The kids should have been in bed thirty minutes ago. I was folding towels that had recently come from the dryer. In a few minutes I’d be finished and the kids would be in bed. Then I could retreat to my desk, slip on my headphones and tune out.

And then Luca appeared.

“Dad, will you start a bath for me?”, she asked.

The bed is still covered in laundry. I’m tired. Why aren’t the kids?

Luca grabbed a stack of pants and put them away. She even grabbed her younger sister’s pants which means she’s working it.

I told Luca I’d start the bath water but she’d have to take it from there as I had more laundry to fold. But it wasn’t long before she asked if I’d wash her hair.

“After you shampoo, will you put on that one stuff that takes the tangles out?” she asked.

Although it was late, Luca wanted to chat. She’s excited to tell me about the report card she’ll bring home tomorrow. She tells me it’s exactly eleven days to her birthday, and she feels special because her grandpa Nordquist is flying into town a few days before she turns nine years old.

When you live away from family, it’s a big deal to see your grandparents on these occasions.

But I’m starting to understand that Luca wanted to talk as much as she wanted a bath. I’m glad I was there to listen.

Once she dried off and was wrapped in a plush purple robe, I sat her on the counter and ran a comb through her dark brown hair.

“See, dad, no tangles”

A few minutes later I was back folding laundry and thinking about how one can never know when the best fifteen minutes of the day will take place.

She pulled up a wooden chair next to me and asked if she could read the story of “The Sad Cat”.

“Of course you can’”, I replied.

I locked my computer and turned my chair towards Anna. She dangled her legs off the chair as she read to me. She tells me about a sad cat. Sad because a rat had a car and a top hat, but the cat had nothing.

Everyone needs a top hat.

She makes her way through each page filled with three-letter words and large illustrations. Anna glances my direction every so often to make sure I’m listening.

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

I don’t take this moments for granted because I botched the last opportunity with my youngest daughter.

But tonight was different.

Because the cat got his top hat. 

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.