level of chaos. I’m not one of them.

There are times when I feel bad saying no, but it’s better to be upfront and deal with a little discomfort than partially commit. That’s what I used to do. I’d say, “I’ll try to make it” and when I didn’t, it was a bigger disappointment than had I said no from the start.

This past year I’ve said no to some travel for work. I’ve taken on fewer projects at work and church. I’ve turned down opportunities to meet up with friends. We even cancelled our summer vacation to Utah because we felt overwhelmed at the time. We needed some time to catch our breath. So we picked blueberries and spent time doing absolutely nothing at the beach.

But I’d like to believe there’s much to gain by saying no and committing to less. For example, by committing to fewer projects at work, I’m able to give my full attention to the two or three projects that will provide the most value to my team. Picking a couple of projects forces me to weed out all the clutter and really focus on projects that will drive results. It’s actually much easier to complete a bunch of crap projects than one that’s difficult yet comes with a large payoff.

That reminds me of the first time I went through the review process at Microsoft. My manager had left the company so the job of reviewing our group fell to the VP over Office. I’d spent the past six months planning one event and was certain he’d dock me for not completing more tasks. But he surprised me when he said, “Your manager’s job is to overwhelm you with projects. Your job is to figure out the one or maybe two that must get done and ignore the rest.”

I’m not saying it’s a particularly smart move to ignore projects that come from your boss. But you can explain why completing fewer but more critical projects beats finishing a dozen of dubious value.

Committing to less allows me to carve out time with my spouse and children. That results in life balance that’s difficult to obtain when you say yes to everyone. Look for a manager who values results instead of sheer number of hours spent behind a desk. I’ll take the employee who spent two hours writing a script to manage the backups over the one who spends four hours each weekend doing it by hand. Find a manager who appreciates the first type of employee, because that’s probably you.

I still struggle finding that balance. But I’m able to recognize when I’ve let the pendulum swing out too far in one direction. Sometimes there’s very little I can do about it. But I know it’s there and I’m always striving for it.

Dancing In The Snow-Covered Streets

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.