Manifestogram: Football Guy

NFL bound.

Manifestogram: Sunrise

The payoff for getting up early to go to physical therapy.

Curtis shows off his masterpiece (and his forehead band-aid) at the school art show

Maybe the Yankees Should Consider Horizontal Stripes

If you're Tate, pajamas are the right outfit for anything.

Birthday Boy

As a rule, Curtis doesn't show a lot of emotion. But at 7:30 a.m. he shuffled into my room, holding his blanket. He pushed his head into my chest and gave me a small squeeze. A hug. He turned around and shuffled back out.

Once you reach age 25 (when you can rent a car without paying extra), there isn't a lot of benefit to having a birthday. It's jut a reminder that you're getting old--old enough to need glasses, to lose your hair, to have hip surgery. But there is one great thing. How much your kids love it.

Tate on (Soft) Rock

Tate: If I have a band, I'm not going to have speakers. Because the speakers make it too loud. Dad, why do you have speakers in your band? Why can't you be more quiet? 

---

Tate: If I have a band, it's gonna be called The Toots. Tate's Toots.

Piano Lessons

Paige hates playing the piano. And she reminds of this fact every single time she has to practice. 

This afternoon, as I was driving her to a piano recital at the University of Utah, she asked, "When can I quit piano?"

My Little Buddy

It's nice to have a mini-me.

Our Romantic Valentine's Day Adventure

How did the Sutherlands celebrate Valentine's Day? With a trip to the monster truck show, of course.

Traci had to work today, so I figured the best thing for me to do was to take the boys to Monster Jam at the Energy Solutions Arena. Though Paige made it very clear that she does not like monster trucks, she agreed to go as well.

Hip Recovery: Day 9

Bringing sexy back: ice machine, compression socks, and a Bluth's Frozen Bananas t-shirt

Alright. Here's what's happened since my last hip update:

Hip Surgery: Day 4

The hip surgery went well. Better than expected, actually. I'm now four days into the recovery and feeling pretty good--as long as I lie still on my bed and keep the ice machine running the required 22 hours per day.

A Date to the Rock Show

My last year of college, I got my first PR job. I worked at Salt Lake Community College for a great guy named Joy, who plays music with a guy named Eric, in a band (cleverly) named joy&eric. 

The other night, Joy invited me to his next show. I gladly accepted and let him know I'd be bringing Paige. 

My Hips Don't Lie

Apparently my hips are on backwards. Seriously.

So on Tuesday--a few weeks shy of my 35th birthday--I will be having hip surgery.

It all started innocently enough. I was having some soreness on the outside of my left hip. I thought I had just tweaked it playing basketball or something. It didn't hurt too bad, but it bugged me quite a bit. And it just wouldn't go away.

Luckily, my friend RB came to the rescue. He's in Utah for his last year of medical training, specializing in hips. Last time I saw him, I suckered him into giving me an impromptu hip examination (in the visitors' center at the Salt Lake Temple).

"Huh," he said, followed by a pause. "It's probably not a big deal, but you might want to get some x-rays just to make sure."

I didn't really want to get x-rays to make sure, I just wanted the pain do go away with me actually doing anything.

But it didn't.

So I got the x-ray. RB looked at it and said I needed to go to a hip doctor--and actually hooked me up with the specialist he's training with.

Chilly, Chilly St. George

How do you get rid of the post-Christmas blues in Salt Lake City? Take a trip to sunny St. George, of course.

On New Year's Day, we headed south for the weekend. There was just one problem. St. George was sunny, but it wasn't much warmer than Salt Lake.

This wasn't our first winter to trip to Southern Utah, so we know what "cold" feels like there. It's usually in the 50s or 60s, which is too cold for swimming (we tried last time) but great for playing outside at the park or going for a hike in Snow Canyon.

Unfortunately, when we got to the condo, it was just 34 degrees. And it never got much warmer than that. Because it was too cold for most outdoor stuff, we had to figure out had to stay entertained indoors.

So here's what we did:

It's a Pearson family tradition to go bowling on New Year's Day morning. Though we missed it this year, we spent the evening at the bowling alley in St. George. Good times had by all.

We also made our first visit to the Wildlife Museum. The kids were instantly hooked, thanks to the little plastic binoculars they got to wear and the radios they got to carry with the pre-recorded tour narration.

The learning didn't end there. We headed north to Leeds, where we visited the abandoned mining town of Silver Reef. Not too much to see, but we had a good time all the same.



By day three, we had kind of run out of things to do in St. George, so we headed to Las Vegas. How do you entertain three little kids (especially two little boys) in Vegas? Go up and down a million escalators, throw in some elevators, and take a two-minute tram ride from the Mirage to Treasure Island and you've got yourself a pretty entertaining day. Add in a visit to the Lego store at the Fashion Show Mall and a trip to M&M World and Las Vegas is pretty much the best place in the world. (Though Paige did have a few questions about various people we saw on the street, including the bearded old fat man wearing a wedding dress and the legless woman playing the accordion and singing opera.)



Tate had such a good time he couldn't help but do a little interpretative dance.



Despite the disappointing weather, it was a great getaway.

Basketball Night

I had a few lucky years where Paige liked to go to sports with me. Not any more.

I took all the kids to the Utes basketball game last night. Surprisingly, Paige happily agreed to go. But her tune changed once we got there. 

The game hadn't even started by the time she walked over to my seat and said, "I hate to say this, Dad, but I regret coming here."

Luckily she brought her sparkly birthday purse with her. She pulled out her little journal and started writing. Over her shoulder, I spied this sentence:

"I'm at the Utah Utes game right now and it's sooooo boring."

She cheered up when I let her use my phone at halftime to do some Dutch lessons on Duolingo. (The girl loves to learn.) By the time the Kiss Cam showed up on the Jumbotron, I think she was actually having a good time. 

Tate, on the other hand, had a great time throughout. After every single basket, he asked me what the score was and who was winning. After every. single. basket. I think I've found my new sports buddy. 

Earrings for Boys

It's been almost a month since Paige had her ears pierced. So far, so good. No weird infections or earrings left on the floor for me to step on.

I've never had a pierced ear--even thought earrings were super cool when I was in junior high. Man, I wanted one so bad. 

One day in seventh-ish grade, I stopped by friend Ben's house after school.

"Uh, Ben. What are you doing with that ice on your ear?"

Luckily, I had showed up just in time to hear that gross popping sound that happens when you shove an earring through a half-numb earlobe.

We then stood together in the mirror, admiring the metal stud in an ear that was now bleeding profusely. Oh man, it was so cool.

Ben only had his earring for a couple of days. Until his dad found out about it. And promptly ripped it out of his ear, leaving him just a small hole and a puss-filled infection to show for it.

But it was still pretty cool.

The Day Paige Stopped Being a Kid

Paige is now nine. Nine going on 17. She got her ears pierced for her birthday, making her seem even more grown up.


She was pretty brave about the whole thing. We asked her if it hurt and she said, "It felt like they were stapling my ears." Which was pretty much what they were doing.

--

When you're in the middle of it, you don't really realize how quickly your kids are growing up. It's a gradual process--except in Paige's case, where it happened overnight.

I still remember the night.

It was two summers ago. We were in St. George and all the kids had been playing at the splash pad on Main Street. Before we went home, Paige and all of her cousins (Paige is the oldest of the bunch) went on the merry-go-round. After the ride, all of the kids piled back out except for Paige.

We were pretty worried. It was getting dark and we couldn't see her anywhere. After a few anxious minutes, we found her in the parking lot, standing by the car.

"Paige," we said. "What are you doing over here? Why did you leave without telling us? We thought you were lost!"

She stared back at us, silently defiant.

Finally, she responded. "I didn't want to go on the merry-go-round. It's babyish!"

And with that--at age seven--Paige decided she was done being a kid. The next weekend, I took Paige and Curtis to a Bees game. As usual, we stood in line for ages to ride the little train around the outfield. When we finally made to the front, Paige refused to get on the train.

"I'm not going," she said flatly. "This train is for babies."

All of the things she had liked for the first seven years of her life had instantly become too immature. We were done with the train, the merry-go-round, Lalaloopsy dolls, and even SpongeBob SquarePants.

--

Now Paige is nine and all grown up. She loves reading and drawing and watching High School Musical on repeat. It makes me sad that she's given up the kid stuff, but fortunately, every once in a while, she'll forget for a minute or two when she's playing with her little brothers.

She has a very creative mind. She writes books for Tate and draws comics for Curtis about Pop Tart people (spoiler alert: they all get eaten in the end). She makes me sweet little cards every time I'm sick and loves when Traci hugs her.

I can't believe she's been a part of our life for nine years; it's almost hard to remember life without her. Happy birthday, Baby Page--I mean Ms. Paige. We love you!

Congratulations, Spencer! You Learned Your States

I basically don't know anything about anything. History, nope. Science, uh-uh. Physics, mechanics, home repair, interior decorating, small engine combustion, politics, current events, foreign wars--none of it. Really all I have to offer is a decent knowledge of the Nirvana discography, the Bring it On franchise, and Simpsons quotes. That's it.

Recently, I was reminded of just how little I know about geography. Looking a blank U.S. map, I could only name about 20 of the 50 states. Sure, I could point out my neighbors in the West--and I knew the easy ones like Alaska, Hawaii, Texas, and Florida--but once I got over to the Midwest and those tiny East Coast states I was completely lost.

I was telling my work friends about my lack of state-naming skills and one of them took pity on me and bought me a laminated map and erasable crayons (the kind you'd buy for a kindergartner, which is not all embarrassing).

I started practicing.

Every morning when I got to work, I'd spend a few minutes working on my map skills. After a few days, I had it locked down pretty well. I could totally pass a fourth grade geography test now. Not bad for a 34-year-old!

--

Last night, I dreamed a dream. LeBron James and the Cavs were destroying the Denver Nuggets (I was watching basketball before I went to bed). It was so bad, in fact, that the Cavs not only brought in their bench players, but some guys from what the announcer called the "subsidy" league. These were such ragtag dudes that they didn't even have real uniforms, just store-bought John Stockton and Michael Jordan jerseys.

The game ended and the dreamed morphed--as dreams do--into something else. Suddenly, these guys were all on the practice squad, trying to make the team. For some reason, I was the assistant coach or something.

And I only had one job.

After a tough tryout, the coach was ready to make cuts. He handed me a list of all the players and then pointed to the court (which had transformed into the carpeted floor of the gym at my parents' church). Taped on the carpet was an outline of the United States.

The coach looked me straight in the eye and shouted, "Line these up boys by home state." I looked down at the player list, which was of course filled with all of my toughest states. I started to panic. Is Illinois on the right of Indiana or the left? Which one of these crazy shapes in Michigan? Where did Mississippi disappear to?

"NOW!" yelled the coach.

I took a deep breath and pointed to what I could only pray was the right state.

And then my alarm rang.

I had never been so happy to wake up.

Family Photo Fiasco

Not pictured: Curtis

Is there anything worse than family picture day?

Spoiler alert: No.

Here's a quick recap of this year's attempt:

• Traci spends at least a week trying to put together the perfect combination of coordinated clothing
• We're late to the location because Curtis and Tate both refuse to wear those clothes
• Traci is flustered and frustrated with our obstinate children
• Curtis is only willing to be in the picture if he can stand behind me and is only willing to poke about an inch of his forehead over my shoulder
• Tate will be in the picture, but he refuses to smile
• Paige has the flu and -- despite being a total trooper -- can barely summon the strength for a smile
• After about five minutes, I'm willing to give up on the whole thing, because now Curtis is refusing to be in the picture at all
• For one fleeting moment, everyone stands in the same place at the same time. Neither of the boys will smile or say "cheese," but they are willing to burp in unison. Fortunately, with no sound, a burp kind of looks like a smile.

It was an awful, awful evening. And we'll always have a picture to remember it. 

(A huge thank you to our very, very patient photographer. Please accept our apologies.)

My Son Curtis

I'm standing in a souvenir shop in Manhattan, holding an I Love New York t-shirt. I turn to my boss and say, "I'm buying this for Curtis, even though he'll hate it."

Curtis doesn't like stuff. Even if he does.

He loves monster trucks. But if I were to buy tickets to Monster Jam, he would tell me that he doesn't want to go. (I have. And he did.)

He loves getting mail. But I were to send him a litter, he would open it up and then immediately throw it away. (And then tell me, "I only like letters that have money in them.")

When I got home from New York, I gave Curtis a hug and said, "Hey, buddy. I brought something home for you." He took the shirt, held it up, and gave it a look. Then, without breaking eye contact with me, he crumpled it up and dropped it on the ground. Pretty much like I thought he would.

But he didn't stop there. A few minutes later, after I had moved on to something else, he tracked me down. "Dad," he said, "There's something weird under your bed."

"Weird?" I asked.

"Yeah. Weird."

I followed him into my room and looked under the bed, where he had shoved the balled-up t-shirt.

"Yeah. That's pretty weird," I said.

The next morning, Curtis was wearing the shirt.

It's now one of his favorites.

That's Curtis. He hates stuff. Even if he doesn't. And sometimes he loves it.